Danse de l'inconscient

by Binky ( BinkyTorture@ikillclowns.com )

Archive: M/A only, please.

Feedback: Sure! On or offlist is fine, constructive criticism welcome.

Category: First time, POV

Character pairing: Q/O

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: None.

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, I just play with 'em.

Summary: The boys are grumpy after a string of tough missions, and get packed off to another Temple.

I told Bant we were going to Pergara, and she actually punched me. Hard. I can't remember precisely what she said, busy as I was rubbing the pain from my shoulder, but I know the phrase "lucky bastard" was in there somewhere.

Why don't I feel lucky?

Oh, I know the Pergara Temple is renowned for its calm beauty, etc. And I don't mind helping them with the archives.

What I mind is being stuck there with a surly Master.

Big hairy mort that he is, my Master much prefers cooler climes to the tropics. He'll spend every second of his spare time in quarters, reading his damn books and complaining loudly to anyone who'll listen--namely me--about how hot and sticky it is and why can't they adjust the circulators to a more civilized temperature? I believe he would actually prefer a mission to Hoth over this one.

Considering how short his temper's been over the last year, this can only make things worse.

The Council are sending us to the Temple on Pergara. Ostensibly, it is to help convert their massive, ancient archives to disk storage. One of the underlying reasons, if I know my former master at all, is to allow myself and my Padawan a bit of recovery time from our last ten cycles of nearly non-stop missions, none of them easy, most of them hazardous. I've spent far too much time in the healers ward of late, as has Obi-Wan.

I believe Obi-Wan will benefit from this enforced sabbatical far more than I. His temper, one of the faults he struggles with daily, has become shorter over the last year or so, harsh missions notwithstanding. Since reaching the age of majority last year, my Padawan has transformed from bright, sunny teenager into quiet, moody young man. I hope the tranquility of the Pergara Temple will help him find his old self again. The Temple overlooks the shores of the Linneshan Sea, so perhaps the balmy weather and tropical setting will lighten his mood.

I must remember to bring plenty of books.

Why in all the hells couldn't the Council have found us a larger transport? It's not that I'm trying to avoid my Master, necessarily. It's just that I don't want to spend too much time in his company until I ascertain his mood--bloody difficult with his shields the way they are.

Come to think of it, that's the way they've been for a long time now. Not on missions--whenever there's been an urgent need, I can sense what he's feeling. But during our downtime, which has been in pathetically short supply, he's closed off to me. Something must be troubling him. I wonder if--

Gods, here he comes. He could intimidate the walls with that stride. Our pilot, a disreputable-looking Corellian, took one look at my Master's glower when we boarded, and gave me a rather pitying glance. He's been holed up in the cockpit ever since, the coward.

My Master is sitting across from me now, with one of his wretched books. No "good morning, Padawan" or "how did you sleep, Padawan?" or "are you keeping warm enough in this poorly insulated excuse for a transport, Padawan?" Not that I need him fussing over me like a flock of healers, but a show of civility would be nice.

And why does he keep staring at me?

My Padawan is obviously in another of his moods this morning. He's so densely shielded from me, I cannot tell what might possibly have set this one off. I do hope our pilot, a disreputable-looking Corellian, has managed to control himself. He gave Obi-Wan a rather unmistakable leer when we boarded. Perfectly understandable--Obi-Wan is an attractive young man, but, only a year into his majority, I doubt his sexual prowess equals that of a seasoned transport pilot.

Sexual escapades aside, I shall have to speak to Obi-Wan soon about his shielding. It hasn't yet become an issue during our missions, but if this silence continues, it could endanger us both in the field.

Speaking of silence, I've been sitting here reading, or at least pretending to, for a good ten minutes, and he hasn't said one word. No "good morning, Master" or "how did you sleep, Master?" or "have you had firstmeal and could I possibly get it for you, Master?"

And why does he keep staring at me?

Things are Looking Up. We were met at the transport station by a representative of the Temple, one Knight Canshi. I thought my Master's eyebrows were going to climb right off his head when he saw how the man was dressed. Instead of the standard-issue robes and tunics of the Coruscant Temple, the Pergaran Jedi defer to the heat and local custom by wearing loose, sleeveless tunics and equally loose and billowing trousers, their lightsabres clipped to the waistbands. And woven sandals instead of boots!

Knight Canshi, brown as an ajemi nut from the sun, welcomed us with a formal bow, then loaded us into a speeder and took off for the Temple, chattering away with a happy smile the whole time. They were having some difficulties with the new archiving tech, he informed us cheerfully, and wouldn't need our help for at least another three days. We could use that time to explore the Temple and familiarize ourselves with the local geography and customs, he suggested.

I risked a glance at my Master, who sat calm and regal-looking in his stifling robes, sweat pouring down his face. I had shed my robe back at the station, and was looking forward to trying out the Pergaran style of dress. I hoped he wouldn't be obstinate enough to insist I continue wearing the obviously unsuitable Coruscant clothing, although it wouldn't surprise me if he kept every one of his layers, wrapped about him as tightly as his dignity.

I turned my attention to our surroundings, which I fear I am pitifully inadequate to describe properly. We had landed on a small, rocky peninsula, no more than a hundred metres across at its widest point. Lush tropical vegetation covered almost every surface, fighting the inhabitants of Pergara for space on the sheer cliffs and mountains. Low, brightly painted structures dotted the fertile valleys and perched precariously on mountain walls, and everywhere I looked, I saw flashes of brilliant color swooping and darting--the native temeki birds, Canshi said.

