Archive: Master & Apprentice, SWA-L and The Nesting Place,
anyone else please ask!
Category: A/U, Drama
Rating: R
Pairing: Q/O
Summary: Ben and Qui-Gon finally get to talk about what has
happened between them and what it means.
Disclaimer: Don't own them, George Lucas does. If I did they
would have had a much happier ending! The planet Golgatha as
well as the general idea of the Arena and the Games are
borrowed from Simon R. Green's _Deathstalker_ series - no
copyright infringement intended as no money is being made off
of this.
Feedback: Yes please, it's addictive!
Author's Note: All I can say is I'm glad that 1999 is over.
December and January were not months I would want to go through
again in any way, shape or form. Thanks to Destina for keeping
me sane when I needed it most and to Heather and Tracey for
taking up where she left off that day. Y'all have no idea how
much you mean to me. Special thanks to Pumpkin for her
permission to use references to her wonderful story "Braid". If
you haven't read it, what are you waiting for?
Ben awoke to cramped muscles vying with his empty stomach for
the honor of causing the most pain in his body. Long-standing
habits brought him fully awake, especially when he didn't
readily recognize his surroundings. The small movements roused
his bedmate and when Qui-Gon opened his eyes, looking at him
inquiringly, memories of the previous day's events crashed down
on Ben like an avalanche.
"Good morning." The Jedi's greeting was soft, his slight
accent making the words almost lyrical. A low rumbling
accompanied this, and Qui-Gon chuckled. "It seems that we
missed a few meals. Do you think you can eat something?"
Ben's stomach joined in the chorus, answering Qui-Gon's
question before he could. "At this point I think I could eat a
raw slug-bat if you offered it to me." Grimacing at the
lingering aches in his muscles, the fighter slid from the bed,
shedding the clothes he had slept in without a thought for
where he was.
Qui-Gon watched his bondmate intently for the span of several
heartbeats, then threw back the blankets and stood. His clothes
weren't in much better shape then Ben's. The turmoil of the
previous day had left both of them sweat-soaked and exhausted,
and neither had had the energy even to undress when they
stumbled into his rooms and collapsed on the bed.
Hunger warred with the desire for cleanliness, defeating it
soundly for the moment. There would be time for a bath later,
first, they both needed to eat.
The Jedi stripped off his soiled garments, donning a pair of
sleep pants and a robe. A soft growl of frustration drew his
attention to Ben and Qui-Gon looked over at the younger
man.
There was a look of mixed anger and embarrassment on the
fighter's face and a small muscle jumped alongside his right
eye.
"What is it, a'shera?"
Ben looked down at his discarded garments, then back at
Qui-Gon. "Do you have something that I can wear until these are
cleaned?" The question was plainly not easily voiced. Even
though he had come to trust his mate, Ben still didn't like
asking anyone for anything.
"I believe that I can find something." As the Jedi spoke, he
rummaged in the closet on the far side of the bed, finally
pulling out a dark green robe which he offered to the fighter.
"Try this on, it's probably big, but it will do while yours are
being cleaned."
"Thank you." Ben pulled on the garment, the heavy fabric
somehow comforting to his senses. When he realized it was
because the robe carried Qui-Gon's scent with it, the fighter
bit back a sigh of resignation before following the other man
out to the main room.
As Qui-Gon busied himself with reviewing the files covering
what had happened while he had been on Golgatha, Ben sat, chin
resting on his folded hands, studying Obi-Wan's - his - old
lightsaber, comparing it to the sword resting next to it.
Both were weapons that required fluid grace and deadly
precision in their wielding. In a skilled set of hands, the
durasteel blade could slice through flesh, bone or armor as
easily as the blue beam of energy could. As far as stopping
blaster bolts however . . ., though it was technically a
defensive weapon, Ben knew just how dangerous a laser sword
could be in the hands of a trained combatant.
The fighter shook his head, then growled in annoyance as his
hair dropped down to obscure his vision for the fifth time in
as many minutes. Will have to take care of that, he
muttered to himself, instinctively wanting to get rid of
anything that might give someone else an extra handhold on him
during a struggle.
"Would you like me to get that out of your eyes?"
Qui-Gon's question took Ben by surprise and he looked up to
find the older man watching him, fighting a smile as the errant
lock of hair slid down Ben's brow again.
