Archive: m_a, SWAL and WWOMB - anybody else just ask.
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Summary: Part of the JAOA AU story. Qui-Gon's health has taken
a heavy toll on both him and Obi-Wan.
PS: This part is for all you Q/O beggers out there. <eg>
I was going to do chapter two of the main plot, and instead
Qui-Gon looked stern and Obi-Wan pouted and I got sucked into
this little side tweener instead.
Disclaimer: George Lucas is god. I just slip in and play with
the toys when he's not looking.
Note: [this is telepathy] and /these are thoughts/.
JAOA has it's own page now... with a pic...
http://members.dencity.com/blackrose/garden/jaoa.html
ALSO... there is another JAOA tweener story on the JAOA page.
It's written by Laura Troise and it's not slash, which is why
we didn't post it. So go to the page and read it and tell her
what you think! ;)
JAOA: Missing the Present
by Black Rose, 1999
lenoirrose@yahoo.com
He woke slowly, floating up from black depths darker than any
night. There had been a time when he would have woken
instantly, sprung from sleep to wakefullness, instantly alert.
Now it was a struggle against the comfortable drifting, the
hazy lingering state that was neither dream nor reality but
tinged with the cloying web of drugs that beckoned him back
down.
Qui-Gon hated the feeling. Hated the heaviness of his eyelids,
the padding that seemed to swath the inside of his head and
kept everything at a distance. Hated the dry, parched sensation
of mouth and skin, the dull ringing within his ears. Hated,
especially, the wet hitch in his chest which scratched at the
back of his throat and tickled damply with each indrawn breath.
A carelessly drawn deeper breath reminded him, of a sudden, why
he would gladly tolerate all of them in order to be rid of the
twice damned cough. It ripped through him, jerking him roughly
to full awareness even as it propelled him onto his side where
he could curl around the breathless stabbing in his chest as
the cough shook him. Pain burst bright white against the backs
of his eyelids with each spasm, knifing through his temples and
his throat.
A soft light flared into the darkened room, calling it forth
from the shadows. The hands were there at once, pressed to his
back above the protesting lung. Warmth spread from them, a
blanket of Force that sank into his abused flesh and soothed
the spasming muscles. He coughed again, holding futilely to the
shape of his own skull as the bones threatened to fly apart in
shards of blinding pain with each jarring motion. A breath drew
in almost by accident, hesitating a long second before settling
into his lung with a fluid filled scratching. He tightened his
diaphram against it, holding stubbornly to the breath,
determined not to cough it forth once more.
The heat wrapped itself around him, easing the tight band
around his chest, letting him tentatively draw another breath
and then another, the chain of coughs broken. Hardly daring to
sigh his relief, Qui-Gon slowly uncurled, sparks dashing before
his closed eyes as circulation returned to cramped muscles.
The hands urged him gently to his back, slipping beneath his
tunic to rest against his chest. The warmth eased across the
muscles there, sinking into the chill of the knotted scars and
gently soothing the dull constant ache in the empty spaces
within his chest. Qui-Gon sighed in truth, coughed slightly, a
quick chuff of air that was nothing like the wracking cough.
There was the metallic taste of blood on his tongue.
"Master?" Such a soft whisper and so much depth of worry in it.
It was ironic, Qui-Gon thought to himself. If generations of
Padawans had been conditioned to respond without question to
the commands of their Masters, then generations of Masters had
been equally conditioned to respond to that one single word.
You could shout it in the crowded dining hall and watch every
Jedi Master in it, whether they currently had a Padawan or no,
turn automatically towards the sound. Even as he, who had not
had a Padawan in years, was compelled to open heavy eyes and
focus upon the anxious face that hovered above him.
What he saw there gave him pause. There were times when he
still expected to reach out and brush the prickly fringe of
shorn hair, when he found himself grabbing for where the swing
of a Padawan's braid should have been. When he expected to open
his eyes to a sober faced youth whose spirit danced only in his
grey-blue eyes, bright and fast as quicksilver for any who
might catch it.
/He's still young compared to you, old man,/ Qui-Gon told
himself tiredly. But oh, the lines of age upon that face,
carved deep between the fair brows and around a mouth once
given to sly smiles. Careworn and tired, that face, with worry
only deepening the lines upon it and shadowing the red rimmed
eyes that no longer sparkled as they once had. Fine strands of
hair framed the face and almost brushed down upon Qui-Gon's
own, strands that were fast losing the last of their once
golden honey color to the unrelenting spread of steel grey.
Time had laid its hands upon the face he loved best and he,
living in the days already gone, had missed the passage of the
present.
"Obi-Wan," he whispered hoarsely. Seeing the hardness flash in
the darkening eyes he berated himself and fell silent, reaching
up in wordless entreaty to touch the curve of one cheek. His
lover leaned into the touch but the worried eyes never left
his, eyes that asked for reassurance but had long since given
up the hope of receiving it.
