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He stands in the prow of his boat in the middle of the lake, watching the storm approach. It billows up from the horizon like ink in water. Overhead the sky is blue, the sunlight reflects off the surface of the lake, but the storm cloud widens like a great maw, swallowing earth and sky, its ashen lips rushing toward him, passing by overhead.

It was worth it.

Bail had tried to drown his own words with everyone else's, but no matter how much he might wish it, he could not hide forever. The regular sessions with the soul healers continued to dredge through his senses, and slowly those words were pulled toward the surface. The angry ones came first. They were the easiest, conveying an image of strength, of righteous indignation and blame placing. Anger directed first at the soul healers themselves, then at the Hinnelese doctors, then the chair of the Senate Sentient Rights Committee, and spiraling ever closer to the mission and his abductors.

When he finally managed to express anger at his torturers, the angry words were accompanied by fearful ones: terror, pain, shame, and all their attendant emotions. Then came the really awful ones: self- doubt, self-recrimination, anger at his family for not protecting him, at Obi-Wan for not rescuing him sooner. Feelings of failure, of having disappointed everyone, of having fucked everything up. Guilt. Unworthiness. Uncleanness. The secret belief that in the end he had been ruined, soiled, corrupted, fouled.

The one place where he did not want to listen was in his group sessions at the Center for Survivors of Torture, called the Survivors Center, though Bail secretly though of it as the Torture Center. Bail did not want to hear the others' stories. The soul healers were always coolly impersonal, detached from the violence Bail had suffered. He could somehow distance himself from his own experience through the lens of their uninvolved perception. But listening to others' stories of torture only brought him closer to his own experience. He did not want to have anything in common with these other people, to share their paranoia, their sleepless fear and desperation. Looking into their faces was far too much like looking into a mirror, and he could not bear what he saw. He craved Obi-Wan's robe at those sessions, to hide and lose his identity in those folds. All of the people in his group were nobodies. Maybe they were important on their homeworlds, but none were famous like Bail Organa, Republic senator and prince of the Royal House of Alderaan. How could he reveal his nakedness to them, his fear, his failure, his weakness? How could he talk about his impotence, his panic attacks? He wasn't even certain what it was he feared most from them: their judgment or their sympathy. He didn't want anyone's sympathy or pity; it would imply that he was a victim. He didn't want understanding or support; it would imply that his experience was not unique. He wanted to be alone in his personal hell, self-sufficient in his misery.

But something began to happen as he sat in sullen silence, listening to the others tell their stories. They did not engage in some kind of morbid comparison of their victimization. They did not appropriate each other's stories, either by judgment or by sympathy. All those foul emotions soiling his insides, those horrific words he could not bear to give voice to, found voice in other people's mouths. Other people could talk about these things, vicious, acidic, agonizing things, and they could do so without being destroyed. They could vomit up their fearsome memories and still be alive. No one died, not in the telling nor in the listening. People were tortured. They were raped. They were abducted or arrested. They were beaten, starved, electrocuted. They were subjected to the most vile and perverse tortures a sick mind could imagine. But every single one of them survived. True, not everyone subjected to torture survived, but all the people in those group sessions did. It was truly the Survivors Center and not the Torture Center. No one learned how to torture there, they learned how to survive: to live over, to live above their experience, not to live under it. Something began to quicken and kick within Bail, to fight and struggle and swim to the surface.

Finally one day Bail opened his mouth, and the words began to come. Not all at once, and not easily. But they came.

Obi-Wan entered the apartment only to find it apparently empty. That was odd. The prince knew what time to expect him, and he was always here, waiting for Obi-Wan so they could have dinner together. "Bail?" Obi-Wan called out. No answer.

Concerned, he wandered into the bedroom and found Bail lying curled up on his side facing the window, back toward Obi-Wan. Slowly Obi-Wan crawled onto the bed, resting his hand on Bail's shoulder. Bail was awake, staring blindly ahead. Obi-Wan asked, "Are you all right?"

A tear pooled in the corner of Bail's eye. "No."

Obi-Wan stroked his fingers through Bail's hair, hoping to offer some comfort. He waited for the prince to say something, to talk about whatever was wrong, but he remained silent. Obi-Wan rested his forehead on Bail's shoulder. He was so weary. True, Bail wasn't acting out the way he had on Alderaan, but this horrible silence was somehow worse. Obi-Wan knew Bail was in pain, but the prince refused to talk about it, which meant there was nothing Obi-Wan could offer, nothing he could do. Struggling to keep his tone even, he asked, "What happened?"

Bail blinked slowly. The tear was still there. "I just had a really bad day."

Obi-Wan mentally reviewed Bail's schedule. He would have had a group session today. Those tended to be difficult, though Bail had never returned from one in such a despondent mood. Not knowing what else to say, and wondering if he would regret it, Obi-Wan suggested, "Would it help to go out and get drunk?"

"I don't know. I don't really want to get drunk."

Even though that ought to be a good sign, Obi-Wan found himself slightly alarmed. Bail in a bad mood was never one to just sit around. He always took some kind of action, the more diverting or self-destructive the better. "Is there anything I can do?" Obi-Wan asked.

The tear at the corner of Bail's eye finally spilled over the bridge of his nose, and another one rapidly took its place. "I'm so tired. I'm just tired of it all."

Cold dread crept through Obi-Wan's veins. Bail almost sounded suicidal. Obi-Wan squeezed Bail's shoulder, burying his face in Bail's hair, fighting to hold back his terror. "Please, Bail," he begged. "Please, let me do something. Let me help you. I know it's bad, but you don't have to be alone."

Bail shifted, rolling onto his back, and Obi-Wan rose on one elbow to stare down into his expressionless eyes. "Make love to me," Bail said.

Obi-Wan froze. That was not at all what he had been expecting. "Are you sure you're ready?"

"I'm never going to be ready. Just do it."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Please, Ben," Bail pled, his tone flat. "I need it. Make that memory go away."

"I don't think it works that way," Obi-Wan observed. He started to pull away, not wanting to deal with this at all, but Bail caught his arm.

