Master Apprentice Archive Passenger Larson Quick search:

Pairing: Q/O

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Four kilos of white powder and a stranger without a boarding pass arouse Customs Investigator Keith "Toast" Warburton's interest... and other things. Yes, this an AU! :)

Notes: This one was born out of a strange sighting at Frankfurt airport... and refused to go away. Dedicated to Lapis Lazuili who frankly admitted she would have made rabbit stew out of a bunny as weird as this one, to Master Linda for reading, to Sandra the Soprano for not laughing, and to Herr Lenz of FRA Customs Investigations for managing to look like Qui-Gon Jinn with brown eyes and a mobile phone. Some serious AU here, as you will no doubt have noticed by now. Other than that, no warnings, not even a microgramme of cocaine went into the plotting of this drug-courier drama :) OIT is short for Operational Intelligence Team, and Warburton's is bread, but that is utterly inconsequential here... welcome to my first stab at crime novelisation, hah!

Feedback: Eagerly awaited - tem-ve@gmx.de is one curious girly!

"Tea, Carla?"

She barely nodded as she breezed past his desk, dropping a sheaf of paper on it and just managing to flash him a bright smile as she headed for the phone which was ringing insistently. "Heathrow Customs & Excise OIT, can I help you?"

Keith Warburton, nicknamed "Toast" for obvious reasons, poured the hot water into the chipped mugs stolen from various food outlets around the airport, tried in vain to remember how many lumps of sugar his breezy assistant preferred, and settled for two. She would gracefully drink the tea regardless of how over- or undersweetened it would end up, he knew her well enough for that. What irked him is that he did not apparently know her well enough to remember exactly how much sugar she wanted in her tea, and that everyone else in this office seemed to know perfectly well. Well, she'd been here for close on nine years, he understood, which effectively made her the most senior officer even though she was nominally just a secretary-cum-translator. If it hadn't been for Carla he would have had a tougher time settling into this job... as it was, it seemed she'd taken a shine to him.

In a totally non-aggressive way. She probably understood that he preferred men. Not just guessed it or suspected it or simply knew it - everyone in the OIT had figured that out by now, and Warburton was not exactly the epitome of heterosexual middle-age slouchiness with his neatly groomed beard, long silver-shot hair that he kept in a ponytail during office hours and his penchant for tight T-shirts that showed off his surprisingly muscled torso. Today's was a duff olive green, actually a discarded army tee he'd picked up in the shrubs near one of the car parks, and following a whim, had taken to the screen-printers to have his favourite record cover printed on to it. It had been washed a few times too often to still be recognisable, but discerning eyes could still make out the agonised pose and wild eyes of a half-naked Peter Hammill circa 'The Future Now'.

No, Carla _understood_, to such an extent that he occasionally felt humbled by this chit of a girl who was supposed to be his assistant but in fact ran the office so efficiently that all he had to do was occasionally do the dashing Customs Investigator bits and sign a load of paperwork so diligently transcribed by her short unpolished fingers.

With a contented sigh, "Toast" Warburton settled down at his desk to skim through the latest snowdrift of paperwork the good Carla had dropped on him. Hmm, faxes. From... Frankfurt airport OIT he guessed. It was in German. "Carla!!"

Her head whipped round, the cord of the telephone momentarily painting a line across the base of her neck that inspired memories... her hand cupped the mouthpiece and she stage-whispered, "I've got them on the line, Keith. Read the details and I'll be with you in a second... uh, ja, Herr Fink. Haben Sie die Ankunftszeit des Fluges...?"

All right. A suspect air passenger judging from the layout of the fax, which still failed to make any sense whatsoever to Warburton's distracted mind. He could make out the place names of the suspected courier's routing, Montego Bay-Frankfurt-London Heathrow, a male name he'd never heard of before (therefore more likely to be the courier's than any of the case officers'), and something with an asterisk next to it which he figured must be the chap's date of birth. He waited in hopeless surrender for Carla to finish her phone call... in addition to being in charge of the phone and the filing system, she also spoke German, which made her the effective contact point for all and sundry communication with FRA airport as well as Munich, Düsseldorf, Zurich and a small herd of other places Warburton couldn't even spell. Paderborn. That was not an airport, that was a joke.

