Feedback: All feedback welcome from one-liners to detailed
critiques--good, bad, or indifferent-- either on list or via
email. However, if you're going to flame me, please do try to
entertain me; there's nothing worse than a boring flame.
Summary: Qui-Gon decides to tell. This is the fourth story in
the series "My Padawan." The other stories are "Sense,"
"Flight," and "Knowledge."
Disclaimers: Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan aren't mine, blah, blah,
blah.
Webpage: http://adult.dencity.com/rosalita1
My padawan is not a morning person.
He stumbles into the kitchen--eyes at half mast--looking
deliciously rumpled. Reaching into the cupboard for a mug, he
mutters under his breath something about tall people having no
consideration.
Little does he know that I put those cups at such a height
because I knew he'd have to stretch to reach them. I enjoy the
way his muscles shift underneath his pale skin and the way his
sleep pants slip down his hips as he stretches his entire body.
He sits down and pours himself a cup of tea, eyeing me,
wondering if today will be the day when I tell him what he
already knows.
The past week has been spent dancing around the issue in an
elaborate, exhaustive pas de deux. Or rather, he has stood,
certain, while I have spun round and round him in an attempt to
gauge his feelings. I am nearly certain he feels as I do, but
he will wait for me to stop spinning and lead him in a new
dance.
I just hope that my instincts aren't wrong.
"Obi-Wan," I say, putting everything that is in my heart into
speaking his name. His head snaps up, and I have never seen him
so fully awake so quickly when we weren't actually in danger. I
open my mouth to continue when the comm unit chirps.
"Don't answer it," he says.
"You know I must."
He jerks his head in a frustrated nod.
Mace's face fills the screen, instructing us that we must ship
out to K'tsh in two hours. I bite back a scream of my own
frustration.
Obi-Wan is already heading for the fresher, in full mission
mode.
Archive 