"Please, Ben, I need you," Bail begged. "Make love to me."

Obi-Wan shook his head. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You could never hurt me," Bail contradicted.

Obi-Wan covered his face with his hand, trying to press the tears back into his eye sockets. This was a bad idea, he knew it, but Bail kept pleading with him, and in the end Obi-Wan could not refuse him. "All right," he reluctantly conceded.

Before he could lose his nerve, he rose from the bed and went into the 'fresher looking for some lotion. He had to compose himself. He didn't know how he was going to be able to get aroused enough to do this. While he rummaged through a drawer, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes, sullen features: he looked like he was going to his execution. Obi-Wan looked away, running through the serenity meditation, seeking to calm and center himself. When he was certain he would not fall apart, he grabbed the lotion and returned to the bedroom.

Bail had gotten under the covers. He was still wearing his shirt, but when Obi-Wan skirted the edge of the bed, he saw Bail's pants in a heap on the floor. Setting the lotion on the table by the bed, Obi-Wan removed his boots and socks, his belt and outer tunic, while Bail watched him with hooded eyes. Still partly clothed, he slid under the covers and into Bail's arms. "You can stop me anytime," he said.

"I won't," Bail whispered.

Obi-Wan shuddered, and that sick feeling returned. For a long time he just lay in Bail's arms. It was as if they were going to sleep. It was all Obi-Wan wanted to do, but he couldn't leave it at that. He had a job to do.

Obi-Wan nuzzled softly against Bail's cheek, calling up memories of all their times together, both tender and passionate, wild and serene. It had been difficult to lie next to Bail night after night, to comfort and hold him, and all the time wonder when they would ever make love again. He had been patient and understanding. He had told himself over and over again that Bail's friendship was most important, that if they were never lovers again it wouldn't matter. But he had been lying.

He kissed his way along Bail's jaw, his lips slow and deliberate, tongue flicking out to caress the prince's skin. He covered Bail's mouth with his own, drawing on Bail's lips. They had kissed a few times before, and Bail opened to him, allowing him entrance. Obi-Wan kissed him leisurely, taking his time, savoring the taste of him, letting the heat slowly infuse his body. Bail accepted the kiss willingly enough. A small part of Obi-Wan's mind said this was wrong, that neither of them was really ready for this, but he ignored it, telling himself it had to be right.

Time to move on. Obi-Wan released Bail's lips and kissed a path over his chin and down his neck, easing Bail's shirt open. Bail's arms wrapped loosely around him but he did nothing more as Obi-Wan teased one nipple with lips and teeth. Obi-Wan approached his love-making like a massage, caressing Bail's chest with his palms, rubbing his face against Bail's skin, comforting, safe -- hopefully erotic.

Down further, following the fine line of hair down Bail's belly, legs tangling together. Bail's breathing was calm and even, arms still loosely holding him. Obi-Wan quickly pulled his shirt off, then lay once more against Bail's chest, skin to skin for the first time in far too long, nuzzling Bail's neck, hands caressing Bail's sides and moving lower, the prince's breathing still steady. Obi-Wan raised his head to look at Bail. His eyes were closed, head turned slightly to the side. He did not appear distressed. It almost looked as if he were sleep. "Are you sure?" Obi-Wan asked.

Bail opened his eyes and looked up to him. "Yes. Do it. Just take me."

Do it. With one swift movement, Obi-Wan pulled off Bail's underwear. Obi-Wan still wore his pants. One thing at a time. He reached for Bail's cock. It was flaccid and unresponsive. Bail pressed closer, trapping Obi-Wan's hand between them so he couldn't move. Dark eyes looked up at Obi-Wan with a glimmer of pain. "It doesn't matter. Just do it."

Wrong! Obi-Wan's mind screamed at him, but he willed himself not to listen. He buried his face once more in Bail's neck, breathing in the familiar scent of the prince's cologne. He quickly stripped and reached for the lotion, willing himself to hardness as if this were an exercise in mind over body, but he was only partly successful. When he touched Bail, the prince pulled his legs up to his chest and said, "I'm ready."

Without letting himself think about it, Obi-Wan positioned himself. Bail was indeed ready, receiving him easily. Bail's eyes closed again, face relaxed, blank, as Obi-Wan slowly eased into him. Obi-Wan watched him, their faces so close together they could feel one another's breath on their cheeks, and yet Bail remained as far away from him as the Outer Rim, face relaxed, utterly without tension or passion. Obi-Wan had to close his eyes against the sight, but he could not ignore the feeling, Bail's arms loose around him, his body still unresponsive.

Desperately Obi-Wan moved against Bail, moved in him, but it was no use. Everything about this was wrong. He thrust quickly several times, feigning orgasm before his erection could fade completely. Bail lowered his legs, his hands resting lightly on Obi-Wan's hips as the Jedi lay across him, face buried in Bail's neck because he didn't want to see that blank face, those expressionless eyes.

"Thank you," Bail murmured, and Obi-Wan fought back a fierce wave of nausea. He knew he was going to be ill. He would burst into tears any moment. He could not let that happen. Everything was bad enough without making Bail see him fall completely apart. Obi-Wan mustered every ounce of self-discipline in a desperate bid to remain in control. Bail shifted beneath him, prompting him to move over as Bail rolled onto his side, away from Obi-Wan.

"I have to meet with Qui-Gon," Obi-Wan said, amazed at how calm he sounded. "I needed to talk with him after dinner, anyway."

"Okay," Bail said without looking at him.

Obi-Wan hesitated. He had to ask. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

He almost sounded fine. He certainly sounded better than Obi-Wan felt. Obi-Wan hastily rolled out of bed and pulled on his clothes, desperate to escape the surreal scene. Without another word to Bail, he stumbled out of the room before he could completely lose his composure.

When he was in the corridor, the door safely shut behind him, he paused, digging his trembling fingers through his hair, wanting to squeeze the memory out of his head. Necrophilia, that's what it had been like: having sex with a corpse. Nausea surged within him once more, and he staggered forward, his feet carrying him back to his own quarters, to the room he shared with Qui-Gon, his home for over a decade. Qui-Gon would know what to do. He would make everything right.