He snorted, remembering the day she had earnestly told him that she did not speak any Swiss and could he please take the call from Zurich. The accent had been just this side of infernal, and if he hadn't caught a glimpse of her blushing giggling face through the haze of despair at trying to make sense of the rambling at the other end of the line he would never have sussed that the Swiss she referred to was just another terror-inspiring variety of German. He had never quite readily believed anything Carla had said after that.

He could tell from the slight raising of her voice that she was making her goodbyes to the Frankfurt officer, and had scarcely risen out of his chair to meet her at her desk when she'd materialised next to him, snatching the fax from his huge hand and animatedly explaining the long paragraph of solid-looking German that he'd completely failed to make any sense of.

"Right, Keith, this one's a bit of a weird one. They say he's on the flight, and got off at Frankfurt for his connecting flight to London," she pointed at a flight number, "but nobody actually remembers him boarding the flight. He's on the passenger list and all, but Mo'Bay say there was no boarding pass issued in his name and they'd assumed he'd cancelled..."

Warburton snorted. Mo'Bay were stoned out of their tiny little minds again. Not that he blamed them. Being an airline employee in Jamaica was not anywhere in his top ten interesting pastimes, and he could hardly blame them for sampling the local herbage. Not something that was wise to admit to in the office of course. "So, a mysterious case. Fine. Mo'Bay have produced more X-Files material over the past few months than even the bloody X-Files themselves. I take it he materialised in Frankfurt?"

Carla gave him an indulgent grin. "Of course. Along with a black hard-sided suitcase that old Fink took a shine to. Roughly four kilos of a white powder, not even concealed or anything, just wrapped in transparent freezer bags." - "Coke." - "Presumably. They were so shell-shocked they had no time to even get the field-test kit out... but I assume it's less than likely that anyone should transport flour wrapped thusly. Anyway, despite the rush they clean missed the flight, so our boy will be arriving without his luggage at eleven-fifteen... hang on a minute." She pressed a button on Warburton's phone, which had not even been ringing, and answered in German, swiftly followed by a hissed "Shit!!" and a polite Teutonic farewell.

"Time lag. When will they ever learn we're running on GMT here? Anyway, the chap will be in on the ten-fifteen, that's five minutes ago. You know what to do. His bag's on the Lufthansa eleven-forty, so he should have plenty of time to make it to Lost Baggage. I'll call the BA Lost Items desk to make sure they make him fill in a form this time, okay?"

Lips a thin line, Warburton nodded. He had a bad feeling about this, and no idea why. On autopilot, he picked up the receiver and dialled the passport control extension. "Sanjit? Hi mate... no, fine. Listen, there's a chap coming through on the ten-fifteen from Frankfurt, name of Benjamin Larson, UK passport. Be a nice chap and give us a good description, will you? Oh, and any irregularities about that passport, let us know, okay? Cheers... yes, no, I'm on my mobile if I'm not in the office, right? Ta-da."

Nervously, he glanced at his watch. Ten-twenty-five. Pray he hasn't slipped through Passports yet. The twits at BA Lost Baggage could be trusted to let anyone claim missing baggage without giving any details, and he wanted to make sure they at least knew who to look for. A tap on his shoulder startled him out of his musings, and he whipped round to find Carla's arm outstretched almost fully. Too much energy for such a short woman, he thought for the umpteenth time, then relaxed visibly as he serene smile announced that she had got the Traceys and Sharons at the BA desk alerted to the fact that there was a potential courier coming, and that they were to be polite to him and make him fill in the Lost Items form fully.

His mobile played an obscure but pleasant little tune. "Warburton. Oh, hi Sanjit. Good, good." He motioned for Carla to hand him a pen and started scribbling on an envelope. "About twenty years of age... reddish... grey eyes... you sure, Sanjit? Okay, fine. Height? Mmmh... any distinguishing features... ahhh. Now that's interesting. Okay, thanks Sanjit. I think the girls will be happy with that description... no, I hope they'll leave him to us... what? Hang on a minute. Why didn't you say so before?? Oh Sanjit, you're testing my old nerves. Not even reported stolen? Okay, we're on to something. Thanks Sanjit, keep up the good work, will you? Ta-da."