The speeder rounded a curve and I couldn't quite hold back a gasp at my first sight of the Temple. A cluster of magnificently ancient buildings, white plascrete from the look, with red-tiled roofs. The sprawl sits atop a bluff overlooking the sea, which is a mixture of blue and green so bright it seems to glow from within. The Temple itself appears to be capable of housing no more than three hundred Jedi at a time, and Canshi informed us that only about half that number were in residence.

When he showed us to our rooms, I had to bite my cheek to keep from laughing out loud with sheer delight. The view is stupendous, looking down on the beach at the cove, and there are large windows in the common room and both bedrooms. In our quarters at the Coruscant Temple, only my Master rates a window in his bedroom.

And of course, he had a problem with these windows almost immediately.

"Knight Canshi," he said, in that deadly polite tone that always sends chills down my spine, "why is there no glass on the windows?"

"Oh," Canshi replied, looking vaguely surprised, "there are no circulators in this building--the ancient architects didn't allow for them. They're all Force-shielded, to keep out the bugs and temekis, but the breeze gets through, and since we're basically surrounded by water, it's fairly constant."

"I see," was all my Master said, but I can read volumes into those two little words. What they say to me is that he won't be able to get cool enough, that his temper will grow even shorter, and what looks like a tropical paradise will quickly turn into yet another lively round of Let's Make the Padawan Miserable, Shall We?

Lucky bastard indeed. If Bant were here right now, I'd punch her in the face.

No circulators. Unbelievable. If Yoda were here right now, I'd knee him in the face.

Well, there's no help for it, I suppose. Obi-Wan has already gone appallingly native and dressed in the Pergaran version of Jedi solemnity, which is a bit of an oxymoron at this place. I much prefer the more modest Coruscant version, but my Padawan looks supremely comfortable in his new attire.

There's nothing truly immodest about exposed arms, and I shall wear the provided tunic with all the dignity I can muster. But on Obi-Wan, somehow, it looks a bit . . . salacious.

Silly, really.

Said Padawn has just popped into my room, holding up a rectangular length of brightly colored cloth, a vivid turquoise. "Master, have you any idea what this is?"

"No," I reply, digging through the formerly tidy pile of clothing spread out on the bed. "But I seem to have been provided with one as well." I hold up another cloth, this one a shocking fuchsia. The material is lightweight and silky, and seems to have no particular purpose other than to be pretty. I cannot fathom why it should be included with our clothing.

"It's too large to be a scarf," Obi-Wan mutters, examining the cloth. He shrugs, tossing the material over one shoulder. "If it was crucial, I suppose Canshi would have said something."

"Speaking of crucial, Padawan," I say, continuing my inventory of the Pergaran attire, "did they provide you with any underthings? Mine seem to be missing."

"Um, no, Master," he says, his cheeks turning a quite fetching pinky sort of color. "I assume layers would tend to defeat the purpose of the cooling properties of the clothing."

"Quite so," I say, effectively ending the discussion. He turns to leave, and I cannot quite resist darting a glance at his posterior as he departs.

He is indeed layer-free.

My Master has gone off to explore the Temple, leaving me, for the first time in many cycles, to my own devices. I've found a path leading from our building to the edge of the bluff, and a set of narrow wooden steps leads down to the beach from there.

I pause on the top step, lifting my face to the sun, smelling the salt from the sea on the warm breeze. I already feel more relaxed than I have in I don't know how long. With a happy sigh, I descend to the white sands of the beach, a journey that takes a good five minutes. Climbing back up will be arduous, but I'll worry about it later.

I can feel the heat from the sand seeping up through the woven soles of my sandals, and I shade my eyes from the midday sun, looking out over the expanse of curving coastline. The colorful temeki birds skim low over the waves in pairs, and more are circling one of the cliffs to my left--that must be a nesting area.

"You need a hat," a voice says near my right shoulder, and I turn to see a girl about my own age, white teeth startling against the brown skin of her face. Her eyes are the strange reddish-brown of the natives, but I don't actually notice her eyes for quite some time, as she is mostly naked.

"A hat?" I manage to say, pleased at how steady my voice sounds. Her hips are wrapped in orange silk, low-slung and knotted at one side, revealing one leg almost in its entirety, and barely managing to cover her nether regions. I suddenly realize the purpose behind the mysterious rectangles of cloth my Master and I have been given. A quick glance around reveals almost everyone on the beach wearing the cloths, young and old, humanoid and non. A pleasantly disturbing vision of my Master wearing his fuchsia wrap flits through my mind, and I force my attention back to the charming young lady before me. "You don't have a hat," I say, cleverly.

"No need," she says, grinning. "Only pale Jedi need hats." She points at my lightsabre. "You Jedi, yes?"

"Yes, I--I'm new here."

"Get a hat," she declares, folding her arms across her generous breasts. "Otherwise you burn like quadda wood. You got a name, pale Jedi?"

"Obi-Wan," I reply, resisting the ridiculous urge to bow.

"Ob'wan?"

"Close enough."

"I'm Dimika." She grabs my wrist and tugs, leading me down the beach. "You need to meet my Uncle Zephra."

Uncle Zephra, it turns out, sells hats.

This Temple has many charming features, including the massive library and archive we are here to help convert, and the dining hall served an excellent main course this evening, some sort of pastry stuffed with a well-seasoned mixture of the local crustaceans.

Obi-Wan missed it.

I haven't seen my Padawan since midday, when I let him wander where he pleased, which was obviously well away from me. I can't sense any fear or distress along our bond, so I'm certain he's all right. But the sun has been down for several hours now, and there's no sign of him.