Obi-Wan all but fell through the door, startling Qui-Gon from his dinner. Qui-Gon rose and moved forward as if to catch him. "Padawan?"

Obi-Wan stood rooted in place, his hand raised toward Qui-Gon in entreaty. He opened his mouth, but no words emerged. Indeed, what could he say about what had happened?

Qui-Gon gently took his arm and led him to the couch. "What is it?" he asked. When Obi-Wan still could not answer, Qui-Gon instructed, "Calm yourself. Meditate."

"I don't want to meditate!" Obi-Wan shouted. He froze, shocked that he had raised his voice at his master, then exploded into tears, weeks of tension finally breaking. He had never exercised such fierce control over his emotions for so long a time as this. "I can't take it any more," he wept. "I don't know what to do. I can't help him."

"Easy, Padawan," Qui-Gon soothed, resting a comforting hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder.

Obi-Wan fought to recover from his outburst. He could not carry on like this, especially in front of Qui-Gon. He struggled to get his crying under control, but his defenses were too weary. He had held it all in for so long.

At last the outburst spent itself, and Obi-Wan calmed down a bit. Qui-Gon gently urged, "Now, tell me what happened."

Stubborn tears escaped down Obi-Wan's cheeks, as he wrapped his arms tightly around himself. He couldn't bear to look at Qui-Gon. "He wanted me to make love to him. We haven't, you know. He wasn't really ready, but he insisted." He squeezed his eyes shut, face turned away. "It was horrible. I feel filthy."

"He reacted badly?" Qui-Gon guessed.

"He didn't react at all! He just lay there as if he were dead. It was awful." He couldn't sit still. If he remained still, he could feel it all again, how unresponsive Bail had been, how ill he had felt. He had to move, distract his body from the memory. He leaped to his feet and paced frantically back and forth, hugging himself, chin tucked against his chest.

Qui-Gon watched him for a moment, then softly ordered, "Sit down, Padawan."

Obi-Wan halted his pacing, hesitating. Reluctantly he returned to the couch. Qui-Gon took the young man's hands between his own, stilling their trembling. "You did nothing wrong, Obi-Wan."

"I did nothing right, either," Obi-Wan protested.

"Listen to me. I know you want to help him. But the hardest part is that he must find his own way. You cannot do it for him. All you can do is be with him."

Obi-Wan slowly shook his head, eyes downcast, avoiding Qui-Gon's gaze. "I can't," he whispered. "I miss him too much." His composure threatened to crumble, and Qui-Gon took the young man into his embrace, wrapping his long arms tightly around his padawan's shoulders as Obi-Wan wept once more.

"I just want him back," Obi-Wan cried, his words muffled against Qui-Gon's chest. "I can't remember the last time I heard him laugh. He used to talk nonstop. I couldn't get him to shut up, and now he scarcely says three words together. He's so haunted now, insubstantial. When I touched him, it was as if he wasn't there, as if his spirit is dead, but his body is still here to remind me of what he used to be."

"He's not dead, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon gently replied. "I can assure you of that."

Obi-Wan pushed himself away, rejecting Qui-Gon's sympathy. "What do you know? You don't know what he was like before!"

But Qui-Gon refused to be put off. "I know that he is definitely not dead." He took Obi-Wan's face between his hands, forcing Obi-Wan to meet his gaze. "There's nothing worse than watching someone we love suffer. We want to step in, to fix things for them, but we cannot. All you can do is wait and be there to receive him when he is ready."

Obi-Wan shook his head again, and Qui-Gon asked, "Will you force him to heal, then? How do you propose to do that? He needs you to show him that you can still love him, despite what he has been through. Your being with him now gives him a reason to recover."

"Not any more, not after what I did," Obi-Wan bitterly protested. "I shouldn't have had sex with him. He wasn't ready. Neither of us was."

"If indeed he wasn't ready, that is all the more reason why you should not abandon him now."

Qui-Gon's words cut Obi-Wan to the quick. Qui-Gon continued, "You need to show him that even when mistakes are made, we can recover and move on. Don't hide from him, Obi-Wan. Let him know what is in your heart. Even if he cannot speak about these things, you can."

For a long time, Obi-Wan was silent, considering Qui-Gon's counsel. At last he sighed, "The problem is, I don't know what to say anymore."

Qui-Gon chuckled. "In some ways, counseling someone in grief is very easy. It hardly matters what you say, so long as you are talking, so long as you are there. Say all the usual things, 'I'm sorry; I'm here; I love you.' It may not be very original, but it works."

At last Obi-Wan raised his eyes to Qui-Gon's. This man had stood by him through countless crises over the years. He always seemed so wise, always said the right things. Was this really true? Is that all Qui-Gon had been saying to him over the years as well: 'I love you; I'm here'? Come to think of it, it did sound rather familiar. And in the end, wasn't that all anyone ever wanted to hear? Certainly Obi-Wan wanted to hear it. He nodded slowly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I think even I can manage that."

When he had calmed down enough, Obi-Wan returned to the room he shared with Bail, entering the bedroom to find Bail curled up beneath the blanket. As he had done earlier that evening, Obi-Wan slid onto the bed next to Bail, stroking his fingers into the prince's curls. Bail was awake, but he said nothing, nuzzling silently against Obi-Wan's chest.

"I'm sorry I left so suddenly," Obi-Wan said. No reply, as he continued to stroke Bail's hair. "Why don't we go for a walk?" It was what they sometimes used to do after they had made love. Why not do something familiar, as if what had happened between them were normal?

Nevertheless, Obi-Wan was surprised when Bail said, "All right." The prince slid out from under the covers and got dressed. He was subdued but tractable, willing to be led. As they headed out the door, he slipped into his robe, and Obi-Wan took his hand, squeezing it gently as they left the room and headed through the wide hallways of the Temple, out the door to the promenade in front of the Temple Plaza.

