Help Me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, You're My Only Ho - cont'd
(continued from part 16)
Bruck crouched in the soil of his common room, contemplating the trickle of water gliding over the stones. The Council had allowed him to keep his Master's rooms; he supposed they would expect him to take a Padawan. Could they not feel how uncertain his place in the Order had become?
He had given himself to attachments; that should have been obvious, but the Council refused to acknowledge it. The Jedi Order had diminished, fallen from its former glory. Perhaps the Council's awareness of the state of the Order made them reluctant to lose the first known Lentrebi-humanoid hybrid, no matter how obviously he flouted the Code.
However desperate or misguided their reasoning, he was glad to have his Master's rooms, to wiggle his toes in soil from Lentrebi Prime. He'd never managed to meditate under the trickle of water as his Master had done -- he was still too human for that -- but he took great comfort from it.
Suddenly, pain hit him, knocking him back without warning. His Lentrebi vision showed him the glowing line attached just above his heart -- thick, writhing with agony and darkness. He struggled to breathe, to think. He tried to close off the connection and shield himself, but found he could not -- at least not entirely. This line was the only one he had never had the will to close completely. Xanatos.
Xanatos needed help -- Bruck had to go to him. But the pain -- ah, gods -- was too much. He couldn't see anything but the darkness and the light struggling in his Lentrebi vision, somewhere distant.
Slowing his breathing, Bruck managed some measure of escape into the Place Between. The pain fell back to a dull throbbing, as distant as Bruck's own corporeal self. With calm detachment, he felt for the path ahead, felt for Xanatos.
Found him.
It took a great deal of will for him to leave the Place Between, to face the path he had scarcely examined -- it held hope, and that was all that mattered. Clenching his teeth against the pain radiating from his lover, Bruck scrambled to his feet and ran for the door. His feet were bare, but he was clothed. No time to worry about such things. He sped through the corridor with Force-assisted speed.
Once in the lift, he had a moment to think -- to feel whether Xanatos had found his destination. Xanatos moved slowly, more hampered by the pain than Bruck, who had begun to shield himself as much as he was able.
The lift opened and Bruck dashed toward the same open tower where he had watched his Master's body burn.
The midday suns filled the enclosure with diffuse light that sifted through thin, white clouds. Bruck did not see Xanatos at first -- he seemed little more than a shadow. A dark cloaked figure crawling painfully toward the balustrade.
"Xan," Bruck said. The wind had begun to pick up, almost forcing the sound back down his throat as he rushed forward. "Let me help you."
"Stay back." The roughened voice sounded too raw, too dark to belong to Xanatos, yet clearly it was him. He stood slowly, pulling himself upright against the stonework. "You can't help me now."
"I can," Bruck answered. "I can help you fight the darkness if you'll let me."
Xanatos would not look him in the eyes. "Not after what I've done. Even you wouldn't help me if you knew."
A cold wash of dread passed over Bruck at his words, but he forced those thoughts aside and stepped closer. "I'll help you, Xan, even if you've killed someone. I'll help you no matter what."
"I'm Dark!" Xanatos' anguished shout carried on the wind. Bent over with pain, he managed to pull himself onto the polished surface of the balustrade. "They'll box me. Lock me away."
"I won't let them!" Bruck rushed forward, voice sounding petulant even to his own ears.
"There's only one way for me to go with honor as a Jedi," Xanatos said. "Taking out a dark Force-user, before he hurts someone..."
Bruck got within lunging distance of Xanatos just as he pushed himself off the narrow lip of stone into the open air beyond. Bruck didn't hesitate - he jumped after his lover, freefalling toward the lower levels.
He saw the dark flutter of Xanatos' robes only a few meters beneath him, his arms and legs spread. Bruck lowered his head and flattened his arms to his sides, reducing his resistance to the wind, diving after his lover. Xanatos flailed -- slowing his descent by the way he oriented his body, an unconscious desire for life manifesting itself. If Bruck could catch him, they might have a chance.
Once Bruck had his hands on Xanatos' robes, he moved to increase their collective wind resistance. Xanatos' outer robe served that purpose well, once he caught the bottom edge. It billowed out from Xanatos' arms, slowing them a little. Not enough, though; not even close.
