Archive: master_apprentice, World O' Pretty Boys, anyone else,
pls. ask
Author's web page: http://www.ravenswing.com/ravendreams/
Category: Angst, POV
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Q/O
Spoilers: none
Summary: It is a Padawan's duty to care for his Master.
Notes: A sincere thanks to my beta readers: Kaly - thanks for
reminding me that Jedi probably wouldn't use any Texas
colloquialisms. ;) Mystique - Your suggestions gave this fic
direction. Thank you. All mistakes are mine
Feedback: Waited for with bated breath.
Disclaimers: Lucas owns it all. I don't have enough money to
pay attention.
Warnings: Set during TPM, that scene that didn't happen,
happened.
I cannot remember how many times we've been together, filthy
and tired after a mission. Dozens? Hundreds? How many spare
rooms have we sat in, how many palace bedrooms? How many
medical bays?
How many times have I bundled you into a bath, forced tea down
a scratchy throat? How many missions have I diverted
politicians, Council Members, friends away from your door, so
you could rest? How many duties have I performed simply out of
respect for your station?
It is a Padawan's duty to care for his Master.
A young girl enters, carrying a large pitcher. She works
quietly, quickly and then bobs her head in respect without a
word, leaving the two of us alone. The water is warm, gently
scented by a few drops of oil and a handful of white flower
petals. The late afternoon sun pours in, highlighting you, your
skin, your hair. The light travels along the stiff new sheet
that covers your body before it kisses your lips, your cheeks,
your eyelids, bringing warmth.
Slowly I remove my outer tunics, baring my forearms before
dipping a soft cloth into the basin and slowly wringing it out.
I start with your face, slowly tracing laugh lines, wiping away
tracks of salt and dust. The crease in your forehead has been
weathered in by years of dissatisfaction. Nothing has ever been
enough for you, not yourself, not me, not the Jedi, not even
the Force. With care, I stretch the skin of your forehead taut,
erasing the line and stroke the area clean.
Your ears, your neck, I wipe them gently as you lie there
silently. How many times have I brushed that soft indention
behind your ear with my lips, tasting you, letting you fill my
senses? I bend, stroking back your hair with my fingers and
press my lips to the spot that I will always think of as mine.
I dip the cloth again, warming it, before sliding the sheet to
your waist. I quickly clean your torso, closing my eyes,
allowing my hands to travel over territory they know
instinctually. Here is a small crescent of a scar gained in a
knife fight. Here a small raised reminder of a block I missed.
The story of a man, told in pale marks upon your flesh.
I dry your torso quickly and replace the sheet. The room will
feel chilly after the warmth of the water. It must be, for my
hands are cold.
You have long feet, and they look dirty and tired, so I clean
them thoroughly, separating each toe, wiping the instep, before
I move up your legs. I don't think I will ever cease to be
impressed by the length of your legs. I can remember being a
boy, looking up at you and thinking that the air must taste
differently up so high.
Of course, when I grew I discovered that the air was different
because you were the one breathing it. Besides, you aren't that
much taller than me when we are sitting, or when we are lying
next to one another, loving each other.
Another dip of the cloth and I slide the sheet off of your left
arm. This arm is the arm that wraps around me in sleep, drawing
me close to your side, one knee cradled in the hollow of your
hip. This hand holds me, lifts me closer as you love me. This
is the hand that steadies your 'saber. I remember once I called
it the slow hand and you laughed and shook your head and
lectured, "No, Obi-Wan, not the slow hand, the foundation
hand." I trace the calluses from decades of wielding your
'saber.
Decades.
Your right hand. The hand that has grasped endless cups of hot
tea. The hand that can break as easily as it heals. The hand
that has covered mine, teaching me to do any one of a thousand
tasks. You have soothed pains, molded muscles, corrected,
directed. This hand has loved me for years.
The nail on your index finger is badly broken and, without
thought, I clip it back so it will not catch and tear on your
clothing.
It is a Padawan's duty to care for his Master.
One last dip into the cooling water and then I move the sheet
again. It's funny, I have kissed every part of your body,
traced you with my tongue, but there is something painfully
intimate about washing your groin, gently cleaning your soft
sacs and then lifting them to clean the cleft of your buttocks.
Covering you firmly, I drop the cloth into the water. I find my
comb and move you so that your hair drapes over the edge of the
table. So soft, Qui-Gon, a silken vanity for such an ascetic
man. I brush, working out the tangles as I have done in so many
rooms, after so many missions. I have seen you, privately
looking into mirrors, sighing at the silver strands as they
became more and more plentiful, stroking the bare temples.
Do you know how that made me feel? That glimpse of humanity
that superceded Jedi training? Have I ever felt so close to
you?
Your hair is shining now, catching the reds and oranges from
the last of the day's light. I stand and gather your clothes. I
slide your legs into your dark leggings, settling them around
your waist with a little help from the Force. Then your tunics,
covering the gaping wound that looks so foreign, so undeniably
wrong. Slide on stockings and fasten the buckles on your newly
polished boots.
You are almost perfect, Master. Almost.
Once again, I brush out your hair, trailing my fingers through
its weight. I have something for you Qui-Gon, something that is
yours. Something that I wanted you to take, but that I instead
willingly give to you.
My braid attaches easily into your long strands. Funny, it
almost disappears into the darkness. Did it do that a day ago
when I bent over your sleeping form for a kiss? I cannot seem
to remember. Maybe it's just the failing light. Maybe it's that
my eyes are tired.
Maybe it's that my soul is tired.
I gather up the sheet, the tub of water and move them to the
side. Gather the boot polish and the comb. I wipe up the tiny
droplets from the floor. Straighten the edge of your tunic. The
room is clean. You are clean.
Night is falling.
They will be here for you soon.
I can hear them in the distance, boot heels clicking on tile,
the slow tap of a cane, the swish of a cloak. I put on my
cloak, pull up my hood and lift my chin. I am Jedi, as was my
master before me. Looking into the gilded mirror, I am proud to
see my hands do not shake, my eyes are dry. A small line rests
between my brows, a crease that cries for you as I cannot.
I cannot help but wonder, Qui-Gon, if you didn't hold something
back from me. Perhaps your discontent, your distance, was not a
result of years of training.
Perhaps it started as a pain that mere tears could not erase.
One more moment, one last time, I stroke the crease above your
eyebrows. One more kiss to my spot. One more trace of your
bottom lip. One last moment of us before I have to be me.
The door opens softly and I turn. The Council members are
waiting for you, Qui-Gon. Anakin is waiting for me.
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