It was evening. The sun had long ago set behind the tall horizon of the skyscrapers. The plaza was dark, but overhead the sky was still light. The park was full of people taking a walk on their way home from work, children playing before dinner. Old people sat at the benches playing board games, young people swooped down the walkway on their hoverboards. Street artists played music and did tumbling acts for coins. Vendors sold treats. And Obi-Wan and Bail walked hand in hand down the promenade, taking in the sights and sounds around them.

After a while, Bail said, "Sometimes in the afternoon when you're in class, I take a walk here. I always wear your robe with the hood up so I won't be recognized. But people do recognize me, only they think I'm a Jedi. They don't bother me, they don't even say anything to me, but I can tell because of the way they look at me and smile when I pass them.

"One day a little girl came skipping up next to me. She didn't say anything, just took my hand and skipped at my side the whole length of the promenade. At the end she said, 'Bye, Sir Jedi!' and ran off down the street toward home." Bail hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice was hushed, awed. "It was amazing. I didn't have to do anything to be a blessing to her. I didn't even have to be a real Jedi, all I had to do was let her believe." He fell silent, worrying at his lower lip. "Do you think that was wrong?"

Resisting the urge to supply Bail with an answer, Obi-Wan asked, "What do you think?"

Bail was silent for several steps. At last he said, "I don't think it was wrong. It felt good to be able to make a child so happy without even trying. People love the Jedi."

Obi-Wan answered with a rueful smile. "Not all of them do. But when it happens like that, it's really special."

"You are special," Bail said.

Obi-Wan automatically dismissed, "No, I'm not."

"You are to me," was Bail's simple reply.

What could Obi-Wan say to that? He felt as if he had done everything wrong for Bail. He couldn't help him, and he made dangerous mistakes. He didn't feel special; he felt horrifically inadequate. But how could he deny what Bail felt? All he could do was receive it, receive that blessing merely for being.

They walked on in silence for some time; watched a chalk artist draw landscapes on the sidewalk; bought a packet of spiced nuts to share as they sat on a bench near a fountain, where small children leaned over the edge, trying to catch the splashing water in their hands.

A thousand billion people lived on this world. Out there in the jungle of buildings, people were living and dying. They were making love and being born. Some wept, some laughed, and some felt nothing at all. Each light shining in the twilight represented a life -- people behind the lit windows, people in the vehicles passing by overhead. Each light, each life told its own story, a long and complicated one filled with the entire range of sentient emotions. It would be impossible for anyone to know all those stories. Each one was a drop in the ocean of the Force. But each little drop was surely loved by at least one other person. Surely at least one person cared about each story.

They sat on the bench looking up at all those lights, feeling lost amid so much life, and yet at the same time strangely at home. Bail turned to Obi-Wan, his eyes glittering in the twilight, and asked, "Will you sing me a song?"

Startled, Obi-Wan said, "You want me to sing to you now? Here?"

Bail only smiled. "I like it when you sing to me. Please?"

Obi-Wan shook his head in embarrassment. The things he did for Bail! But after everything they had both been through recently, this would be a tiny concession indeed. Tiny, but important in its own way.

"All right," Obi-Wan conceded. He took Bail's hands and pulled him up off the bench, wrapping his arms around the prince's waist, and began to sing. He chose a silly love song, something jaunty but simple that he knew Bail would like. He sang in a low voice, but not too quietly. Loud enough, in fact, for passers-by to hear. Let them hear. Obi-Wan did not mind.

The next morning Bail woke up snuggled warmly against Obi-Wan's back. Things almost seemed normal, and he savored the moment, the rare pleasure of feeling the morning sun warm on his face, Obi-Wan solid against him.

It had not surprised him yesterday when Obi-Wan ran off. Of course he would. He didn't want Bail to see how repugnant he found it having sex with him. Bail had not been too surprised at how badly it had gone. He was actually rather pleased that the experience had not made him break down into hysterics or something. In that sense, his lack of response had been good. On the other hand it confirmed what he had begun to believe, that sexual desire had permanently left him. He had wanted Obi-Wan to enjoy it, to feel some pleasure after all the crap Bail had put him through lately, but it hadn't quite worked out that way. Of course Obi-Wan wouldn't enjoy it if Bail couldn't. So Obi-Wan had run off, and Bail lay alone in a cold bed, knowing it was all over, that Obi-Wan would never touch him again.

But Obi-Wan had come back. Bail had not been expecting that, had not expected Obi-Wan to hold him once more, to touch him with affection, to take his hand as they walked, to sing him a silly love song. It had been just like old times.

Well, not quite like old times. Things had definitely changed. Bail had changed. But it had been like old times because it meant Obi-Wan loved him just the same.

He drew his arm tightly across Obi-Wan's chest, buried his face in the back of his neck, breathed in the sleep-spice scent of him. Obi-Wan had not worn a sleep shirt last night, and Bail released him long enough to pull off his own shirt so he could nestle against Obi-Wan. This was what he had been missing, soft skin sliding across his own. He rubbed his cheek against Obi-Wan's shoulder, feeling the faint stubble on his chin catch on Obi-Wan's skin. He nuzzled Obi-Wan's shoulder blade, opening his lips, tasting.

He remembered this. Pores, moles, the light sprinkling of hair over Obi-Wan's chest, and yes, the occasional scar. He remembered this skin turning pink in the sun, the flesh covered with goosebumps when they swam in the river on a too-cool evening. He remembered washing this skin in a shared bath, and drying it with the friction and heat of his own body. He remembered one time when Obi-Wan let him write on this skin. Bail had taken a pen and drawn symbols, decorations and curlicues across Obi-Wan's chest, on the flat plane of his stomach, on his palms. And over Obi-Wan's left breast he'd written, "This heart belongs to Bail Organa," in an ancient script, one he knew Obi-Wan couldn't read. Obi-Wan had wanted to know what it said, but Bail refused to tell him.

