Warning: This is my second posted attempt at Q/O slash. You
have been warned.
Spoilers: One, on the back of my Grand Prix.
Summary: Master Jinn has a House Beautiful moment.
Feedback: Well, sure. Otherwise, I'd just sit around and read
this to myself.
Disclaimer: I didn't do it. And even if I did, I didn't make a
dime from it.
Qui-Gon entered the living area of his quarters, weary from the
day's efforts and damp from the incessant rain falling outside.
Shrugging off his outer robe, he hung it on a hook by the front
door and surveyed the room. The lighting was soft, a cheerful
fire burned brightly in the hearth--albeit more for ambiance
than warmth--and, judging by the aroma, a steaming pot of his
favorite tea sat on the small table beside his chair.
It was a good chair.
Qui-Gon walked tiredly over to the small table. He poured
himself a cup of the fragrant green tea and, balancing it
carefully, sank down into the chair, swinging his feet up onto
the solid, square ottoman, which was covered in the same rich
caramel-colored leather as the chair.
It was his favorite chair.
The soft, buttery leather molded smoothly to his exhausted
body. The wide, deep seat comfortably accommodated his long
legs. The broad, flat arms were perfectly suited for holding
the occasional cup of tea. Taking a careful sip, he set the
steaming cup he was holding on the right-hand arm of the chair,
noticing, as he did, the faint rings left by the damp bottoms
of other hot cups on other cold, rainy nights.
He really loved this chair.
His first padawan, M'Urlene, had loved it, too. A bright-eyed,
good-humored girl with an early and profound sense of her place
within the Living Force, M'Urlene had, as a very small child,
taken every opportunity to climb into Qui-Gon's chair, sitting
with her short legs stretched straight out in front of her,
surveying the room with all the regal haughtiness of a queen
and practically daring her young and, Qui-Gon admitted to
himself, occasionally over-indulgent master to move her.
Countless afternoons he would find her there, sometimes curled
up asleep, having grown drowsy waiting for him to join her in
the chair. He would gently wake her, scoot her to one side, and
settle in beside her to talk and laugh and review the day's
lessons.
As M'Urlene grew older, she would move the ottoman as close to
the chair as she could, pushing her Master's legs to the side
in the process. Sitting cross-legged on the ottoman, her back
to Qui-Gon, she would insist that he comb out her padawan braid
and plait it, then comb it out and plait it a second time. It
became such a soothing and practiced ritual between them that,
whenever she had difficulty achieving an appropriately serene
state for meditation, M'Urlene would come to Qui-Gon, grasp his
hand, and lead him pointedly to the chair. She would then
silently move the ottoman up close and take her place on it.
Master and padawan repeated the ritual one final time after
M'Urlene passed her Trials, concluding it with the clipping of
her padawan braid. Qui-Gon had coiled the braid carefully and
tucked it into a small leather pocket on the side of the chair,
where it remained to that very day.
Unfortunately, the confident and loving padawan that M'Urlene
had been had not prepared him for the challenge of his second
padawan. Qui-Gon's mouth tightened and his eyes closed in
painful memory of Xanatos and his own personal
short-sightedness.
Xanatos had never taken the liberties with Qui-Gon or his
quarters that M'Urlene had considered her right as his first
apprentice. Even as a small boy, he refused to join Qui-Gon in
the chair. Instead, he would pull the ottoman away from
Qui-Gon's feet and sit on it, his own small feet flat on the
floor, back straight, facing his Master with such an
oppositional stance that, had Qui-Gon been blessed with the
gift of Force prescience, he would surely have been warned of
the conflict to come. But Qui-Gon, while missing the warmth and
vivacity and good-natured imperiousness of his first padawan,
loved his second padawan very much and regarded him even more
highly, for Xanatos was fiercely intelligent and curious, with
a hunger to learn that both inspired and challenged his Master.
As Xanatos grew older, that hunger grew stronger, until it was
so aggressive and consuming that Qui-Gon finally had to admit
that he was losing control of his padawan. However, Qui-Gon had
great regard for and pride in the potential that he had seen,
and continued to see, in the young man. He was unwilling to go
to the Jedi Council with his concerns, for fear that the
Council would take Xanatos away from him. This refusal to seek
help had, unfortunately, ultimately contributed to his
padawan's undoing.
Qui-Gon unconsciously slid lower in the chair, picking up his
tea cup and cradling it in both hands against his chest, the
pain of Xanatos' fall still bright and sharp in his heart, for
all the veneer of serenity that age and Jedi discipline had
finally brought him. After a few moments of unproductive
recrimination, Qui-Gon gave himself a mental shake, silently
chanting a lengthy litany that started with "Guilt leads to..."
and ended with "...the Dark Side", and took another sip of his
tea.
He recalled that he had worn himself nearly ragged after
Xanatos had gone over to the Dark Side, taking every solo
mission the Council had to offer, until Yoda had sensed the
increasingly self-destructive nature of his actions and had
recalled him from the field. He had subsequently spent days and
even weeks in this same chair, staring into the fire and
striving once again to find the calm, quiet center that had
been the Force's gift to him most of his adult life. Memories
of M'Urlene and the mutually rewarding bond that he had shared
with her helped, but those memories weren't enough to assuage
the guilt he felt over Xanatos. Yoda, wise old troll that he
was, again intervened and, much to Qui-Gon's surprise, packed
the Jedi Knight off to Bandomeer.