Well. He is a grown man now, technically. If he wants to spend the night away from his mean old Master, he has every right. As we have no formal duties for another two days, if he wants to stay out that entire time, it's no concern of mine.

I turn my attention back to the physics text I've been reading ever since my return from latemeal. During one of our short stays at the Coruscant Temple this past year, Mace caught a logic flaw in one of our "discussions" on the subject. I'm determined not to let that happen again, Mace being the insufferable pri--

The door slides open and I keep my gaze firmly locked on the meaningless lines of text.

"Good evening, Master. Gods, why do you have all the lights on? It's hotter than the inside of a taun-taun in here." Obi-Wan continues grumbling to himself as he goes around switching off the lights.

"Well, Padawan," I say, carefully closing the text, "I was attempting to read. The ability to read in the dark is something I have yet to master, despite all . . . my . . . ." My voice trails off as I take a good look at my Padawan. "Obi-Wan, what is that thing on your head?"

A big happy grin spreads across his face, and I almost return it before remembering that I am somewhat miffed with him.

"I believe it's called a 'hat,' Master." The hat is large, woven from a natural fiber, with a flat crown and a wide brim adorned with tiny flowers. On anyone else it would look ridiculous, but Obi-Wan manages to wear it with the same panache he brings to the floppy Pergaran tunics and trousers.

"I know what it's called, Obi-Wan. Why do you have it? Is this another part of the uniform I wasn't told about?"

"No." He takes off the hat and fans himself with it. "One of the natives sold it to me--helps keep the sun out of my eyes." With a flick of his wrist, he spins the hat across the room to land neatly on one of the hooks by the door. "You must be roasting, Master--why don't you sit by the window?"

"There's no light."

"There's moonlight," he points out.

"Hardly adequate to read by," I mutter, but I rise from my chair and settle myself on the deep sill. Pergara has two moons, neither of them full at the moment, but their light shines prettily on the water below. A gentle breeze wafts in, cooling the parts of me dampened with sweat, which is most of them.

"You'd stay cooler if you pulled your hair back," Obi-Wan remarks, moving to stand by my side.

"It is pulled back."

"All of it, not just the top part. Here, let me get your brush--I'll braid it for you."

I start to protest, then subside. It's been quite some time since my Padawan has wanted to fuss over me. I might as well enjoy it while I can.

He returns with the brush and loosens my hair tie, dropping it into my upturned palm. This is one of our oldest rituals, and we both know the steps intricately.

"Lean your head back," he instructs, but I've already done so, anticipating the pull of the bristles along my scalp. His hand gathers the damp hair at the base of my skull, lifting it as the brush tugs gently through the strands. The sensation is soothing, relaxing, and I already feel a bit cooler.

As Obi-Wan works, I become aware of a persistent clicking sound to my right. "What is that noise?"

"Hmm? Oh--it's these." He leans over my shoulder, flipping his padawan braid into view. Small white seashells have been woven into it, finished off with another cluster of dangling shells which knock together as he moves, producing the clicking noise. I hold the braid for a moment, running my thumb over the shiny surfaces of the shells. Obi-Wan is still leaned close, smelling faintly of woodsmoke, and I wonder where he has been all day, who he has met, what he has done.

I won't ask, though, and release his braid. His downtime away from me is just that--his. If he wishes to volunteer the information, I will gladly listen.

He doesn't, and all too soon is finished with my braid.

"Much better," I declare, rising from the sill. "Thank you, Padawan."

"Of course, Master."

"I think I might be able to sleep now. Good night, Obi-Wan."

I enter my bedroom without waiting for a reply.

My Master invited me to meditate with him this morning, and I tried, I really did. Not only could I not find my center, I couldn't even keep my eyes closed. I kept staring at his arms.

I've seen the man naked plenty of times. But I've never seen him partially revealed like this before. For some reason, having just those muscular arms bared is somehow . . . erotic.

Ugh. What is wrong with me? This is my Master. I've never once entertained lascivious thoughts about him, never imagined how it would feel to have those arms around me for purposes other than training, holding me close, pressing m--

"Obi-Wan, will you--"

My Master's voice startles me before cutting off abruptly, and I turn from the coldbox, nearly dropping the kinifruit I've just retrieved from it. He stands in the doorway of the small kitchen, staring at me with an unfathomable expression. Oh, gods--I wasn't sending anything through the bond, was I? "Yes, Master?"

His eyes jerk upwards to meet mine, and my face grows warm as I realize where his gaze has just been focused.

"What--" He clears his throat, waving a hand in the general direction of my hips. "What is this?"

I look down in momentary confusion, then relief floods through me as I realize his discomfiture is not due to anything I might be projecting, or, gods forbid, exhibiting. "Oh, I forgot to tell you--I found out yesterday what the mysterious cloths are for. They're sunbathing costumes. The natives call them 'apaki'."

"I see," he says faintly. "Well, they're very . . . um . . . yes." He walks into the kitchen, carefully looking at a spot just over my left shoulder. "I take it your day is already planned, then?"

"The morning, at least." I sit down at the table and sink my teeth into the kinifruit. With a sense of disbelief, I hear myself say, "Why don't you come with me to the beach? It's beautiful, and the sun isn't too strong this time of day. I can show you how to tie your apaki." Have I lost my mind? Two minutes ago, I was mooning over the man's bare arms, and now I'm inviting him to wear nothing but a thin piece of silk around his dainty bits? I must be insane.