Those marks were gone now, but Bail could still read them. He knew the story of this skin because he could feel it in his own flesh. He knew what this skin looked like wrapped in silk or in linen, bathed in sunshine or darkness. He knew what it tasted like after a night's sleep, after a swim, after sex. He knew its smells and textures, had lain with his ear pressed against this skin and heard the heart beating within, watched the pulse throb in this throat, traced the blue veins on those wrists. He knew this skin, as they say, like the back of his own hand. And his skin was known as well, Obi-Wan knew all its tastes and scents and textures. Obi-Wan knew the story of Bail's body-- ticklish spots and erogenous zones, its pleasures and its pains.

So many nights Obi-Wan had lain next to him, held him, covered him with his robe like a second skin, stroked his hair, touched his face. All those nights, and days, too, Obi-Wan had told over and over again the story of Bail's flesh: I love this skin, this body, this person. It is lovely, it is beloved. Obi-Wan's fingers traced an invisible but indelible ink upon his breast: "This heart belongs to Obi-Wan Kenobi." Why hadn't Bail seen it before? It had been written there all along.

He pressed against Obi-Wan's back and was surprised to realize he had an erection. He buried his nose in Obi-Wan's hair, inhaling deeply, slid his hand over Obi-Wan's chest, down his stomach. Obi-Wan was awake now, and he shifted slightly, parting his legs and leaning back against Bail. Bail's fingers slipped beneath the waistband of Obi-Wan's sleep pants, reaching down to encircle the hard flesh. Not like yesterday.

As Bail caressed him, Obi-Wan released a long, deep sigh, his legs parting further. Bail kissed his shoulder, ground his hips against Obi-Wan's backside. Not like Ithgar. No, nothing like Ithgar. He knew this flesh. He knew this story. Their skin sang with it, vibrated, hummed, resonated. Bail could hear the blood flowing through their veins, moist breath squeezing in and out of lungs, the flutter of eyelids, two hearts speeding up, the grating of skin against skin.

He pulled Obi-Wan's pants off, then removed his own. Obi-Wan pushed back against him, legs parted, moist, warm. Bail pulled him closer, found his place. He knew what to do, and he was oh, so ready. He pressed in, slid home, entered and was welcomed. They moved together, skin singing, hearts pounding, breath in unison, Bail's arms wrapped tightly around Obi-Wan's chest, Obi-Wan's fingers digging into Bail's forearms, pressing closer together, undulating with the rhythm of this song, this primal urge to become one, to be joined, to enter into another's skin.

They did not become one, of course. That kind of union was impossible, as Bail well knew, but they did find harmony. Like a duet, twice as beautiful as a solo, singing gloriously, two voices wrapping around one another, distinct but interwoven, each with their own melody but perfectly in tune. The song increased in tempo, building up an exquisite crescendo in Bail's skin until he could no longer contain it and it burst through him, exploding through his nerves, shooting out from his pores, shredding and disintegrating him -- taking him apart and pulling him back together again, breath rattling harshly in his lungs, heart pumping wildly, muscles twitching.

He clung tightly to Obi-Wan, gasping for breath. He could not let go, but Obi-Wan, ever limber, wriggled in his embrace, turning around and gathering him in shaking arms, bathing his face with harsh, insistent kisses, lips drinking in his tears as Bail wept, gulping sobs of gratitude, joy and pain. It was so good to feel, all of it. The pain no longer paralyzed him. These tears no longer choked him. He could feel Obi-Wan -- soft skin against his hands, silky hair brushing his face, warm lips kissing him, arms and legs sliding over his. He was grateful the bacta had healed him, that it had erased his scars so he could retain this ability to feel his lover holding him. The love in his skin was deeper than the scars.

He loves bathtime. He insists on using Grandma Fiana's giant bathtub. If he asks Papa, Papa will say no, that it uses too much water for such a small boy. But Rani will say yes. She always says yes.

When he is dry and his hair combed out, at last comes his favorite part. Rani makes a show of inspecting him for any dirty spots she may have missed, then pronounces, "You're clean enough to kiss, Baby Bo." He raises his hands to her, wrapping his arms around her neck as she plants a kiss on the tip of his nose, her sweet breath warm on his face.

Real life began to intrude more and more on his existence at the Temple. As Bail sat at his research in the archives, he sometimes logged onto the holonet, glancing at the headlines. As he ate in the refectory, he eavesdropped whenever the Jedi around him discussed contemporary issues. He even turned on the news on occasion, as he channel-surfed on the viewer in his room. Not much, but he began to feel the urge to connect again to the larger world around him, to emerge from his cocoon and spread his fragile wings once more.

The opportunity to resume his public role had certainly appeared many times. The press had figured out the schedule of his sessions at the Survivors' Center, and they were often waiting for him when he arrived or departed. Even when Obi-Wan wasn't with him, he had learned to dodge the reporters and their holocams, walking head down, shoulders hunched, unresponsive. It was not hard to tune out their shouted questions to the point where he almost didn't hear them at all.

It was a far cry from the way he had always treated the press. Bail was enough of an egotist that he enjoyed the public attention. He teased and flirted with the cameras and had become very adept at presenting an image to the press without giving too much of himself away. His willingness to be recorded and interviewed is what had kept his popularity strong. The journalists liked him, so they hadn't pressed him too hard during his recovery. But neither did they give up trying to get him to talk.

Today, however, was different. His group session had gone surprisingly well. He had not completely recovered yet, but he was feeling much better. Obi-Wan was with him, whom he could now touch. He felt safe. So when the reporter, with cameraman in tow, appeared as Bail left the Survivors' Center, he did not tune them out completely.

"What do you think about the news of Senator Aisinton's failing health?" the reporter called out to him as he walked briskly by Obi-Wan's side. "What will happen if he dies?"

This news shocked him. Bail stopped and looked directly at the reporter. "Senator Aisinton?"

Now that he had shown an interest, the camera zoomed in on his face, and the reporter stepped forward, only to be intercepted by an impassive Obi-Wan. Ignoring him, she continued, "Some people are saying Aisinton's death will increase support for the Hinnelese Defense bill."

Bail glanced over Obi-Wan's shoulder at the camera. "Put the camera down," he instructed.

