Pairing: QG/OW Category: Romance Rating: G Archive: MA and
anyone else who might like it! Warnings: None Spoilers: None
Summary: So, would you rather discuss food or sex, hmmm?
Feedback: Yes, indeed! Any kind, any time...
Disclaimer: These dear, wonderful characters belong to our man
Lucas, always and forever, not to me. I make only happy spaces
in my heart by using them in these little stories.
Note: *ahem* I was having a snack and, wham!, this happened!
Three guesses what the snack was...
"I would recommend spelt flakes, Padawan. Excellent for the
constitution."
It was late and the Admin corridor was dim and quiet.
"Yes, Master..." I don't care about spelt flakes. Let's talk
about boots. "I had spelt flakes this morning. They're quite
nice, but..." And feet. As in, your feet. With no boots.
"Obi-Wan, the body of a Jedi is a glorious receptacle for the
Force. Ill health is tantamount to insult to an energy whose
influence knows no bounds." He smiled gently at the young man
walking slowly beside him.
"Yes, Master." Yes, Master. And what about sashes? Long, silky
lengths riding vanguard on rippling muscles covered with folds
of finest cream. "I expect always to treat my body with the
respect it deserves." His surreptitious glance enfolded the
tall man moving with the agility and grace of a mowat. "But why
do you happen to focus on spelt flakes in particular?" Instead
of, say, how many loops would it take to untie that sibil knot
in your sash?
"Master Ha'a-Di has been studying the effects of certain
sub-atomic particles on the function of Jedi reflexes." A large
hand brushed the glowing leaves of a bist devil, sending
sparklettes scattering to the earth below. "It seems the BAMe
in the average Temple diet produces measurable increases in
speed and the control of certain movements covered in basic
katas." He smiled again. "Spelt flakes are chock full of BAMe,
Padawan."
A turn in the corridor sluiced them directly toward the
elevators. Serenity preceded them.
"Yes, Master." But I'd rather discuss tunics. "Master Loril
was explaining some of the research just last week." Tunics
very far across the room from any thought of hiding skin. "He
says BAMe can be found in quite a few foods common to our
Temple diet." There should be no tunics.
"So I understand, Padawan." The elevator door silently opened,
silently closed. "Masters Loril and Ha'a-di are both expert in
the field of nutrition and we should follow their
recommendations carefully."
The elevator door silently opened, silently closed.
"Yes, Master." Carefully. The way I would like to slide those
leggings down your very long legs. Carefully. "Most of our
breads and much of the fruits and vegetables seem to be good
sources." Then hide them somewhere they couldn't be found.
One long, elegant finger punched the code for their quarters.
"If you peel, Obi-Wan..." His deep blue eyes warmed Obi-Wan
through to the fabled Center. "..., I'll chop. And Mahski Stew
should be less than an hour away. Then, with bread, our BAMe
serving should be complete."
"Yes, Master." Complete. Someday. Maybe. He sighed.
In companionable silence, the simple fare was soon cooked,
soon savored. After clearing the table, Obi-Wan watched his
tall Master, too-well-covered with boots, sash, tunic and
leggings, wash up and put the kitchen in order. The routine
rarely changed when they were home and, though his soul was
lonesome, his heart delighted in time spent enjoying the simple
hours.
With a smile, Obi-Wan leaned back on the sofa and closed his
eyes, listening to the small sounds of domesticity. His Master
loved neatness and the clicks of cabinets and closet doors
sounded counterpoint to a trail that led from kitchen to
bedroom. He should like to walk that trail with regularity some
day...
But, in the meantime, he could certainly think other thoughts.
In a moment, he grimaced and whispered, "Spelt flakes."
The chuckle sounded surprisingly close. "Obi-Wan?"
Eyes still closed, Obi-Wan grinned from his relaxed position
on the sofa. "Yes, Master. Suppose everyone in the Temple ate
spelt flakes for breakfast, noonmeal and supper, every day,
year in and year out. Would the galaxy learn to respect the
resultant hordes of superfit, super-powerful Jedi? Or would we
all just pop?" Flopping his hands dramatically to the sides, he
opened his eyes.
And froze.
Qui-Gon stood not three feet away, a crooked smile playing
around his lips, one boot dangling from his hand. As Obi-Wan
watched in wonder, the boot dropped with a thud to the floor.
"Here, my Obi-Wan, are the boots." He slipped the other off
and dropped it beside the first. "Not on my feet."
Obi-Wan swallowed.
Long fingers slowly untied the sibil knot and let the sash
rest upon the last boot. The blue, blue eyes smiled. "It takes
three turns and one loop."
Obi-Wan took a long, deep breath.
Big hands slid the creamy tunic up and over, then flung it
gently across the room. The voice was more than soft. "Can't
hide now, can I?"
Obi-Wan grinned.
Long, slightly unsteady fingers untied the legging strings,
then serious eyes looked deep into Obi-Wan's own. "Carefully,
my love."
Obi-Wan spoke around a throat tight with wonder and surprise.
"Yes, Mas... Yes, Qui-Gon." Standing, he reached gentle hands
to brush the soft beard, the strong throat. "But, why...?"
The leggings slid with a soft rustle to the floor and Qui-Gon
stepped out, drawing Obi-Wan close.
"We've spent ten years together, learning, teaching, living.
Surviving. Inch by inch, side by side. I've known your heart
for some time now, my Obi-Wan, but too much, too soon, can ruin
the recipe. Nothing before its time, love." His breath caught
for just a moment and, drawing the young man still closer, he
whispered, "A good Master always knows when to add the Bouquet
Garni..."
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