He's not saying anything. My back is to him, and I don't dare turn around. Oh, Force--what if he thinks I'm coming on to him? "You can bring something to read if you don't feel like swimming." What am I doing?! Shut up, Kenobi!

"Very well," he says at last, and I hear the sound of the coldbox door opening. "After firstmeal, you can teach me about the apaki."

I almost choke on my kinifruit, but manage to force it down the correct path. He sits at the table, a small smile on his face. "And perhaps you can introduce me to your hat dealer."

I smile back weakly, wondering what I've got myself into.

I must be out of my mind. I've agreed to accompany Obi-Wan to the beach, and he is currently standing behind me with his arms around my waist, showing me the proper way to wear and tie my apaki. The silky material feels cool against my buttocks and genitals, but the fingers brushing the skin of my hipbone are warm, almost too warm.

I cast my mind back, trying to remember the last time I had sex with anyone, and I can't. It must have been a long time indeed, if such casual contact--from my Padawan of all people--can set me off like this.

It's not just his fingers, no. It's the heat radiating from his chest that I can feel on my back, his skin close but not quite touching, the soft, hot puffs of breath against my shoulder as he ties the ends of the apaki.

It's taking every iota of concentration I possess not to become helplessly aroused at these small touches.

I can't. He's my Padawan.

What have I got myself into?

My Master's skin is pale, but not like mine. Mine is all freckled and blotchy, while his is more like Agarvan marble. Smooth and sculpted. And if I don't stop staring at it and watch where I'm going, I'll trip and tumble us both all the way down these steps.

"Pale Jedi!" Dimika calls from the bottom, waving in an energetic way that does interesting things to her bare torso. "You bring pale friend today, eh?"

My Master shoots me an inscrutable glance over his shoulder, but says nothing.

By the time we reach the sands, Dimika is practically drooling. "Master, this is Dimika--we met yesterday."

He bows politely, still retaining his dignity despite the flaming fuchsia apaki.

"You Bigmaster Jedi," Dimika says approvingly, looking him up and down. "But you need Uncle Zephra, too."

My Master cocks an eyebrow at me. "The hat dealer," I murmur, and he nods, lips twitching. "Dimika, why don't you take him to Zephra, and I'll find us a good spot?" Before he can protest, I've relieved him of the book he's carrying, and Dimika is dragging him down the beach.

It's early enough that I find a good place, about halfway between bluff and water, under one of the thatched shades placed at strategic locations along the shoreline. I spread out our towels and place my Master's book atop his, wondering how he can stand to read physics, of all things, in a place like this.

I kick off my sandals and dig my toes into the shade-cooled sand, wondering how my Master and Zephra are getting along. Dimika's pudgy uncle is of the belief that every hat is made for one person only, and each of his creations sits patiently, waiting for the right owner to come along. "Hat reflect spirit," I believe was his exact phrase. I'm not precisely certain how he came to the conclusion that my spirit reflected flowers and a floppy brim, but it's a good line for the tourists, I expect.

Dimika introduced me to her entire family yesterday, including her mother--a dead ringer for Zephra--two older brothers, three younger sisters and about four hundred or so cousins of varying ages and shapes. The lot of them live in a sprawling, ramshackle collection of cottages on the other side of the bluff from the Temple. They all seemed delighted to meet me, and spent most of the day petting and fussing over the "pale Jedi" Dimika had brought home. Zephra appears to be the only one with any sort of an occupation--if he supports them all, he must sell quite a few hats.

With Dimika as a shill, it's easy enough to see why.

She's very pretty, and funny, and smart. If I were a normal human being, I'd be doing everything I could to get her out of that apaki and into a secluded cove somewhere. But, as I discovered shortly after my twentieth naming day, I am anything but normal.

They're coming back now--that was fast work on Zephra's part. I squint down the beach at my Master's tall figure. He's wearing a simple, almost elegant woven creation on his head, with a narrower brim than mine, and from what I can see, no flowers. As I watch, he leans over to hear Dimika, who is at least a head shorter than I am. Whatever she's saying must be hilarious, for my Master's teeth flash white in the sun as he laughs. Dimika laughs with him, slipping her hand through his arm.

I feel a small sting of jealousy, followed by confusion.

Which one am I jealous of?

I really shouldn't laugh at my Padawan's expense, but Dimika has just informed me that her family thinks she is marrying Obi-Wan. Evidently, they treated him royally yesterday, winding up the day's festivities with a huge feast and bonfire on the beach, which explains the woodsmoke he smelled of last night. She has asked that I keep the information between us, and she is such a delightful young lady, I am hard-pressed to refuse.

Her uncle is equally delightful, the old rogue, and I managed to talk him into a reasonably non-outlandish hat, despite his insistence that it wasn't the one meant for me. He must have given Obi-Wan quite the spiel for my Padawan to purchase the flowered creation that sits atop his head.

He's found us an excellent location, nicely shaded, with a good view of the entire cove. I open my mouth to tell him so, and Dimika grabs his arm and pulls him toward the water. He pauses long enough to remove his hat and fling it onto his towel, and then they are both running headlong for the surf, startling into flight a small flock of temekis roaming the sand.

Was I ever that young?

I watch them dive into the gently rolling waves, Obi-Wan's body a smooth blade cutting through the water. I feel somewhat useless, suddenly, like an unwanted chaperone. Ah, well.

I pick up my book and settle myself on the towel. The day is fine, the breeze steady. Live in the moment, as they say.

I'm floating on my back in waist-high water when I notice Dimika looking at me oddly. "What?"

"You like girls, Ob'wan?"

I raise myself upright, my feet touching the sandy bottom. "Of course I like girls. Why do you ask?"