"Fake passport?" Carla enquired casually between sorting another pile of paper she'd retrieved from the fax machine. Warburton nodded. "A complete fake. Not even one reported stolen, or one of those applied for on behalf of disabled people who would never travel, and then with his picture pasted in. Sanjit says it's a complete fake, and an expert one too. The number gave it away. A digit too long, of all things."

"So we're safe to assume his name's not in fact Benjamin Larson." - "If any such person ever existed, it's likely not to be him, yes. Would you be so kind as to call the Traceys and relay the description Sanjit gave," he tossed the envelope on her desk with an apologetic smile, "I'll hang around the baggage carousels for a while trying to verify it. Oh, and do let Frankfurt know we're doing a cee-dee." Before he'd even grabbed his leather jacket and mobile, Carla was already on the line cheerfully and firmly enunciating the German for 'controlled delivery'. Warburton shook his head and departed the office.

Ten minutes later he was cursing the efficiency of British Airways staff as the Traceys greeted him with wide pink-painted smiles and presented him with the form that the mysterious Larson had filled in, saying that he'd promised to come back around noon to see if his case had arrived on any of the later flights. Nodding absent-mindedly, Warburton skimmed over the paper. Well, at least they had made him fill in the thing thoroughly. Name, Benjamin Larson. Nationality, British. Date of birth, November 13th 1977. Passport number the same as on the fake document Sanjit had almost been tempted to admire. Customs declaration, void. Content description, clothes, foodstuffs. Foodstuffs. That would have got the colleagues searching in any case. The cheeky bastard.

"Care for a cup of cappuccino, ladies?" With a contented smile, Warburton made off across the arrivals hall to procure some bribes and settle in with the Traceys to wait for the return of the mysterious stranger.

He'd just goaded one of the girls into starting on the Times crossword (sadism being a streak he rarely allowed himself to indulge in) when his mobile chirped, and for once it wasn't the ever-efficient and ever-serene Carla on the other end, and not some Mancunian-accented Customs colleague in a rush either.

It was George. George Carter, bane of the office, nicknamed Carter USM, the Unstoppable Spite Machine, by all who'd had the pleasure of being sneered at by him for some minor error. He'd been with the Met Police originally, but had had himself transferred to the OIT via that blasted newfangled Criminal Intelligence Service and was now telling the Customs chaps how to run things at regular intervals. Even his accent was armed, and Warburton suspected he was suffering from serious gun withdrawal symptoms since most of his job with the OIT consisted of reading and preparing intelligence logs and occasionally rifling through a hapless passenger's luggage.

Carter was annoying, arrogant, abominable. Carter was on the afternoon shift and had just arrived at the office. "Hi George. Nice day, eh?"

An explosion of self-important police-officer gushing at the other end was enough to make even the Traceys cringe at the look on Warburton's face. "Look, George, I've got my hands on him, believe me. We're doing a cee-dee on him, he gave a London address on his Lost Items form... yeah, yeah, fine, all right, come here. I'm sure the girls can give you a good enough hint as to when to start dogging his heels. Yeah, let me know when you've got to the delivery address and I'll be round and we'll 'strike', okay mate? Yeah, please yourself." The last bit almost certainly didn't manage to slip past Carter's ultra-efficient hanging-up. Here's someone who manages to even slam a phone down self-importantly, Warburton thought miserably.

"Ladies, I'll leave you to the attentions of DCI Carter. See you tomorrow, and thanks for being nice to our... ward." Warburton just managed to evade Carter's path as he made a beeline for the Lost Baggage counter, ready to charm the two girls who were groaning already. Not, it had to be said, in anticipation.

At twelve-oh-five sharp, Warburton's office phone rang. "Warburton."

"Toast, I've got him pinned. Went to the long-stay multi-storey, got into this little old VW and made straight for Kingston. That's Kingston-upon-Thames, old Caribbean, understand?" Warburton managed a lame chuckle at the lamer pun. "Okay Carter, where are you?" - "Outside a tacky old block of flats, Uxbridge Road. House number's fallen off, but it's somewhere in the 500s. You should recognise my car anyway. Or else his. Funny reg, that one..."