"You can cut hair too? My, my, the Jedi possess talents I
wasn't even aware of. Is this something they teach you after
you've become a knight?"
"What, a'shera?" Qui-Gon chuckled, laying aside his datapad
and rising to his feet. "You don't believe me?"
Ben almost snapped at the older man to stop calling him by
that name. Lover, heartmate, beloved, it meant all those and
more, the remnant of an almost forgotten dialect the Jedi
master had learned long before Obi-Wan Kenobi's birth.
No matter how much the younger man felt he understood what had
happened, the fact that Qui-Gon could accept it all so easily
still rankled. "If you scalp me, then I get to have a go at you
with the scissors afterward."
"As you wish, a'shera," the Jedi replied mildly, hiding a
smile as he walked into the sleeping room and collected a pair
of scissors and comb from a drawer in one of the chests
there.
After placing those items on the table, he headed into the
bathroom in search of more items, leaving Ben to stare after
him with a sort of incredulous wonder. He was actually going to
do it . . .
Wondering if he was being played for a fool, the fighter
picked up and examined the scissors Qui-Gon had placed on the
table. They were old, burnished with years of use, and bore
many nicks and scratches. They had their own story, but it was
one that Ben was not privy to, nor was sure he wanted to
be.
"They were a gift," Qui-Gon said as he came out of the other
room, carrying a towel and a basin half-filled with warm water.
"From my master when I took my first padawan."
"Congratulations," Ben responded dryly. "I'm sure they were
what you always wanted." He held himself still as Qui-Gon
draped the towel around his shoulders, then dipped the comb in
the water and ran it through his hair. Although he resisted it,
the soothing motion of the comb stroking through his hair
relaxed Ben and he slowly tilted his head back to make the
Jedi's task easier.
Noting that his bondmate had lost some of the tension that
seemed a permanent part of him, Qui-Gon continued to work the
comb through Ben's now damp hair, keeping away from the bare
patch and angry looking scar that marked the place where the
memory blocker had been removed.
"It is something of a tradition uniting Master and Padawan,"
he began, speaking quietly, timing his words to the sweeps of
the comb. "Almost a ritual you could say, passed down from
those my Master has trained, to their pupils, and on to the
next generation."
Ben made a soft noise to indicate he was listening and Qui-Gon
continued, the repetitive motion of his hands broken only when
he reached for the scissors and began trimming back the
fighter's hair.
Locks of reddish-brown fell to the pristine white of the
towel, making Ben think of blood on a field of snow. For a
moment, his vision doubled and he felt the whip of a harsh
wind, saw the crystalline brightness of the hard pack beneath
his feet, smelled the coppery tang of the gore that was
splashed across the bright landscape.
With a shudder, he came back to himself, the vision leaving
only questions in its wake. Whose blood was it? Where had he
been? The scene wasn't anything he recalled from either of his
lives, and it left the fighter with an indistinct feeling of
foreboding.
"Ben? Do you need to rest?" Qui-Gon had felt the shudder as it
passed through his mate and he paused, worried about pushing
the younger man's strength beyond his limits this early into
his recovery.
"I'm fine, it was nothing." Ken'ba's words were clipped. He
twitched his shoulders, sending the clumps of hair to the floor
where they looked far less menacing then they had when
contrasted against the white fabric.
"Are you sure? If you would like, I can call the healers . .
." Qui-Gon stopped in mid-sentence as Ben twisted in the chair
and glared at him. "Just a suggestion, a'shera. Now, if you
will turn back around, I can continue."
The last of the unease brought on by the vision left him. Ben
attempted to relax again, concentrating on the soft sounds of
the Jedi's work. The whisper of the comb through his hair, the
snick of the scissors and running through them, melodious
droning of Qui-Gon's voice as he continued to explain the
significance of the ritual haircuts.
" . . .the braid represents the twining of the three together.
Master, Padawan and the Force, winding together, bound as one.
When apprentice passes their trials, the last act of their
master as their master is to sever the braid, marking the end
to their relationship as student and teacher."
The Jedi fell silent at that, his fingers sliding over and
through the patch of hair behind Ben's right ear, twisting the
strands as if to make them into something they weren't and
could never be. The younger man waited for a time, waiting to
see if Qui-Gon would continue then, when he didn't, reached
back and prodded him in the thigh, rousing the Jedi from his
reverie.