She considers this for a moment. "You like boys too, though, eh?"

"Some," I admit, not sure where she's going with this, and equally unsure I want to know.

"Some like Bigmaster Jedi, yes?"

I gawp at her, but before I can think of a single word to say, she continues her barrage.

"You ever sleep with a girl?"

"I--well, no . . . but--"

"With boy?"

"Dimika! That's hardly any of yo--"

She squeals in horror, clapping a hand to her mouth. "Ob'wan! You never sleep with anyone!"

My face is getting hot, and not from the sun. "It's none of your business," I say stiffly, turning my back to her. Something is nibbling determinedly at the hem of my apaki, and I reach down through the water to swat it away.

Dimika lays a hand on my shoulder. "Poor Ob'wan," she murmurs. "You love Bigmaster Jedi."

What? Is she kidding? "Of course I love him," I say indignantly. "He's my mentor, my friend, he . . . ." She's looking at me with overwhelming sympathy, and my thoughts shift back to the day I came of age.

Master had given me a rock, as usual, and accompanying it was a talk on my new status as a sexually mature adult, and all the attendant responsibilities. I only half-listened to him, eager as I was to go clubbing with Garen and try out my new legality. I hooked up with another eager Padawan who'd just come of age, a girl named Parwin, whom I'd seen only occasionally in some class or other. She was stunning, tall and lush, with brilliant red hair and blue eyes, and after we'd danced for a couple of hours, we retired to a private room to celebrate our new status together.

It was a fiasco. No matter what we tried, I remained completely unaroused. If Parwin was insulted, she hid it well, and we parted amiably enough.

I talked it over with Bant, who's not even close to squeamish when it comes to such frank discussions, and she suggested I try it with a male next time. So I went to the same club, spotted a gorgeous civilian on the dance floor and wrangled a dance with him. His name was Meshan, he was a Senate page, tall and blonde and graceful and beautiful.

And utterly incapable of arousing anything in me other than aesthetic appreciation. He didn't take it quite as well as Parwin, unfortunately. He suggested that if I wasn't grown up enough yet to know what I wanted, then perhaps I should just stay home and stop wasting other people's time.

He had a point.

I made another couple of half-hearted forays to the various sub-level clubs, but no matter who I danced with or groped in the back corner, it wasn't enough. I knew there was no physiological cause--I had no difficulties achieving an erection when I was alone. So the problem must have been psychological, and I went so far as to set up an appointment with Healer Fetra, but then my Master and I were called away on a mission, and we simply didn't stop for another ten cycles. Staying alive occupied most of my attention, and my inability to couple with anyone faded in importance.

And now Dimika was suggesting that I was in love with my Master. Ludicrous. Oh, there's no denying the man's physically attractive--the sight of him in his apaki was enough to make me long for my concealing Coruscant robes for a moment or two. And I do love him. For eight years now, he's been the constant around which my universe has revolved--guiding, teaching, correcting, molding. But . . . in love with him?

I think back to all the times I've seen him at his worst. Stumbling drunk through our quarters after a long night out with Master Windu. Covered with orpi droppings after a tumble into their pit on Delo--he'd been trying to see the baby birds up close. Embarassing the Sith out of me when he'd insisted on accompanying me to the first Junior Padawans' Social, when none of the other Masters did. Sitting on the balcony, morose, short-tempered, and uncommunicative on every anniversary of the day Xanatos turned.

I realize with something akin to horror that my eyes aren't burning because of the salt water. Oh, Force. It's true. "Dimika," I whisper, suddenly more afraid than I ever was when people were shooting at us on Selion-12. "What am I going to do?"

I sense a flash of fear along the bond, and I set the book aside, standing up to peer out over the waves. I spot two familiar, sleek, wet heads, and neither appears in any imminent danger. I send out a gentle, questioning probe, but if anything, Obi-Wan's shields are even more impenetrable than in recent cycles.

Sighing, I sit back down and pick up the text, but I can no longer concentrate on the words. Something is wrong with my Padawan, the same something that's been wrong. I've let it go for far too long now, and I no longer have an arduous mission as an excuse for putting off talking about it.

He's obviously infatuated with Dimika, and I hope he hasn't planned to spend the rest of the day with her--we need to resolve this as soon as possible.

I think back over the past year, trying to pinpoint exactly when his behavior changed. Outwardly, I realize, there haven't been too many drastic changes. Obi-Wan is the model of probity and solemnity when the occasion demands it, as it does all too frequently. But in quarters, or whenever we're alone, he has a wicked wit, a playful, adventurous spirit. I've never known anyone who shines more brightly in the Force, and he has achieved a balance within it, between Living and Unifying, that most Knights twice his age would envy.

So why do I sense that he's unhappy? Even a little bit . . . sad.

I am distracted from my musings by the sight of him emerging from the surf, shimmering gold in the sun. It's almost as if someone has bored two holes in the back of his head, so perfectly do his eyes match the color of the ocean. He moves with an insolent, easy grace that years of training can only partly account for.

He gives me a distracted smile, then flops down onto his towel, stretching out on his stomach. "The water's wonderful, Master--you should swim."

"Perhaps I will, later," I murmur, turning a page in my book, as if it were the most fascinating sight on Pergara, and not my wet, gleaming Padawan. "What have you done with Dimika?"

"She had some things to do."

