Summary: A mission affects Qui-Gon far more than it should, and
Obi-Wan must discover why.
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Disclaimer: The boys aren't mine. The story, and particularly
the character of Catri Jinn-Kenobi, are mine. However, the only
remuneration I'm receiving here is feedback. =) George owns
Star Wars and all things you recognize from any of the four
movies.
[Part One]
If I have to sit through one more day of listening to the same
arguments, from the same ambassadors, on the same tired topics,
I may very well go mad. I'm beginning to seriously wonder if my
presence is doing any good whatsoever.
Vaunted Jedi control be damned, Master Yoda himself would find
his patience lacking with this lot, and we've been here for
three weeks already. I've given up trying to get rid of the
headache that's been part of my world since sometime in the
middle of week number two.
And yes, I have been keeping that from you, and yes, you
know why.
Now, on my way back to the quarters we've been sharing, I want
nothing more than to curl up with you and pretend these
negotiations don't exist. But I can't do that for the same
reason I haven't told you about this headache.
And have I mentioned that three weeks without making love with
you has driven me nearly insane?
At the moment, I'm hard pressed to remember just why we have
this rule about physical intimacy during missions. There's a
small part of my brain, trying desperately to gain majority
over the rest, screaming that some great, mind-blowing sex with
you would make everything right in my world.
I'm so wrapped up in the day I've had that I nearly walk right
past our door. I stumble to a stop with a sigh, and reach out
to key open the lock. Before I can even touch the keypad, the
door slides open, and you're standing there, a look of intense
concern on your face.
"Master?"
I must have been less successful at shielding than I thought.
Damn.
"I'm all right, Padawan. It's just been another very long day."
I move to step past you into the main room of our suite, and
you stand aside to allow me in, keeping just a step behind me.
Your hands come up to my shoulders and you pull my cloak free
as we walk. Even that slight weight off my shoulders makes me
sigh.
You step across the room to hang my cloak next to yours. Mine
falls several inches longer, and for some reason that thought
makes me smile. Then you indicate the tray still sitting on the
table.
"Do you want supper, Master? There's plenty left."
"No, thank you. I'm not hungry." In truth, even the thought of
food, combined with this headache, turns my stomach.
"Did you eat lunch?"
You're not going to give up easily, are you? "No, I didn't eat
lunch. Lunch was forgotten in the middle of yet another round
of pointless bickering." As I said, vaunted Jedi control be
damned.
"Master, you can't keep skipping meals. It's not healthy, and
you're already exhausted. You really should try to eat some of
th-"
"Obi-Wan, I'm not hungry!" My temper is already frayed,
and that comes out quite a bit sharper than I intended.
Your look of concern deepens, and I can feel your inquisitive
mental touch. I've know I've been shutting you out, and I know
you definitely don't like it. It's the only way I've
been able to keep my level of stress hidden from you.
Now, though, my control isn't at its best, not after three
weeks of this. Instead of bouncing off my shields, you gently
make your way in, and I see your eyes go wide when you sense
what I've been going through.
As I slump down onto the couch and tip my head back, you move
to kneel in front of me and begin working loose the buckles and
straps of my boots.
//Why did you keep all of this hidden?// you chide, your mental
voice an instant balm to my jangled nerves.
I can't help but chuckle softly at that. //You know why,
Obi-love. One: there's nothing you can do about it, and Two:
what would help has to wait until after the mission is
complete.//
I hear your half-amused snort as you pull the first boot free,
then you drop cross-legged and pull my foot into your lap.
//That's your rule, not mine, Qui-Gon,// you remind me,
as you begin to massage the sole of my foot. //And that's not
the only thing I can do to help. You're wound tighter
than a Chirolean clock.//
I nearly lose the thread of what you're saying as your hands
work their magick, and I'm once again intensely thankful for
the massage techniques you learned from Master Kirin. How a
six-limbed massage therapist can teach his craft to a two-armed
human, I don't know, but gods am I thankful.
"I'm sorry, love," I mumble, switching back to normal speech.
"You know as well as I do why we have this rule. The mission
must come first."
I have half a second to ponder the wry humor of that statement
before you answer me.
"And you're trying to tell me that, in this condition, you're
at your best for this mission?"
You've got a point.
A very good point.
"For now, what you need is a thorough massage," you announce,
pulling off my remaining boot and tossing it beside the other.
Oh, that sounds heavenly.
"Master?" Your voice sounds amused.
"Hmm?"
"I can't give you a massage while you're sitting on the couch,
you know."
Oh. Of course.
That means I have to move.
Damn.
By the time you've managed to talk me out of my clothes, my
headache has grown to epic proportions, and I can actually feel
my pulse in my temples. You keep sending worried looks my way,
and I try harder to tuck the headache back behind my shields,
but I don't think it's working.
I blink, and suddenly I'm laying down, the rough cotton of a
pillowcase against my cheek. I don't remember getting here.
"It was a matter of laying down before you fell down, Master,"
I hear you say, and your hand is gentle on my shoulder. "Stay
here for a moment, and I'll be right back."
I make a small affirmative sound, and feel your quick mental
caress before you move away. You're back almost immediately,
and I can smell whatever you've brought back with you.
"Massage oil," you tell me, catching my silent inquiry. It
smells fabulous, a mix of mint, a woodsy scent, and something
sharper, more pungent, like menthol. Even the scent is
soothing.
"Relax, Master, and let me take care of you," you instruct.
Relax. I think I've forgotten how, though I make a conscious
effort at it.
And I'm somewhat amazed to find it working. Then I realize that
you're helping. Ah, have I told you lately how much I adore
you, my Obi-Wan? You do take care of me, more than I
care to admit.
Your hands are warm against my shoulders, slick with that
marvelous scented oil, and your touch is just firm enough to
hurt as you begin to work loose the knots. Or try to, at least.
There's no guarantee these knots can be worked loose.
Even as that thought flits across my mind, I can tell that the
massage is already helping. As you work at the back of my neck
and up under my hair, the red pulsebeat behind my closed
eyelids fades away, taking some of the headache with it.
//Better?// you send, and I'm somewhat surprised to realize
that you've gotten me to lower my shields to you almost
completely. Another side effect of our unique bond.
//Better,// I return. //Thank you.//
//You're welcome. Now relax and go to sleep. You'll feel better
when you wake.//
There's a gentle Force compulsion behind your words, and I
barely have time to send a token resistance before reality
fades...
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