Warburton sighed, and grabbed a pen. "Fire away." - "Juliett Echo Delta India four one two." - "That's not a reg, that's a joke, Carter. We are not amused. Try again."

"Toast, stupid git, I'm telling you, it's the number. Not a UK one either, with a little dash between the E and the D and sort of round stickers on it..." - "Yellow or white?" - "What, the stickers?" - "The number plate." - "White." - "Probably German, then. They tend to have words for numbers for some reason. A VW, you say?"

Minutes later, Warburton was gunning his aged Vauxhall along the dual carriageway towards Kingston, while Carla was serenely translating and filing a keeper check for a midnight blue VW Golf Mk. 2, registration number JE-DI 412.

Carter was waiting on a park bench near the house, smoking a cigarette in a conspicuously inconspicuous fashion. Warburton noticed with a twinge of satisfaction that Carter had made a sizeable dent in the side of his car. "Drove like the devil, your Mr. Larson. Cutting every corner as if he had x-ray eyes or at least a pilot's licence..." - "He's still inside?" - "Unless he's crept out via the fire escape, yes." - "Was he met by anyone?" - "Nah. Had a key and let himself in." - "Okay, let's go then." With a sigh, Warburton fingered the unaccustomed weapon on his hip, not sure whether he'd ever bring himself to drawing it against this slight stranger, or in fact against anyone. The smugness Carter radiated, hand on his holster, made him slightly nauseous.

The doorbell rang a crackly chime, and the front-door lock buzzed open without even a comment from the intercom. Ah, he was expecting visitors. "B. Larson, fourth floor," Warburton said casually, certain that Carter would have missed out on such a minor detail when there was threatening and bullying to be done.

The white-enamelled door was shut, but a shadow moving behind the small inset glass pane almost deprived Carter of the fun of banging the butt of his pistol against the door, shouting "Open up! Police!". He doesn't even accept the fact that he's Customs now, Warburton thought bitterly. The door opened hastily, and framed a startled-looking young man in a stained white T-shirt and tight jeans, spiky reddish hair and hands dusted with something white and powdery. "Caught white-handed, eh boy?" Carter jabbed the pistol in the young man's ribs and pushed him up against the far wall of the hallway. Warburton quietly shut the door behind them, trying to keep the embarrassing interrogation that was almost sure to follow out of earshot of the other tenants of the house.

The door clicked shut quietly, and that proved enough of a distraction to the leering Carter that the short young man saw his chance and jabbed an elbow at Carter's wrist, the blow so well-aimed that it sent Carter's gun flying without actually breaking any bones. Pride hurt much more than his wrist, George Carter lunged at the upstart criminal, and before long all three were engaged in an all-out fight on the wooden floor, a bruising, hair-tearing, clothes-ripping, bloodstaining war between the forces of Order and Crime, with Keith Warburton a hapless third trying to champion Reason and getting landed with a square blow on the nose, aimed by his good colleague at precisely the place where it had been broken before. Bless reflexes, Warburton thought as he barely managed to escape a second case of broken nose. All told, it was probably easiest to side with Carter, if only to end this as quickly as possible.

Snatching the handcuffs from his belt, Warburton carefully threaded his hands through the tangle of limbs, and in an unobserved moment managed to snap them around the writhing young man's wrists. Unobserved would be nice, he thought absent-mindedly. This one was altogether too enticing to go to prison... and hot. Warburton snapped out of his reverie at the sound of a ringing slap, dealt out by Carter on the unprotected cheek of the young man who lay snarling and writhing on the floor, a drop of blood forming at the tip of his nose. Carter straightened himself, heroically wiping blood from his bitten lip. Knowing him he'd probably bitten it himself in his eagerness to play the hero, and would show it off the Traceys for weeks to come.

"George!" Carter looked up, sneering, like a hyena hunched over a carcass. "There is no need for this, right? Consider yourself under observation, man." With this, Warburton stalked off in search of the kitchen to get a wet cloth, casting suspicious glances over his shoulder to make sure Carter wasn't abusing the boy meanwhile.