"Planning on finishing this anytime today or are you so
fascinated with my hair that you can't?"
The loose braid that had formed under Qui-Gon's fingers came
undone, too short to stay together without some form of tie
holding it that way, but not before Qui-Gon recognized it for
what it was. With an almost brutal movement, he cut off the
lock, leaving it as short as the rest of Ben's hair, the look
of the fighter, not a padawan.
Ben turned again, looking up at Qui-Gon, his brow creasing at
the strange expression on the other man's face. The bond
between them pulsed with a myriad of emotions, but they were
too conflicted to be of any help to Ben. "Looks that bad, does
it?" he queried, attempting to move them past whatever it was
that had shaken the Jedi so.
"I - " Qui-Gon began, before walking over to the sofa and
sitting heavily. "You have every right to hate me, you
know."
The fighter stood, letting the towel drop to the floor.
Running his hand through his now shortened hair, he sighed
inwardly. Not this again. What was it going to take to convince
Qui-Gon that he did not hold him at fault for what had
happened?
"Why? Because you gave me a bad haircut?" Ben's stab at humor
was met with a blank stare, making him want to growl in
frustration.
"If I had accepted you, your life would have been different."
Qui-Gon stared at his hands as he spoke, refusing to look at
his bondmate, lost in a maze of possibilities that had been
sacrificed before any of them could live to fruition.
The sharp smack of Ben's palm hitting the small table
alongside the couch caused Qui-Gon to sit up and stare at the
younger man, waiting for Ben's response. Whatever retribution
he saw fit to hand out, it would be merited.
Seeing the acceptance and resignation in the older man's blue
eyes, Ben snarled a curse and leaned in closer. "If, if, if! Is
that all you can think about? You made a choice, deal with it!
I survived. I'm not going to live the rest of my fucking life
with you whining about something that happened a lifetime ago.
I can live with it. You had better learn to Jinn, or mark my
words, you're the one who's going to end up dead because of
it."
Qui-Gon was unable to say anything, his body shocked into
immobility by his bondmate's sudden verbal attack.
"So you're just going to sit there?" Ben railed, straightening
up and flinging his hands into the air in disgust. "I'll bet
that's what you did after whatshisname - Xanatos - turned, too.
Just sat there moping and whining about how it was all your
fault, how you should have seen what was going to
happen."
"I should have . . ." Qui-Gon started, only to be cut off by
the fighter's continuing diatribe.
"Poor Qui-Gon Jinn. The galaxy's problems all come to rest at
his door. If a bird dies on Dantooine it's your fault. If a
star goes super-nova on the rim it's your fault. I'm surprised
you've lasted this long with the weight of the universe on your
back."
"Enough!" Qui-Gon roared, lunging off the couch and grabbing
Ben by the shoulders, shaking him so that his head snapped back
and forth. The younger man made no defensive moves during the
attack, only smiled slightly as Qui-Gon's fingers dug into his
arms.
"I do not take the blame for everything that happens in the
Republic. I cannot control what has happened in the past or
what others do! I'm only one man, I can only do what I feel the
Force tells me to do!" He stopped then, panting heavily, his
loose hair hanging in his gleaming eyes, making him look like a
madman. "Why are you laughing at me, Ken'ba?" Qui-Gon bellowed,
giving the shorter man's arms another shake. "What is so
Force-be-damned funny?"
A soft chuckle escaped Ben's lips and he looked pointedly
downward to where Qui-Gon's grip was turning his skin white.
After the Jedi released him, Ben coughed and flexed his arms,
knowing he was going to have a set of deep bruises there the
following day. "You are what is funny, Jedi Master Qui-Gon
Jinn. That and the fact that I now know what I need to do to
get you to listen to me."
"What?" The other man's answer could not have confused Qui-Gon
any more then if he had started singing a Rodian love song.
"Make sense Ken'ba, or leave it be."
Ben dropped onto the sofa and lounged there indolently,
looking up at the Jedi's looming figure. "Do you truly believe
that it what happened to me is your fault?"
"I should . . "
"That is not what I asked you. Do you believe that you were
the cause of the direction my life has taken? Yes or no
question, Qui-Gon."