Bruck stilled his mind and called on the Force; he knew he couldn't use the Force to stop them in freefall, but he could slow them a bit, let it guide them. Xanatos lost consciousness, for which Bruck was grateful; the gnawing pain in his own consciousness had dulled enough for him to clear his mind.
The circumstances made a true Force trance impossible for anyone but a full Lentrebi, but Bruck came close. Soon they were circling, carried on the vagaries of Coruscanti air currents, approaching the Healer's Dome at an extremely obtuse angle.
When they were almost close enough to touch the shimmering transparasteel of the dome, Bruck twisted them so that he was underneath Xanatos, and wrapped himself around his lover's quiescent body.
The impact itself was not as bad as Bruck expected -- merely a glancing blow. Their slide down the outside of the dome was another matter altogether. From even a fairly close inspection, the dome seemed of a piece, as smooth as glass. Bruck's back soon found the reality far from those distant impressions.
Before they had slid ten meters his tunics and the back of his leggings had been torn away, and some of his flesh had followed suit. Still, through the pain of the friction burns he kept his hold on the Force, able now to use it to slow them more effectively.
As they rounded the last curved edge of the dome, Bruck felt air once again come between his abused flesh and the transparasteel. He held Xanatos close in that last, weightless moment, filling his lungs with the scent of his lover. If it were to be his last breath, then so be it.
They broke through a skylight near the north entrance, only the dampening power of the Force and the solidity of Bruck's hybrid body to break their fall.
Qui-Gon strode through the Temple corridors, the stern look on his face enough to discourage friends from stepping in his way and send the more timid initiates scurrying. The Council had called him back to discuss his future with the Order, delaying him from his meeting with Obi-Wan. Yet until he had the opportunity to talk with Obi-Wan, how could he give them definitive answers about their relationship?
The uncertainty gnawed at him, and they had to ask their pointed questions. Qui-Gon knew he needed attachment -- not a want or desire, but a bone-deep necessity. He thirsted for it the plants thirsted for water; he always had. No wonder he had become the Order's notorious renegade, following the Force and his heart in so many other ways, but strictly keeping to the Code in the one place he wanted most to break it.
He told himself that whatever happened with Obi-Wan, he would be a loss to the Order, but he did not know for certain that was true. If Obi-Wan left him -- Force forbid he even contemplate it -- would he have the heart to seek a new attachment? Qui-Gon didn't think so.
The Temple around him had become a blur of meaningless faces, swiftly passing currents. So inward had his thoughts turned that everything he saw felt unreal. The memory of their last lovemaking frayed his serenity. His confusion at Obi-Wan's sudden coldness. Are you hurt? The dismissive anger in Obi-Wan's reply Not even a little.
The memory filled him with dread. Could he hurt the man he loved, even to please him? The Force only knew what he had grown accustomed to in Cragin's employ. What if Obi-Wan needed more than he could give?
He pushed those thoughts away savagely. Qui-Gon slowed his steps and attempted to restore his serenity; his rooms were just ahead. Despite everything, he longed to see Obi-Wan, to take him in his arms and say whatever it took to keep him by his side.
Sweaty palm fogging the plate on the reader, Qui-Gon entered his quarters. Silence greeted him. He took a deep breath and looked around; something was not right.
Qui-Gon's eyes drifted to the table -- a teacup on its side, a puddle of cold tea beside it, a chair missing. He moved closer and saw that the chair had fallen over.
"Obi-Wan." There is no fear. He righted the chair and the cup.
"Obi-Wan?" Louder this time, but he kept the fear from his voice. He rushed to the sleeprooms. Both doors were open and both rooms empty -- the neglected Padawan room with Obi-Wan's clothes strewn about and Qui-Gon's own, still reeking of sex and frustration in the Force.
In the food prep area, there was knife on the floor, and a smeared dribble of blood.
"Obi-Wan!" Qui-Gon rushed back to the common room and finally found what he sought. The door to the balcony stood open, draperies drifting slowly in a light breeze. He knew Obi-Wan was there, before he reached the door.
Qui-Gon stepped out onto the balcony and saw him, sitting slouched against the wall, staring through the railing at nothing. Qui-Gon noted the way his body curled forward, arms resting on his bent knees; a stimstick burned to a curl of shriveled ash between two fingers of his lax hand.
"Obi-Wan," he said softly.