The cameraman shot an inquisitive look at the reporter, who nodded. The camera lowered, but Bail could see that it was still recording.

"Turn it off," Obi-Wan ordered.

Again the cameraman and reporter exchanged a glance, but before they could decide whether or not to comply, Bail prompted, "What about Aisinton?"

The reporter spoke into her microphone. "His heart is failing. He's being treated at Succor Hospital, but the healers don't expect him to live much longer."

The news hit him hard. Another death for which he was responsible. Tears filled his eyes, but he did not let them fall. "Aisinton is a shining light in the Senate. His loss would be a blow to us all."

"Were you close to him?" the reporter asked.

Bail studied her for a moment as he tried to rein in his emotions. He recognized her. He couldn't remember which news service she worked for, but he knew her. "I admire him," he admitted at last. He was not as close to Aisinton as he would have liked. He had not had enough time for him to get to know the aged senator better. Now there would never be enough time.

"He has made no statement on the Hinnelese Defense bill," she added, her microphone tipping toward Bail, despite Obi-Wan's scowl. The camera was still recording their words if not their image. "Where do you stand, Senator Organa?"

"I--." He hesitated. He knew perfectly well where he stood, but he didn't know how to explain it. If he said anything, they would ask more questions, and he wasn't ready to answer. He had feelings in his heart, not thoughts in his head. There still had not been enough time, never enough, but he would have to speak soon or else this time would slip away. As much as he wanted to remain silent and hidden, the world around him moved on.

He shook his head, still unable to speak, and stepped further behind the shelter of Obi-Wan's back.

The reporter lowered her microphone. "And how is your recovery coming, Senator?"

"I'm doing better," he answered quietly, peering over Obi-Wan's shoulder.

Her arm fell to her side, as she thumbed the microphone off. She offered Bail a genuine smile. "We'll be ready for you when you come back. The Senate needs you, your Highness." She signaled to the cameraman, and they moved away.

Bail watched them go, standing safely behind Obi-Wan.

Never enough time.

As soon as he got back to the Temple, Bail contacted Senator Aisinton's office to request permission to visit the Senator. Permission was quickly granted, and he worked out details with the hospital staff to get him in and out unseen. Bail did not want his visit publicized.

The next day, shrouded once more in Obi-Wan's robe, Bail slipped into the hospital through a service entrance and was escorted to the Senator's room.

The old man looked even more frail than usual, lying still on the bed, surrounded by monitors and medical machinery. A breathing mask covered his mouth and nose, but he waved a gaunt hand to a nurse, who helped him remove the mask. The nurse then slipped discreetly out of the room, as Bail pulled up a chair and seated himself next to the bed.

"Who is this that has come to see me?" Aisinton wheezed, his voice weak but still full of personality. "I thought young Organa was coming, but instead I see a Jedi!" His thin lips stretched in a smile, one which Bail couldn't help mirroring. "I always took you for a dandy with your fancy robes, young man. Have you now taken up sackcloth?"

Bail's smile faded slightly. "I have many sins to atone for."

"You haven't lived long enough to sin that much, my boy."

"Plenty long enough," Bail demurred. "And now I have to add...." He stopped before saying too much.

But Aisinton picked up on his thoughts. Wagging a bony finger at him, he scolded, "Don't go blaming yourself for my condition, young man. My heart has been ailing me for quite some time."

Bail bowed his head, picking at the edge of his robe. "Still, if you hadn't gone to Ithgar -"

"If I hadn't gone to Ithgar, then something else would have gotten to me. I'm 93 years old, boy. It was going to happen eventually." His watery eyes dimmed slightly. "I admit that Ithgar wasn't quite the adventure I wanted for my later years, but it will certainly look impressive in my obituary."

It was too much. Bail covered his face with his hands as those damned tears, his constant companions these days, began to flow.

He felt a cold hand on his wrist. "Ah, my boy, you've had it rough, haven't you?"

Bail could not pull himself together enough to reply. He had come to this dying man's bedside, only to find himself the one who was being comforted.

Aisinton continued, "I know it's hard, but you must not let this defeat you. You have many years ahead of you, and you need to use your time well."

Bail raised his head, wiping at his eyes. "I will, I promise."

"Don't make your promise to me, I won't be around to hold you to it," Aisinton quipped with a wink. "Now, be a good boy and help me with a drink of water, would you?"

Bail nodded, fetching the cup from the nightstand. He held the straw to the Senator's lips as the man took several small swallows. Aisinton lay back on the pillows, then fixed a yellow eye on Bail. "I don't suppose you have any of your good Alderaani brandy on you?"

"I'm afraid not," Bail smiled.

"Next time you come, be sure to bring some."

The senator closed his eyes for several moments, and Bail at last cautiously ventured, "Should I leave you now? I don't want to wear you out."

"No, no," Aisinton protested, opening his eyes again. "It's nice talking with someone who isn't going to stick me with a needle. Tell me what's going on in the great world out there."

Bail shifted on his chair. This was what he had really come to talk to Aisinton about. "You've heard about the Hinnelese Defense Bill?"

"Heard about it?" Aisinton wheezed. "Oh, yes, I've heard about it."

Bail waited, but when the Senator said nothing more, he asked, "Where do you stand on it?"

"What does it matter where I stand? I've retired from the Senate, young man!"

"Yes, but you're highly respected. People will want to know your opinion."

"It makes no difference what I say," Aisinton contradicted. "I'm going to die soon anyway, and people will only use the occasion to push their own political agendas in my name." He again fixed Bail with his gaze. "The important thing is where you stand."

Bail looked away, staring at the display screen on one of the monitors. It kept flashing numbers, numbers that meant nothing to him. "I've made no stand," he confessed.

Aisinton looked at him with disapproval. "I know you, Organa. You have an opinion on everything. You can't tell me you have no position on this issue."

With a wan smile, Bail admitted, "My heart tells me that it's wrong. The last thing Ithgar needs is more violence. But that's just a feeling, maybe even only a wish. That's not enough for me to take a stand."