It was to be his salvation.
Even now, he winced at the memory of his hesitation in taking
Obi-Wan as his padawan. He had been in so much emotional pain
at the time that he had firmly convinced himself that he was
unfit to ever undertake the training of another apprentice. But
the Force had its way, as the Force inevitably did, and Qui-Gon
found himself returning to Coruscant in the company of a solemn
boy with wide, changeable gray eyes and a yearning for whatever
Qui-Gon could give him--a yearning so intense that it
frightened the Jedi Master. Although he found that he couldn't
bear to leave Obi-Wan behind, Qui-Gon nevertheless immediately
erected protective Force shields around himself to mute the
searing intensity of the boy's need.
With regret, Qui-Gon recalled that, once he had returned to
Coruscant with Obi-Wan--much to Yoda's smug satisfaction--he
had maintained an unyielding emotional distance from his new
padawan. Sensitive to his Master's guilt and near-despair,
Obi-Wan had never presumed to ask for more than Qui-Gon was
willing to give. This unsatisfactory situation continued,
despite Yoda's less-than-subtle hints, until one cold, rainy
winter afternoon. Qui-Gon had slumped brooding in his chair,
staring into the fire. Obi-Wan, having brought his Master a cup
of hot tea, had quietly turned to go. The Jedi Knight, rousing
himself to thank the boy for his thoughtfulness, had sensed
something through Obi-Wan's own imperfectly erected Force
shields and, frowning over at him, asked what was wrong. With
halting words, Obi-Wan had turned back and vaguely recounted
some small slight offered him by another padawan.
The Force, which had apparently been waiting for just this
moment, had then allowed the full degree of Obi-Wan's hurt and
longing and, most unexpectedly, loneliness to overflow his
shields. The impact of his feelings dealt such a blow to
Qui-Gon's self-indulgent, self-imposed emotional exile that he
had started violently and knocked his tea cup over. A stricken
look had come over Obi-Wan's face, and when he had hurried
forward to clean up the spill, Qui-Gon swiftly bent down with a
gentle "Don't, padawan", and had scooped the shaking boy up
into his arms and settled him in his lap. At first, Obi-Wan had
stiffened, his slim body rigid, at the unexpected intimacy, and
then he had slowly relaxed against Qui-Gon's chest and begun to
weep softly, reaching up and wrapping his arms tightly around
his Master's neck. After the boy's tears had finally subsided,
Qui-Gon slid Obi-Wan off his lap to one side, tucking him into
the space between his hip and the chair arm and brushing a
gentle hand through his soft, short hair. "Talk to me, my
padawan. Tell me who you are and why you're here and what you
cherish." And Obi-Wan, looking earnestly and longingly up into
his Master's face, had done so.
The master-padawan relationship between them advanced steadily
toward its true potential after that, and for years, until he
grew to a size that made snuggling with his Master extremely
impractical, Obi-Wan had brought all his hurts and triumphs to
Qui-Gon in that chair. They shared lessons and impressions and
secrets and the occasional cup of tea, along with Obi-Wan's
favorite cookies. Even now, Qui-Gon suspected, there was
probably an inch of cookie crumb dust collected under the seat
cushion.
After Obi-Wan grew too big--in his own estimation,
admittedly--to sit in the chair with his Master, he would still
sit at Qui-Gon's feet, his back against the chair, leaning his
head against Qui-Gon's knee and curling one hand contentedly
around his Master's ankle, as he recounted the events of his
day and reviewed the lessons of his apprenticeship.
It really was a very good chair.
Unexpectedly, a pair of strong, warm arms slid around Qui-Gon's
neck from behind. "Growing sentimental in your old age, my
Master?", Obi-Wan breathed softly, with no small amount of
amusement, in Qui-Gon's ear. "I could sense it all the way out
in the kitchen."
Qui-Gon reached up and stroked his lover's forearm, moving down
to intertwine the fingers of one hand with Obi-Wan's. "I've
just been sitting in this chair and reminiscing about some of
the people that I have loved here."
Obi-Wan softly kissed his temple, and Qui-Gon could feel his
former padawan's lips curve in a smile against his skin before
he said, "Correct me, if I'm wrong, my heart, but I don't think
we've ever actually made love in this chair."
Qui-Gon chuckled and squeezed his lover's hand. "I was
referring to somewhat more platonic affections, Obi-Wan, but
you're quite right. And I'm prepared to remedy the situation,
if you'll let me move my tea out of the way first."
Obi-Wan laughed and released Qui-Gon, moving around to one side
to perch a slim hip on the wide left arm of the chair. He
smiled down at the older man. "Are you sure we can manage that
without pulling a muscle? I am somewhat bigger than I
was when I used to share this chair with you. And you..." he
added, mischievously, "...are somewhat older. The logistics--"
Qui-Gon interrupted, pronouncing solemnly, "There are no
logistics. There is only the Force," and he reached up and
pulled the startled, laughing love of his life into depths of
the chair.
There was simply no question about it. Master Qui-Gon Jinn,
Jedi Knight, truly, madly, deeply loved this chair.
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