Summary: Obi gets philosophical for no reason at all other than
the fact that Qui's damn attractive.
Feedback: Any comments welcome.
There are moments in your life that are permanent in your mind.
Some are etched with the bright searing pain of anger or grief.
Some are beautiful beyond comprehension, almost frightening in
their glory. And some are just perfection, notable for the fact
only that they exist.
This moment is one of them.
Imagine, if you will: A bathtub, long and wide and deep. Filled
with water, perhaps, but also with a quilt of bubbles, almost
high enough to spill over the edges. My Master, Qui-Gon Jinn,
mostly submerged but for his arms-- powerful arms, they are,
and beautiful, lying relaxed along the rim of the tub-- and his
head. Eyes closed, mouth curved in the queer way he has of
almost-smiling. Hair loose, a grey-tinged cascade around the
sides of his face, wet at the tips and spiky.
And I, I, standing still and gawking from the doorway, staring
because it was the only thing I could think of to do, and
because my Master looked so peaceful, so serene, that
disturbing the moment would have been on a par with destroying
a work of art.
I can feel his amusement rippling through our bond. //I am not
a work of art, Padawan,// he reminds me. //I am no more and no
less than any other Jedi.//
//You are more,// I tell him, smiling. //You are my Master.//
He opens his eyes and smiles at me, a full splendid smile that
crinkles the skin around his mouth and eyes. I would do
anything for that smile, I think. //Yes, my Padawan.// "If you
wish," he says aloud, almost gravely, "you may join me."
My heart leaps at his words, but I shake my head. "I would not
want to intrude..."
His left hand turns over, palm up, beckoning me. "If you wish,"
he repeats, "you may join me." A pause, and something like
mischief sparks in his eyes. "Must I order you, Padawan?"
Qui-Gon would not force me to anything, not like this. I smile
and bow and say "Your wish is my command, oh my Master,"
equally teasing, and I waste very little time in stripping off
my clothes.
The water is warm, and feels smooth and almost thick. Carefully
I sit down between my Master's legs, leaning back against his
chest. The bubbles rise up to my chin. They have a scent I
cannot recognize, some sweet muskiness that I like immediately.
Qui-Gon's hands come to my shoulders and begin a smooth steady
kneading. Fingers dig in to the muscles in ways that ought to
bruise, but don't. It feels good, so good, and I do not think I
could move even if I wanted to. My Master is skilled in this as
in other things. I close my eyes and rest, soothed by the
comfort of his body behind mine, of the sweet still water, of
the rhythm of his hands.
Time is relative. When it is needed, it slips out of your grasp
like the elusive little silver fish in the Temple fountains.
When it is not, when you are drowsing and lethargic and
content, it takes you on its back and soars high, far above any
problems. And so I soar, detached from the world, until my
Master's hands cease their movements, and his chuckle vibrates
through the water.
"It is not good," he says amiably, "to fall asleep in water."
I turn my head to smile up at him. "With my Master at my back,
how can I fear harm?" It is an old question, an old lesson,
trained into young Jedi so they can learn to trust their
Masters. I do not need to learn trust. That came long, long
ago.
He slides his hands down my chest, holding me to him.
//o'imke'la, padwane'ki,// he sends through our bond. It is a
language older than Coruscant itself, and translates best to 'I
love you, my Padawan'; but the word is not 'love'. It is
different, and more, joy and pride and trust and love and
fondness and other emotions too deep to be captured by words.
I nestle against him, feeling his heartbeat, his life, his
love, his strength. He is very alive, very much a presence, and
I do not know whether to smile or to weep or to roll over in
his loose grasp and kiss him.
//And I you, my Master,// I send back, and decide perhaps it is
best to do nothing, to just be.
Some moments are pure perfection, notable for the fact only
that they exist.
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