Obi-Wan sat motionless, his face in profile, but Qui-Gon thought he saw him blink; he gave no other sign he had heard. Qui-Gon paused, uncertain whether Obi-Wan wished to be left alone but unable to indulge him if he did. The light was diffuse for this time of day; low billows of cloud passed between them and the Coruscanti suns. A breeze caressed them, obliterating most of Obi-Wan's stimstick in a puff of ashes.
"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said, sliding down to sit beside him. "You'll burn your fingers."
"Oh." Obi-Wan seemed to remember he held a stimstick, and moved the remaining nub to his lips. He took a long drag with it pinched between his thumb and forefinger. A flick and it was gone through the railing. Qui-Gon felt certain it burned to nothing before it fell two meters.
A moment passed before Obi-Wan blew out the smoke he was holding. Qui-Gon had resolved to let Obi-Wan speak first, whenever he was ready, but Obi-Wan hadn't so much as looked at him. They spoke at the same time.
"Obi-Wan--"
"Do you have something you want to tell me?" Obi-Wan stared off into the distance, profile obscured by his hair shifting in the wind. "Something you've discovered about my family, maybe?"
Hells, Qui-Gon thought. What has he heard? He answered honestly. "Nothing concrete."
"Think carefully." Obi-Wan turned to him then, and Qui-Gon saw his face full on for the first time since they parted in the morning. His other eye was bruised, swollen almost shut, and his lips were bruised and split.
"Sweet Force!" Qui-Gon reached for him, reeling. "What happened?"
Obi-Wan brushed away his touch. "Is Orima Durante," he paused, as if choking on the words, "my father?"
Qui-Gon spoke over him, scarcely hearing. "Who did this?"
"This?" Obi-Wan shot to his feet, shouting down at Qui-Gon. His torn tunic flapped in the breeze; he held a piece of it way from his neck and turned his head to the side, exposing angry bruises around his throat. "This is nothing!"
Qui-Gon shrank from him, shocked by the rage that poured from him as he screamed.
"IS HE MY FATHER?"
Qui-Gon wanted to say 'no,' but the truth was more complicated than that. He stood, hands raised in a placating gesture. "I don't know."
"You don't know." Obi-Wan's rage melted into bitter laughter. Qui-Gon could see that his eyes were red from more than blows. "That's a good one! What do you know, then? What do the Jedi know? They know what's best for everybody, don't they? Don't you?" He shoved Qui-Gon's chest and pulled his hands away when Qui-Gon tried to hold them.
"Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon kept his voice as calm and soothing as he could manage. "Tell me what's happened."
"Oh, that's how it works. I tell you everything and you tell me what you think I need to hear?" Obi-Wan turned away.
"Whoever did this to you should be punished." Calm, reasonable on the outside, but inside Qui-Gon seethed, his mind racing. Bruck reported that he had seen Obi-Wan safely home. Then Xanatos went to speak with him... No, Xanatos was in the Light, Qui-Gon himself had felt the Force sing in their joint meditation. He could not have done this. But who else could have been in his quarters?
Obi-Wan laughed a little more hysterically. "I really must know, Qui. Did my father sell me to a brothel so he could come back and f--"
He lurched to the edge of the balcony and retched over the railing. Qui-Gon came up behind him to lay a comforting hand on his back.
"Don't touch me," Obi-Wan shouted, turning and shoving Qui-Gon away. The look on his battered face was thunderous. "You knew, and you didn't tell me."
"There was never any evidence, Obi-Wan, just implications--"
"You should have told me." Obi-Wan grew suddenly quiet, and Qui-Gon's heart clenched. "I trusted you."
"I didn't see any reason to upset you over an unsubstantiated rumor." Qui-Gon knew it was a weak defense; Obi-Wan was more than strong enough to handle it if Qui-Gon had presented it to him properly. However he'd heard it, it was clear that Obi-Wan was convinced it was true.
"I shouldn't have believed." Obi-Wan seemed to be muttering to himself now, pacing. "I should have known it was too good to be true. Cragin said it all the time." Obi-Wan's voice changed, imitating his old whoremaster. "No happy endings for poodoo like you, Kenobi. No sense in dreamin' 'bout it."