His voice sounds a tiny bit strained, and I wonder if they have argued over something. I risk a glance at him, but his face is turned away, head resting on his folded arms. Before I can stop myself, my gaze travels down the length of his body. Tiny droplets of water cling to his skin, which is pale, but not a sickly pale like mine. His has a golden sheen to it, emphasized by the red-gold hairs on his arms and legs. Lithely muscled shoulders and back, a graceful sweep of spine leading to the swelling curve of his buttocks, sharply defined by the wet apaki molded to his skin--

I manage to hold back a groan as my body responds this visual inventory. Cursing silently in several different languages, I raise one knee, attempting to block his view of my arousal, should he turn this way. A strategic shifting of my book's placement, a few moments meditation, and the arousal dissipates.

But not the feelings which caused it in the first place. Force help me, I think I'm in love with my Padawan.

I pick at the fish on my plate, knowing I won't be able to eat any of it, but trying to put on a good show. Dimika invited us to the beach again tonight, saying her family wanted to host both of us, but knowing her propensity for blurting things out, I don't dare have her spend any more time with my Master.

I've been thinking about him all day, wondering how I got myself into this mess. I didn't mean to fall in love with him--wasn't even aware that I had until Dimika pointed it out. I wish Bant were here. She can cure my dithers faster than anyone, even my Master.

My Master. How could I have never noticed him like this before? He's always been this big, solid presence in my life, a comforting, reassuring presence. I've never really looked at him as just another man.

I study him as surreptitiously as possible while he eats. He's not actually that handsome. Big, lumpy head. His lips are as crooked as his broken nose. His hands seem too large, even on a body as big as his. His eyes are too small. But they're bluer than the glow from my lightsabre, and when he smiles at me, they crinkle up at the corners just so . . . .

"Master Jinn! Padawan Kenobi!" The enthusiastic greeting is courtesy of Knight Canshi, who has stopped at our table. From the evidence on his head, yet another victim of Zephra's sales pitch. "I'm glad I ran into you--we've worked out the bugs in the new tech, so if you're available to start in the archives tomorrow . . . ?"

"Of course," my Master replies, turning that smile on Canshi.

Canshi beams. "Wonderful! I'll meet you in the library tomorrow morning then, right after firstmeal." He wanders off, temeki feathers bobbing on his hat.

"Will that suit you, Padawan?"

"Yes, Master." I'm happy to be starting work tomorrow--anything to distract me from my problem.

Because it is a problem. I may love my Master with all my heart, but I know there's no way in all the hells he could ever be in love with me.

He clears his throat, and my heart speeds up at the look of intense concentration on his face. I've seen that look before, and unless he's in the midst of a kata or a battle, it never signifies anything good. "Obi-Wan, when we've finished our meal, there are some things we need to discuss. You've seem troubled lately, and I think it might be affecting our bond."

Shit! Of all the nights to work on our bond, he has to pick this one? There's no way I can let my shields down, not right now. "Oh, erm, well . . . I promised Dimika I'd help her family out tonight," I stammer, though I've done no such thing.

His brows come together, and my heart sinks. "Help them out with what?"

Think fast, Kenobi. "One of their porches collapsed yesterday, and they need me to help repair it." That is beyond lame.

It's evidently good enough. His face clears, and he sits back in his chair. "Just don't stay out too late tonight--we'll be getting an early start tomorrow morning."

"Yes, Master." I grab the plate full of uneaten food, take it to the washing station, then flee the dining hall, wondering where I can go to kill the next few hours.

I'm more relieved than I should be that Obi-Wan has prior commitments this evening. It is my duty as his Master to resolve our bond issue, but I need more time to work on my own shielding.

I don't dare let him know how I feel.

I wish Mace were here. He would no doubt find the situation highly amusing, but it would help to have someone to talk to about it, someone who knows us both. In all probability, Mace would tell me to slake my desire with some beautiful stranger, and leave my Padawan alone.

But it's not just desire. If that were the case, then I would have had far more problems with Xanatos than I did. He was an incredibly handsome young man, far more so than Obi-Wan. No, it's not just desire. It's Obi-Wan.

Even when he tries my patience to its absolute limit, I cannot help but love him, far more than I've ever loved anyone, even my old Master. I'm actually rather surprised I haven't noticed his physical beauty before now.

Or have I?

Several more curses echo through my mind, most of them Huttese this time. Is it possible that I've been unconsciously projecting my desire through the bond? Could that be why he's withdrawn from me, why he's seemed so troubled this past year? If that's the case, I cannot blame him. Why would he want his cranky old Master, when with the lift of one of those perfectly shaped ginger eyebrows, he could have a plethora of nubile young things falling at his feet?

Gods. That must be it. No wonder he's been avoiding me. I don't for a minute buy his collapsed porch excuse. He's probably with Dimika now, showing her how pale Jedi use their lightsabres.

Jealous, stupid old man. I must meditate.

It's hot in the library, which doesn't help my concentration any. If I think it's too warm, my poor Master must be about to spontaneously combust.

Thankfully, he was still meditating when I came in last night, which allowed me to escape to my room unmolested. I tossed and turned all night, trying to come up with a way to either hide my feelings from my Master, which isn't really feasible, or put a dismissive spin on them. I'll grow out of it, I can say, although I know I won't.

"How's your Bothan, Padawan?"

I blink up at my Master, who's holding a pile of ancient tomes. "How's my what?"

"Your Bothan," he says in that overly patient tone which means he's about to snap. "Can you translate these or do you need me to?"

"I can do it, Master," I say softly. I don't need to give him another reason to jump all over me. I've been so distant with him, almost as distant as he's been with m--

No.

Oh, no.