All he had to do was follow his sense of smell... and true enough, behind a scratched wooden door he found the kitchen. Along with the evidence. Four packets of white powder neatly arranged on the work surface, two empty, a third half-emptied on to the counter in a heap, surrounded by eggs, butter and assorted flavouring oils. And a bowl stained with the remnants of at least a pound of over-ripe blackberries. In the oven, a neat little army of baby pies was turning a seductive golden brown, and Warburton paused to turn the heat down before wetting a tea-towel and hurrying back to the scene of the fight.

The young man was sitting propped up against the wall now, staring defiantly at Carter, refusing to talk to him. Carter was still straightening his clothes and rearranging his gun, and Warburton felt it was time he did something useful. Dabbing at the bound man's nose and face with the cool wet towel, he threw his bum-bag at his colleague. "In the kitchen. Check for coke, will you? And amphetamines while you're at it. It ain't heroin, that's pretty obvious. Shush."

Surprisingly eagerly, Carter leapt to his feet and strode in the direction Warburton had pointed out. Momentarily alone, Warburton allowed himself and the boy a moment of privacy, lovingly cleaning the nameless young man's face and gazing deep into these stubborn grey eyes. Was there... a glint of recognition? He dared not speak for fear of Carter's returning and so kept his emotions confined to his fingertips, soft blunt fingertips tracing the pale cheeks, the soft pink lips, the short straight brows and the marked cleft in the boy's chin. He was stubbly, probably hadn't shaved since he'd left Jamaica, and he looked in quite a state, hair sticky and sweaty, a ratty little braid tucked behind his right ear and disappearing inside the collar of his dirty white tee.

"Toast!" With a sigh, Warburton got to his feet, letting his hand linger on the young man's shoulder as long as possible without causing alarm, and padded over to the kitchen area. "Toast, you won't believe this!" Nonplussed and angered, Carter held up half a dozen test strips and soaked filter papers. "Negative! This stuff is about as toxic or psychotropic as flour. 'Xept it doesn't taste like flour. I'll take a sample just to be on the safe side, but I think we haven't got anything in the way of evidence here, mate. What a prick."

Warburton sighed, ostensibly in frustration, more truly in relief. "Prick who sent him out on the journey with four kilos of oddly-flavoured flour, I should say. Poor bastard. I hope you have the sense to apologise to him, Carter." - "Hey, I was only doing my job, right? And he was fighting back!" - "Anyone would fight to get away from you, Carter. And I strongly suggest you do that before I evict you from this place and make you write..." The telephone interrupted his building tirade. Carter's mobile.

"Carter. Oh, Carla, hi. Yes, no... funny story. Look, can you let Frankfurt know we've cee-deed the stuff but it wasn't coke? What do you mean... look, wait a minute..." Carter stared into space as Warburton snatched the mobile from his ear and spoke into it, calmly, "Carla. Carter's on his way back to base anyway, he'll tell you the whole story in all its gory detail, okay? For now, if Fink rings, tell him it was a negative, and if he doesn't ring, have an extended lunch break with the Tracys and avoid Carter for the next half hour until he's calmed down. He's got a report to write. Yes, me too. Thanks, Carla. Ta-da."

Carter hardly waited for his phone, then grabbed the test kit and stomped out of the flat, slamming the door for extra effect and putting another dent in the other side of his car while trying to get out of his narrow parking space with suitably heroic aplomb.

Four flights of stairs up, Keith Warburton turned off the oven, opened the door and found himself enveloped in a sweet and tangy cloud of blackberry pie aroma. It's the least I can do, he thought, cursing under his breath at how hot these tiny pies were, and finally resorting to a tea-towel to protect his abused hands. He gingerly balanced one tiny golden-brown pie on top of the crumpled cloth and sneaked back into the hallway where the young man was sitting apathetically, with a thin line of blood running from his nose over his perfect lips down to the tip of that sweet cleft chin, gathering force to drip on to the stained and torn shirt which exhibited mixed evidence of cookery and fighting now. The perfect combination for this man, Warburton thought absent-mindedly, then knelt down beside the boy and gave him a slight tug on the ratty braid.

"Padawan, I'm proud of you."