"It is extremely unlikely that Durante is any relation to you," Qui-Gon said firmly, aware that he was probably overstating things a bit, but not caring. "And even if he is, it doesn't change the strong, amazing person that you are."
Kenobi chuckled mirthlessly, shaking an empty pack of stims over his hand. A comlink fell into his palm.
"Where did you get that?" The stims might have been left over from the Chancellor's Gala. Obi-Wan had smelled of stim smoke when he'd stumbled in from the balcony that night. Stim smoke and sex.
"Gift from an admirer," Kenobi answered without emotion. He turned it over in his hand. "See, with someone like that, there's fucking and then there's credits. Sometimes gifts. Pretty straightforward -- no love, no attachments. Almost like the Jedi." He paused. "Except you're all fucking insane."
Obi-Wan crushed the empty stimstick pack and threw it over the side as hard as he could, chuckling bitterly as the wind carried it away.
"An 'admirer'?" Qui-Gon moved closer, angrier than he had been since his initiate days. He had put the pieces together. "That wouldn't be from your, ah, balcony friend, would it?"
"Balcony friend? Oh, I like that." Obi-Wan squared his shoulders, tensing for a fight. A sneer pulled at one corner of his mouth. "As a matter of fact, it is."
Qui-Gon leaned over Obi-Wan, not daring to touch him. He thought if he touched him, he might hurt him. He kept an invisible layer of air between them, though he could smell Obi-Wan's hair, a breath away.
"You saw him today, didn't you? You had him come because you needed someone to hurt you." Qui-Gon heard the anger in his voice, the pain. Controlling it was beyond him." Because I wouldn't."
Obi-Wan blinked at him, very slowly. The familiar line appeared between his brows, and his mouth worked silently before any sound came out.
"No."
Qui-Gon could almost believe him, but for the images of some faceless man with Obi-Wan, forcing their way in front of his mind's eye.
"Not in my quarters," he whispered at last.
"What?" Obi-Wan backed away, his gaze tracking across Qui-Gon's face. "No one has been here except Xanatos."
Qui-Gon turned away, unable to face Obi-Wan, unwilling to see what he read there.
"No," he said, entering the common room. "Xanatos is in the Light." Obi-Wan had told lies about Qui-Gon when he first came to the Temple. He had to be doing that now. Could he be jealous of Xan?
Obi-Wan followed him inside and stepped in front of him, head turned to the side, once again exposing the bruises on his neck to the light.
"Do these look like marks a human hand would make?"
Qui-Gon saw the sharp, hard edges of the bruises, too distinct for flesh-and-bone fingers.
He looked away. Everything he thought he was, everything he thought he had accomplished as a Jedi seemed to shimmer and fall around him. Standing in the rooms where he spent so much time with Xabatos, watching him grow into a man. Into a fine, strong Knight. "My Padawan could not be that Dark."
"Okay." He heard Obi-Wan take in a choked breath, and knew from the broken sound of his voice that he had begun to weep. "Yeah. Whatever."
For the first time in his adult life, Qui-Gon did not know what to believe. How could he deny the evidence before his eyes? How could he ignore what he felt in the Force when he meditated with Xanatos? Serenity shattered, inner voices shouting different versions of what might be true drowned out the still perfection of the Force. He knew it had not abandoned him, yet he felt as shut off from the Force as if he wore a Force inhibitor.
"I... I need to meditate," he whispered.
"Of course you do." Obi-Wan's voice sounded a bitter note some where behind him.
Qui-Gon struggled to find words, but he was empty. Numb. Even the Force seemed to have abandoned him. He was lost.
"Obi-Wan." It was scarcely a whisper, but it was all that would come.
"Yes, Qui-Gon?" The faintest answer. What would he say now? What could he possibly say, when he didn't know what he thought or felt?
From his belt pouch, his comlink chimed. Like an animal following a habituated response, he answered.
"Master Jinn, this is Healer Phol. I need you to come to the Dome."
"Can it wait?" His voice sounded feeble to his ears, weak and old.
"Xanatos and Knight Chun have been seriously injured."
"On my way." Fear washed over him, primal and blinding. Something horrible was happening, and this was only part of it. His world had gone mad.
As he rushed for the door, Qui-Gon spared a glance at Obi-Wan. He had gone back to the balcony, arms resting on the railing; the bright metal of a comlink glinting in his palm.
Part 18
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