Is that it? Is that the reason he's been closed off to me for so long? Have I been unconsciously projecting my feelings along the bond all this time? Oh, Sith, no wonder. If I had a desperate, pathetically-in-love-with-me Padawan in my head all the time, I'd be short-tempered, too.

I stare miserably at the datapad in front of me, my eyes swimming with tears, more confused than ever.

The misery radiating from my Padawan is enough to drive me to distraction. I want so badly to comfort him--a hand on his shoulder, a ruffle through his hair. But I don't dare, for two reasons. One, if he's upset because he senses my feelings for him, that would only make things worse. Two . . . once I touch him, I might not be able to stop.

I frown at the screen of the main archiving system, trying to concentrate on what I'm doing. It's not quite as beastly hot in here now that the sun has set, but it's still nowhere near cool enough. Even our quarters are cooler than this. Knight Canshi and the two Senior Padawans assisting him gave up just before latemeal, saying they'd be back tomorrow for another round.

I should give up as well, but the instant we leave the library, we'll have to talk to each other. I did ask Obi-Wan if he wanted to stop and eat, but he declined, saying he wasn't hungry. I wish I knew if his loss of appetite was because of the heat or because of me.

To keep the temperature down as much as possible, we've cut off all the lights save two--one lamp for me, one for him. I look up from my screen at him, sitting in the glow of his lamp with that ferocious frown on his sweat-sheened face, plowing doggedly through a pile of Geonosian literature. As I watch, a tiny drop of sweat rolls down his forehead, only to be caught in the net of his eyebrow.

I wish it had been caught by my tongue instead.

With a soft oath, I rise from my chair, berating myself silently for my lack of self-discipline.

"Everything all right, Master?" He looks half-worried, half-fearful, which just makes me even more furious with myself.

"Fine," I bark, and flee to the relative coolness of the stacks. I pace the length of one aisle, slowly reining in my temper. It's not his fault I'm a pathetic, dirty old man, and I shouldn't take it out on him.

I rest my head against one of the shelves. This has to stop. Now. It's not fair to either of us. If I can't control my feelings, then I'm not a fit Master for Obi-Wan. He deserves a better guide on the path to Knighthood. I can almost hear my heart breaking at the thought of losing him as my Padawan. He will be a great Jedi Knight, with or without me, but I can't bear the thought of turning him over to another Master, one who won't appreciate his special gifts.

Enough. I've made my decision. Better a clean break now than a slow, torturous wrenching. I take two deep, cleansing breaths, and walk to the end of the stacks.

Obi-Wan comes around the corner as I reach it, frowning at his datapad. "Master, I--" He stops just before crashing into me, looking up in surprise.

All my resolve melts away at the sight of his parted lips, his flushed skin. Before another thought enters my head, I lean forward, capturing his mouth with my own.

The datapad clatters to the floor, and his arms twine around my neck, pulling me closer, lithe body arching up against me. I'll be astonished at this later--I'm busy right now.

I plunder his soft, sweet mouth, unable to hold back a groan as his tongue meets mine, thrusting eagerly. My hands slide down his back, tangling in the sweat-dampened tunic--his hands are tangled in my hair, freeing it from its braid.

I'm not sure how much longer my legs will support me--never taking my lips from his, I half-push, half-drag him back to the long table we've been working at. Books and datapads tumble to the floor as I hoist him up onto the polished wood surface, and we're still kissing, still licking and tasting each other, and I never want to stop kissing him, but if the white spots before my eyes are any indication, I need to breathe, and I tear myself away with a groan, burying my face in the satiny skin between his neck and shoulder.

I dip my tongue into that precious hollow, and he tastes of sun and sweat and salt and sea, but mostly he tastes of Obi-Wan, my lovely Obi-Wan, and I will never get enough of his taste, his scent, his touch.

His hands find my buttocks, pressing me close, and oh, by all the gods that are, he's as hard as I am. I really am quite stupid, a vague corner of my mind declares, but I blot it out by kissing and nibbling my way up his throat until I find that beloved cleft in his chin, sliding my tongue into the valley, faint stubble rough against my lips. My hands, meanwhile, are busy pulling his tunic up, while his occupy their time with pushing my trousers down over my hips.

I press him back onto the table, and one of the lamps takes a fatal leap off the edge. His tunic is bunched beneath his chin, his eyes half-lidded with desire, his lips red and swollen--he looks utterly debauched, and if I were a sane man, I would feel guilty for leading him astray. At this moment, however, I am not, and proceed to the task at hand, which is fastening my mouth on one rosy nipple and sucking for all I'm worth.

He bucks up at this unaccustomed savagery from his Master, making the most gorgeous noise. His voice is lovely, even when he's inarticulate, smooth on top and rough underneath, like Teldaran honey on toast.

Inarticulate or no, my Obi-Wan is a man of action, and his hands are tugging at my tunic. With one final swipe of my tongue, I release his nipple long enough for him to pull my tunic off over my head, and then our sweat-covered torsos are gliding together, his hands skimming over my back, clutching my hips.

I'd like to explore that expanse of bare, glistening skin, but Obi-Wan is urging my head up, mouth opening to claim mine, and somehow his clever, busy hands have freed his erection, and our shafts slide together as his tongue flicks over mine. He moans into my mouth, his breath hot and sweet, and I almost lose control right then and there.

He hooks a leg over mine, his hands digging into the meat of my buttocks, arching his hips, driving our rigid cocks against each other, and though I want this to last forever, I don't know how much more I can take. Obi-Wan is writhing beneath me, producing soft, mewling noises deep in his throat, and he suddenly breaks our kiss, throwing his head back, his eyes wide and lambent in the glow of the remaining lamp.