"Hmph. It's more than enough." Aisinton reached out and laid his thin hand on Bail's. "Let me tell you, my boy, I've always trusted you. I may not agree with you on everything, but I've always felt your heart was in the right place." He tapped his finger on the back of Bail's hand. "Feeling without thought is manipulative, but reason without emotion is just as bad. Reason can be made to justify anything. But reason grounded in emotion," he closed one eye, nodding astutely, "that's vision. That's what leadership requires, what this miserable galaxy requires. You've got the makings of it in you, young man. Don't let what happened on Ithgar scare it out of you."

The senator closed his eyes again, sinking back against the pillows, and Bail could tell what little energy he had was wearing thin. He tucked the covers tighter around the old man, then said, "I've always greatly admired you, Senator."

Without opening his eyes, Aisinton nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. Young people these days don't appreciate their elders." His eyes opened a slit. "But I notice your admiration of me didn't lead you to back me on that appropriations bill."

Bail grinned. "I said I admired you, not that I always agreed with you," he retorted, echoing Aisinton's earlier comment.

The senator wagged a finger at him again, then closed his eyes once more. "Go on, my boy. Get back to work and leave an old man to die in peace."

"Yes, sir." Bail helped replace the mask on Aisinton's face, then headed to the door. Before leaving, he turned back and said, "Thank you."

The old man nodded, smiling at him behind the mask, and Bail quietly slipped out of the room.

That afternoon, Bail called up his assistant. He could have stopped by his apartment on the way home from the hospital, but he wasn't quite ready to face his old life. Teague could handle the matter, though. Teague would know exactly what to get.

A couple of hours later, a package was delivered to the Temple. Bail took it immediately to his room and laid it out on his bed. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he tore off the wrapping.

Lying on top were his nerf-hide boots, soft and supple, polished to a soft glow. Next came a set of underclothes, made out of silk from Ythama. Obi-Wan teased him about his luxurious tastes, but that hadn't stopped the Jedi from appropriating several pairs of Bail's underwear. It seemed even padawans could appreciate a well-made pair of silk shorts.

Next the trousers, such a deep blue they were almost black. Brushed cotton from Bothawui, hand made by Bail's Coruscanti tailor. Nice underwear Obi-Wan could appreciate, but not tailor-made pants, which was a good thing, as Bail had no intention of letting Obi-Wan steal his pants. Well.... Bail laughed at the unintentional joke.

The shirt, hand-tailored again, of course. Dove grey, just a shade on the blue side. Bail picked it up and inhaled its clean fragrance. It had been pressed with hina herb water. His housekeeper spoiled him rotten.

And finally his robe. Deep blue, like the Alderaani sky just as it turns to night. Kasini wool, soft and surprisingly lightweight, with a very elegant drape. The front panels were embroidered with a wavy pattern reminiscent of a waterfall. It curled around the collar and cascaded down to the robe's hem.

Bail laid his things out neatly on the bed, lovingly smoothing out the wrinkles, then undressed. He took his time putting on each article of clothing, adjusting the fit, checking the fastenings, making sure each piece was just right. Only when he had finally slid into the robe, running his hands over the fabric to ensure the proper drape, did he turn around and face the mirror.

A well-dressed young man looked back at him, crisp, tailored and correct. But something was still not quite right with the image. He straightened his spine, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. There. Now he looked like a senator, a prince. He smiled at his reflection.

"That's what I've been missing."

Startled, Bail turned to see Obi-Wan watching him from the doorway. The Jedi slowly crossed the room to stand behind him, wrapping his arms around Bail's waist, his chin resting on Bail's shoulder so he could look at their reflection in the mirror. "You look very sexy," he purred.

"That isn't quite the effect I was going for," Bail dryly observed.

"I've always thought you look much sexier in your senate robes than in your clubbing outfits."

Bail gave a short laugh. "You have a bizarre sense of fashion, Bendu."

"Not at all," Obi-Wan protested. "Your clubbing clothes are mere costume. But this," he ran his hand over the embroidered panels of the robe as Bail leaned back into his embrace. "This is what you really are. It suits you."

Rolling his eyes, Bail drawled, "This coming from a man who regularly wears a feed sack."

"Oh, come on. I know you like my tunics."

Bail turned in Obi-Wan's embrace until they were facing each other. "Yes, I do," he admitted. "You make even a feed sack look elegant."

Obi-Wan quirked an eyebrow at him. "Not sexy?"

"Always sexy," Bail replied, leaning in for a kiss.

When they separated, Obi-Wan said, "I have -- um, news."

Bail grew still. He was pretty sure he knew was coming. "Yes?"

"Qui-Gon and I have been given an assignment," Obi-Wan said quietly, his hands caressing Bail's back. "We leave in a couple of days."

Bail nodded, staring at the dimple on Obi-Wan's chin. "Has it been a month already? How time flies when you're having fun."

"It doesn't seem like a month," Obi-Wan said. Bail watched the dimple move with his words. He could not look at Obi-Wan's eyes, not quite yet. Again the dimple jumped, as Obi-Wan softly added, "I wish I could stay longer."

"I know," Bail answered with a tight smile, still not looking up. "Where are you going? Or is it a secret?"

"It's not a secret. We'll be negotiating a treaty dispute on Fyrostia."

Bail leaned into Obi-Wan's arms, feeling the Jedi's heartbeat against his chest, so strong, so warm. This was his center, in the echo of Obi-Wan's heart. He raised his eyes to meet Obi-Wan's. "I'm ready," he said.

Obi-Wan reached up to tug on Bail's curls. "I'll miss you."

A slow grin spread across Bail's features. "Well, for your sake you'd better come back, because I owe you money."

Obi-Wan frowned, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. "You do?"

"Your fee as my bodyguard," Bail reminded him. "One credit a day plus expenses."

"Ah, yes," Obi-Wan's expression relaxed into a smile. "Don't worry. I'll be sure to collect. In kind, if not in cash."

Bail's grin turned wicked. "In that case, I look forward to paying my debt."