Steel grey eyes turned up, and darkened with relieved desire at the recognition. He'd nearly despaired of it. "I...," he sniffed some blood, then tried to wipe his nose on his shoulders, "I figured this was the best way to attract your attention. After all, I could hardly come landing in a spacer, could I?" A weak chuckle, then a smile curving those delicate lips, melting Warb... Qui-Gon's heart.

"I hitched a lift with a bunch of journalists on their way to Ursa Minor, and they were so kind as to drop me off on this Force-forsaken planet. Of all places to get yourself stranded on, Master, why this one?"

"Well, search me. Over-confidence I guess. The Force doesn't seem to flow on this messy rock, and as for lightsabres of comm-links, don't even think about it. I was reduced to one of them for the best part of two years, Padawan..."

"Doesn't seem to have done you any harm..." Obi-Wan eyed the supposed Customs Investigator's form with unabashed appreciation, eyes darkening with a subtle hunger that made Qui-Gon's mouth water.

"I'd rather be out of here today than tomorrow, believe me. Being cut off from the Living Force is painful to one like me... I trust you managed to bring the carelline?"

"In your hands, Master."

Qui-Gon stared in disbelief at the miniature blackberry pie he was holding. "What..." - Obi-Wan suppressed a chuckle and looked a right treat with that impish grin on his face. "Chemistry, Master. This is _crystalline_ carelline, ground into a fine powder. To return it to its active form it needs to be either dissolved in acid or reformed under slow heat. An oven and some blackberries will do the trick quite nicely. As well as add some anthocyans for extra balance, and lovely red stains all over your lips, Master." Obi-Wan lunged at him, managing to break the tiny pie into even tinier pieces and crush the juicy midnight-red interior againde it abundantly clear that he was running out of breath.

"Aaaaah... may I remind you that my nose is a bit clogged up after our unexpected fighting match, Master?" The smirk was almost too much, and Qui-Gon inadvertently growled low in his throat, an animalistic noise soaked with need, eliciting an answering moan in Obi-Wan, and another louder one as he felt the big man's hands on him, determinedly tearing the stained T-shirt to shreds and stroking his slender muscled chest, homing in on his nipples with lethal precision while his greedy mouth continued to ravage the delights of Obi-Wan's lips, parting them gently at first, then roughly, thrusting a firm wet tongue inside in imitation of what was to come. Obi-Wan writhed deliciously and rolled to the floor, half-naked, eyes glazed, lips berry-stained and swollen, hands still bound behind his back, exuding need.

Qui-Gon's breath caught in his throat at the sight, and he had barely time to admire the ragged needy beauty spread out defencelessly before him when Obi-Wan wriggled closer to him on the floor and buried his face against his Master's lap, nuzzling the rampant erection straining against the sturdy black pants. Oh, the sight... Obi-Wan half-undressed on the floor, hands chained behind him, writhing with need and breathing hotly on his Master's pounding flesh... it was too much of a good thing for a sex-starved Jedi Master, and before he'd even noticed, he had pounced, pinning the squirming Padawan to the floor and ripping his jeans off him with a feral growl that made Obi-Wan's face light up in the most angelically wicked of smiles. So hot, so delicious, so needy, and so mine... Qui-Gon's thoughts blurred in a haze of gorgeous liquid red as he milked the fat throbbing cock jutting up at him, squeezing mercilessly, delighting in the needy whimpers flowing from that sweet pink mouth, and just as he placed a tiny fluttering kiss to the tip, Obi-Wan bucked up and erupted in a splash of white-hot pleasure, coating Qui-Gon's delighted smile with his very own cream.

Bound and exhausted though he was ,Obi-Wan just had to laugh at the sight - here was his Master in his perfectly inconspicuous Earth garb, muscles outlined beautifully under the sweaty army tee, hair loosened in the fight and what came after, streaming raggedly over his shoulders, giving him even more of a leonine appearance, fire in his eyes, fire in his groin, and... beads of white semen in his beard. Just perfect. Oh Force give that he takes me, and takes me hard, and now, Obi-Wan whispered under his breath, writhing in delight as he felt Qui-Gon's huge warm hands spreading the little pool of his own seed over his sweaty stomach and then... all over that rampant angry-red Masterly cock jutting out of his pants. Oh yes, Obi-Wan thought with the ragged end of his brain that was still able to form words, oh yes, take me, here on the floor, don't even bother to undress, don't take the stupid handcuffs off, just have me, use me, make me scream with delight, make me yours. It's been too long... aaaah!