He speaks one word, one little word that I've never heard from him before, and certainly never expected to hear like this, his voice low and rough with need.

"Qui-Gon."

Two paltry syllables, but it's enough to propel me over the edge, and I fall, crying out, taking him with me.

I can't stop shaking. Never, in all my fevered wonderings, did I imagine it would be like this.

Qui-Gon raises his head from my shoulder, and I lift a trembling hand to touch his sweaty face, his hair in lank clots and snarls around it. Did I say he wasn't handsome? I really can be quite stupid. He's beautiful.

The look on his face is one of dazed wonder, and I know it must be mirrored on my own. To think that my gorgeous, beloved Master would actually desire me, his insignificant twit of a Padawan . . . .

"We've made something of a mess," he says, his voice just barely above a whisper, his lips almost touching my own.

I tilt my chin until our lips are brushing together. "Of the library, or me?"

He grins, a wicked, roguish grin I've never seen before. "Both." With a swiftness I both admire and envy, he slides down to lick at my belly, covered with his semen and my own. Just as quickly, he's back up again, slipping his tongue between my lips, sharing the taste of us both, and I want him all over again.

"Can you walk?" he asks, once he's sufficiently ravaged my mouth.

"I think so. Someday."

He laughs, grasping my wrists and pulling me upright. "Now would be better."

My tunic slips back down and I lever myself off the table, managing to pull my trousers up--quite a feat with no bones left in my arms. I take a tentative step and stop, swaying, realizing my legs are similarly useless. "It's no good," I say, sagging back against the edge of the table. "I'm done for. Tell the others I died fighting."

"I will not." Gods bless my stubborn Master. Having tidied his own clothing, he steps in front of me, slipping his arms around my waist. He pulls me close, his mouth latching onto the side of my neck, sucking so hard I just know he'll leave a mark.

The thought of my Master marking me excites me beyond reason, and new energy floods my limbs. I throw my arms around him, pressing his head closer, and I feel his lips curve against the skin of my throat. With that same lightning speed, he spins me around, propelling me towards the door. "Walk, Padawan. Quickly."

"Where am I going?" I ask, hoping we can evade any other Jedi. I look presentable enough, I suppose, but I reek of sex--we both do.

"Quarters," he says as the door slides open. "Left."

A better idea occurs to me, and I turn, putting a hand on his broad chest. "No. Beach."

A slow smile spreads over his face, and my legs are in danger of going wobbly again. "Lead the way, then."

I do so with remarkable alacrity, considering my weakened physical state. By the time we reach the wooden steps, I feel refreshed by the cool evening breeze, and by the time we reach the sand, I feel like running, and I do so, laughing like an idiot.

Fortunately, the beach is mostly deserted at this time of night, so no one is nearby to wonder at the sight of two grown men pelting across the sand, flinging articles of clothing into the air as they go.

I shrug my trousers off as my Master is losing his sandals, and I wait for him at the waterline, wet sand melting away around my toes. One of the moons is high in the sky, the other just over the horizon--their light shines on his now-naked body, gleaming with a silvery sheen.

I wait until he's almost within arm's reach, then I turn and make a mad dash for the surf, knowing he'll catch me, hoping it will be sooner rather than later. I splash through the water until it's up to my knees, then make a leaping dive over the crest of a wave. The water is cooler at night, but still pleasantly warm, and I swim out until the waves are chest high before turning to gauge my Master's progress.

I don't see him anywhere, and am instantly alarmed. I scan the shoreline, which is dark, but how hard can it be to spot a naked, pale, Bigmaster Jedi in the moonlight?

That's when he pops up in front of me, grinning like a pirate.

I'm tempted to splash him, but I'd much rather kiss him, and I do so enjoy indulging my whims. He enfolds me in his arms and we nuzzle each other, rocking gently with the waves. I can't remember the last time I was this happy.

"My Obi-Wan," he says after a time, one large hand cradling the back of my head. "Do you feel it?"

"Feel what?" I ask, suddenly nervous that perhaps he's aroused again and I've missed my cue.

"The bond," he breathes, touching his lips to mine.

I close my eyes, seeking along our bond, then gasp as an overwhelming rush of love and desire floods me. He loves me. Oh, he loves me!

"Qui-Gon," I whisper, then drop the vestiges of my shields and send my own love pouring out along our new, stronger connection.

He makes a soft, surprised sound, then he's kissing me again, holding me tight, spinning us around and around in the water, and I throw back my head and shout with joy at the moons of Pergara.

The Jedi Temple of Coruscant, two tendays later . . . .

I'm not in the habit of playing delivery boy, but it's rare for Master Yoda to receive anything from offplanet, and I fear my curiosity has the better of me. "It's from the Pergara Temple," I explain, "so I assume it's from Qui-Gon. According to his latest report, they're almost finished with the archives."

"Much progress they have made. Pleased I am."

He makes no move to open the cratepak, and I'm just starting to wonder if I've wasted a trip to his quarters when he cackles, peering up at me.

"So eager to see my present, Master Windu?"

Ah, yes--this is why I never come up here. "I merely want to ensure it's nothing dangerous, Master Yoda."

He snorts, poking the access button with his gimer stick, and the pak opens. Nestled inside is a note in Qui-Gon's large, sprawling hand that reads, "Thank you, my Master." Underneath the note is a woven hat festooned with seashells--one of the ugliest creations I've ever seen in my life.

Yoda settles back with a small sigh, the tips of his ears lowering.

"Never will I understand humans."

The End :)