The next day while Obi-Wan was in class, Bail sought out Qui-Gon Jinn to speak with him alone. They had met numerous times over the course of Bail's stay at the Temple, but Obi-Wan was always with them. Bail had learned a lot watching master and apprentice together, like a father and son, yet much, much stronger. Bail loved his father, but he had never listened to him with the reverence that Obi-Wan listened to Qui-Gon. Vilnis had influenced and guided Bail, but nowhere near to the degree that Qui-Gon influenced and guided Obi-Wan. It was a unique relationship of obligation and trust, obedience and mutual responsibility. In the end Bail didn't think he would ever want to be bound so closely to another person that way, yet there was something deeply enviable about this very special kind of partnership.

So many times over the years he had poked fun at Obi-Wan's seriousness, his Jedi rituals and formality, but now he began to see the edifice that those rules upheld. He had found it comforting to live for at least a little while in that environment, where everyone had a place, where everyone knew exactly what was expected of them, how to behave and interact, how to move through life and face each challenge. Bail's own life, the Alderaani ways, seemed hopelessly messy in comparison, and life in the Senate seemed like pure chaos. On the other hand, there was definitely something to be said for the gray areas of life!

Bail walked slowly through the corridors as he went to meet Qui-Gon Jinn. The regular rhythms of Temple life had become so absorbed into his body that he walked at a stately, unrushed pace like the other Jedi, his arms folded into his sleeves. He would lose it all, of course, when he returned to his own world. But for now, he was almost Jedi-like in his movements.

He found Qui-Gon studying in his quarters. The master seemed a little surprised to see him when he opened the door. "I believe Obi-Wan is in class right now," Qui-Gon apologized as he ushered Bail into the room.

"I know. I'm here to speak with you," Bail explained, as he took a seat on the couch. "I want to thank you for your kindness, Master Jinn."

Qui-Gon smiled, his eyes twinkling. "You're most welcome, your Highness."

"I doubt you are aware how much your hospitality and that of the entire Order has meant to me over the past month," Bail continued. "I can never repay you."

"I beg to differ with you, there. If your time here has prepared you to return to your work in the Senate, then it will be repaid." Again those eyes twinkled. "Besides, it's good for the Temple to play host to you. We are far too isolated from those who live outside the Order."

With an artfully modest smile, Bail replied, "If I've been here as a representative of the entire galaxy, there are a few billion people who would feel they've been woefully misrepresented!"

They shared a brief laugh before their camaraderie faded once more into awkwardness. Bail still held too many strong emotions that were not easily expressed, least of all to this giant man, Obi-Wan's imposing master, the man whom Bail had always viewed as a rival. But Bail had changed so much over the past weeks, and he now saw Qui-Gon differently. His voice catching a little in his throat, he ventured, "I have learned a lot during my stay here. And I'm so grateful that you lent me Obi-Wan, both here and on Alderaan. I don't know how I would have gotten through this without him. He is... a treasure beyond price."

Qui-Gon remained silent. He wasn't at all sure how to respond to the prince's devotion to Obi-Wan. "Jedi padawans are not allowed to form permanent attachments," he explained. "Or so the rules say. The logic is that padawans need to make their training their priority, and permanent attachments would distract them. But the heart has its own seasons. We all have to learn to balance our lives, even padawans. I'm glad Obi-Wan was here for you. He learned much through this experience as well."

Suppressing a touch of pique at having his recovery turned into a source of instruction for Obi-Wan, Bail remarked, "Always lessons?"

"Of course, your Highness," Qui-Gon replied with his best masterly air. " All of life is a lesson, whether we recognize it or not. Certainly you have learned much over the past weeks."

"True enough," Bail conceded.

More silence, broken finally when Qui-Gon observed, "I understand the Hinnelese Defense bill will be voted on tomorrow."

"Yes," Bail confirmed, back on familiar territory. "And I will be there."

Qui-Gon said nothing, just raised an inquiring eyebrow.

Bail avoided his gaze, plucking distractedly at the cuff of his sleeve. He wasn't sure how much he wanted to say, wasn't sure how it would be received. On the other hand, it might not hurt to find out what Qui-Gon Jinn would think about his intended actions. "I will be arguing against the bill," he said at last, "though I've followed enough of the debate so far to know that I will probably not be able to keep it from passing. In the end, I guess this mission has been a total failure from start to finish."

"Success and failure are often difficult to measure," Qui-Gon observed. " What seems to be a failure now can over time become a success, and vice versa. What matters more is what we learn, how we grow, the story that we tell." He studied the prince for a moment, gauging how much he had learned of the man over the past month. "I told you when we were taking you back to Alderaan that when you were finally ready to tell your story of Ithgar, I had faith that it would be the right one. Have you discovered what story you will tell?"

For a long time, Bail was silent, his head lowered. An unnaturally long time, and Qui-Gon wondered if he would reply at all. At last he looked up, his expression open and oddly vulnerable. "Love, Master Jinn," he said. "My story is love."

He paused, seeking the right words. "Before this happened, I was very naive. But now I've been through the fire. I've seen what hatred and violence can do. I've experienced it myself." He stopped, and something within him seemed to tighten. Recalling Obi-Wan's meditation lessons he took a deep breath, releasing the tension and letting a spirit of calm infuse him. To create outer peace, you must cultivate inner peace, Obi-Wan had told him. He nodded in response to the unspoken words.

"I suppose some people would say that violence is an inevitable part of life," he continued. "Perhaps they are right. But we do get to choose what story we tell, and I refuse to tell a story of hate." He shrugged, but it was more a gesture of resolution than resignation. "I don't know how much I've really learned from all this, Master Jinn. I don't know if love is wiser or more practical. All I know is that the cycle of violence will never end until people find the courage to choose a different story. I'm only one person, and I may not be able to make a difference on some place like Ithgar. But insofar as I can make a difference, I want the weight of my life to be in the balance for love. That's the story I want to tell. That's the story that can heal us in the telling."

He stands on the shore of the lake in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. It is night, but the darkness no longer frightens him. He knows who he is.

He is strong. He is able. He is ready.