A pang flared in the Jedi Master's heart, a bitter touch of
sorrow that lingered. He knew the illness within him, breathed
it in and out with every breath that caught in his chest, half
drowned in fluid that would not leave him be. Knew every twinge
and ache left by old scars and the failing limits of a body
that, try as it might, could no longer meet the demands of his
mind. He knew all of it, and though it still brought him up
short at times he had accepted it and made his peace with what
could be expected.
Those around him, he remembered sadly, had no such peace. No
such assurance, nothing but hope and the helpless pain of
witnessing circumstance that could not be changed. It showed in
Obi-Wan's face, in the weary eyes that bore too many of their
own burdens and tried, in vain, to bear his lover's burdens as
well. /Oh, love./
Slipping his hand into the soft hair at the nape of the younger
man's neck, Qui-Gon exerted a strength that had still not
entirely left him and drew Obi-Wan down until their lips met.
The other man made a wordless sound of protest, trying to pull
away. Qui-Gon held him firmly, pressing the kiss home until he
felt the firm line of the lips against his own relax and
Obi-Wan almost hungrily returned the caress. Taste and touch,
familiar beyond all else, and Qui-Gon knew that when the
inevitable came he would hate most of all to give up such a
simple thing as a kiss.
When they broke away Qui-Gon hastily moved his hand, pressing
his fingertips to warm lips before Obi-Wan could speak. [Shhh.]
Pulling the still resisting head down, he tucked the smaller
man against his side, resting his cheek on a pillow of silken
hair. [You need caring for, love.]
Obi-Wan's response was an incredulous noise that might almost
have been a laugh, his breath warm against Qui-Gon's throat.
"I do?"
[Yes, you do,] Qui-Gon replied firmly. His hands found the
knots of tension in his lover's back, fingertips playing across
them. The Force came sluggishly to his call where once it would
have leapt to it, but come it did and he felt Obi-Wan
reluctantly relax as it soothed him.
"Don't," the younger man protested, half heartedly trying to
draw away. "You don't have the strength to spare."
[And you do?] It was blunt, but it drove the point home.
Obi-Wan's expression was stubborn, his lips pressed tight. He
did not speak the lie but neither would he meet Qui-Gon's eyes.
Sighing softly, Qui-Gon pressed a light kiss to the other man's
brow, feeling him flinch. Other kisses followed, feathered
across cheeks and lips. [You need rest,] he whispered between
their minds. [My Obi-Wan... you don't need to bear the weight
of the universe on your back. Rest.]
Obi-Wan shook his head slightly, reaching up to cup Qui-Gon's
cheek, his fingertips stroking the silvered beard. "No," he
whispered. "Not the universe. Just us."
[Then let me bear my own weight for a time,] Qui-Gon told him,
pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. [Lay down and rest, here
beside me.]
"That isn't it," Obi-Wan protested irritably. "Qui-Gon, please.
You need..."
[I need to know that you are alright,] the older man
interrupted firmly. His long fingertips found the crease
between Obi-Wan's brow, soothed it. Sculpted the lines of brow
and cheek, skimming across lips and jaw. Memorizing, in touch,
features they already knew by heart.
"I'm fine," Obi-Wan replied obstinately, but his eyes closed
beneath the light touch. "Qui-Gon, you need to rest. Conserve
your strength. The Healers say..."
[The Healers are wise, but they only speak of possibilities.]
Qui-Gon took Obi-Wan's chin in his hand, nudged it up until the
other man was forced to meet his eyes. [Don't spend your energy
worrying about the future. This instant, here, is the only
instant that need matter.]
Obi-Wan shook his head slowly. "Master..." The word slipped,
huskily, from his lips like the echo of years gone by. Qui-Gon
kissed him again, teasing forth a reluctant response.
[Rest, my love. We will both rest.] Memories, a hundred images
spun between them, countless nights curled within each others
arms, too tired to do more then hold close as sleep closed over
them. Nights where the future had not intruded, where the past
was put behind them and all that existed was the cocoon of
warmth about their bodies as kisses were exchanged.
Obi-Wan's breath caught. "That was then," he whispered
brokenly. "Now..." Fear vibrating between them, fear of a grief
shrouded future that seemed to stretch out with hungry fingers.
Fear that haunted each faltering breath, each wracking cough
and lonely vigil; the helpless fear of loss.
[Oh, love.] Qui-Gon pulled the smaller man close, as though
arms along might merge flesh to flesh, dissolve the distance of
body to body until only one complete whole remained. [The
future will come as it will. Don't let it sour this moment. We
are here, we are together right now. Live this moment with me,
and we will face the future when it comes.]
"I don't want to loose you," Obi-Wan breathed softly, the words
an admission whispered for their ears alone.
[There is no death,] Qui-Gon replied gently. [And I will always
be with you. Now, and in all of the moments yet to come.]
The younger man nodded slowly, lifting his face for a kiss that
held a kind of quiet desperation. The still silence of the
night closed around them, a moment preserved in the quiet of
two hearts that beat a slow rhythm together.
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