Qui-Gon gave a growling chuckle at the sight of Obi-Wan squirming under his hands, trying his best to impale himself on the one sperm-slick finger gently seeking entrance while rubbing his rapidly firming cock against as much of his Master's body as he could get close enough to. So wanton, so hot, so desperately needy, so gorgeous it made Qui-Gon's eyes sting with tears of pride and joy and lust at having this delicious animal for a lover, and at having him here again after almost two years. He leaned over to kiss his apprentice's hooded eyes, to lick the moist pink lips that melted under his touch, and covered that warm undulating body with his own, totally , heavily, drawing a hoarse gasp from Obi-Wan fighting for breath and sanity as the one finger was joined by a second, then a third, and Obi-Wan was rutting so hard he nearly threw Qui-Gon off him. With a feral growl, Qui-Gon bit his Padawan's lips, delighting in the keening cry this brought forth, and then threw him over on his stomach, grabbed his weeping cock and thrust home in one long stroke, all the way to the hilt, sunk in Obi-Wan's tight velvet heat. Hot spasming muscles stung his sensitive cock, and hot tears stung his eyes and clouded his vision as he rammed into Obi-Wan, spiralling higher and higher on a rising tide of lust, feeding off the sheer wanton beauty the squirming young body radiated, taking each of his punishing thrusts and turning it into a starburst of pleasure as the hard slick cock raked across the hot spot within, making the young man's hips buck and grind into the floor, crushing his erection between taut stomach and hard wood, and what was left of Qui-Gon's mind was sure Obi-Wan would drive his rock-hard cock clean through the parquet, ploughing into the earth, and that image was enough to drive Qui-Gon over the edge as he came with a soul-deep roar of relief, pleasure and joy, and love.

Obi-Wan must have come too, a second time - the sticky puddle on the polished floor was unmistakable and sat between them accusingly as they soothed each other back to sanity, Qui-Gon stroking with his hands, Obi-Wan gently brushing lips over sweaty skin - his own hands were still cuffed behind his back, and he didn't seem to mind all that much...

"Hungry?" The answer was another of these delicious low growls that seemed to originate somewhere in Qui-Gon's groin and travel all the way up to his mouth, gathering momentum until it embedded itself in Obi-Wan's soft mouth, strategically placed once more. "I meant would you like some of the blackberry-and-carelline-pies, Master? Two or three for each of us should be enough to get us communicating with the sector again, and then all we need is an inconspicuous place to be picked up, and off we are to Coruscant."

The name had never sounded so sweet as now, spoken softly with berry-stained lips in a run-down flat in Kingston-upon-Thames, drug courier to Customs Investigator, Padawan to Master, lover to lover.

Qui-Gon made a point of waiting for Carter to have left the office to once more go in search of his missing colleague, hand on gun. He would find a deserted flat, no trace of the white powder or the black suitcase or the pink boy, and no trace of his esteemed colleague Keith "Toast" Warburton. He was just ceasing to exist, as Qui-Gon leaned against the aluminium wall of the hangar at the very edge of Heathrow airport, and dialled his office number one last time.

"Carla? Keith here. Consider yourself my successor, right?... yeah, slug it out with Carter, I know he's no match for you, dear. He's written the... oh good. No, you wouldn't want to know where I am, honestly. Yes, still at the airport... barely," he grinned as he ascended the entry ramp of the small Corellian cruiser they had flagged down, one arm possessively around his Padawan's waist. "Carla, you're doing a great job. Thanks for everything. May the Force be with you."

The connection went dead, and Carla knew nobody would believe her that the three small green lights rapidly disappearing into the sky above London-Heathrow belonged to the alien spaceship housing her former boss Keith "Toast" Warburton. Pity, she thought, it's always the good ones getting themselves abducted by aliens. Then again, why shouldn't aliens have taste in men? Sighing, she braced herself for the task of clearing out Warburton's desk, hoping he'd send some nice aliens looking for her.

She could really do with intelligent company right now.

---The End---