"I - No." The last was admitted grudgingly and Qui-Gon's
shoulders slumped as he spoke the word. "I did what I thought
was right at the time."
"Do you believe that it was your fault that your apprentice
turned?"
The older man closed his eyes and a shudder ran through his
powerful frame. "No. It was his decision alone."
"Amazing," Ben drawled, "the man can be taught even at his
age."
Qui-Gon inhaled deeply, then turned and walked over to the
window, staring out at the vista beyond and the countless ships
that darted through the skies. He stood there for what seemed
an to Ben eternity. It was only after close inspection that the
younger man noticed that Qui-Gon's shoulders were shaking
slightly.
Wondering if they were going to have a repeat performance of
the drama they had just enacted, Ben rose and strode to
Qui-Gon's side. "What? Decided that you are the bearer of all
the woes of the universe?" he asked, determined to get the Jedi
off his self-destructive track. "May I remind you that if it
wasn't for you I would more than likely be dead or still under
the Bitch's command?"
The small tremors increased in frequency and amplitude and
when Qui-Gon finally looked at him, Ben was stunned to see that
the other man was laughing.
"Are you insane?!" he snapped as the Jedi began laughing
aloud, finally having to lean back against the transparisteel
behind him for support when his knees threatened to give
way.
"No," Qui-Gon choked out around another round of mirth. "But I
finally know what I have to do to make you smile."
Unable to formulate an answer to that line of reasoning and
not sure that he wanted to try, Ben shook his head, muttering
to himself as he scowled at his bondmate. "You _are_ insane,
Jedi. I'm going to take a shower. This damn hair is starting to
itch. If you've gotten a hold of yourself by the time I'm done,
maybe we can talk."
Qui-Gon nodded as he pushed his hair back out of his face,
regaining his composure. "As you wish, a'shera," he whispered
into the silence after Ben had left the room.
Coruscant could not be said to have seasons as most other
worlds in the galaxy did. The planet was totally climate
controlled and the temperature from pole to pole only varied by
a few degrees at the outside. No clouds shielded the planet
from the sun's rays, but they were not needed. Filters screened
out the harmful radiation, converting it into power for the
massive city below.
No clouds, no natural horizon to speak of, no weather . . .
The more he knew of the place, the less Ben liked it. There
were too many artificial distractions, too many weak points.
The fighter leaned on the railing that fenced in the small
balcony off Qui-Gon's rooms, watching the fading sunlight and
the bright lights of the ships passing by, trying to
familiarize himself as much as he could with this place that
had been and was now once again his home.
"Anything of interest going on out here?" Qui-Gon asked,
passing through the connecting door, carrying glasses of wine
for both of them. "Here," he added, handing one to Ben. "I
thought we both deserved these after the last few days."
"Good thing you didn't say month, or we would have needed a
barrel each at least," Ben murmured, tasting the dark burgundy
then taking another, deeper sip. "Good stuff, there more where
this came from?"
"I'm not sure, you'll have to ask Master Yoda that question.
It was a gift from him." Qui-Gon didn't add that the old Jedi
Master had sent the bottle over that very afternoon without a
word of explanation.
"Think I can live without knowing then." While Yoda no longer
seemed as all-powerful and all-seeing as he had when Obi-Wan
had lived in the temple, Ben found it impossible to totally rid
himself of the awe his younger self had felt for the oldest of
the Jedi.
"I've found that to be the safest course to take at times when
dealing with my former master." Qui-Gon smiled and leaned
against the railing alongside his bondmate, tilting his head to
watch the younger man. The setting sun turned Ben's skin golden
and banished the shadows of violence that lingered in the
fighter's eyes.
Feeling the tug of attraction through their bond, Ben drained
his glass, but continued staring into it, weighing the question
he wanted to ask.
"What do you want to know?"
Damn, the other man read him too easily. "How do you know that
this just isn't the remnants of the training bond? What makes
you so sure that we're tied together forever?"
After the fighter finished his wine, Qui-Gon took Ben's glass
and placed them both on the small table nearby. When he leaned
on the railing once more, he covered one of the fighter's hands
with his. At his touch, Ben was unable to stop the harsh intake
of breath as desire surged to the forefront once more.
"That is how I know, a'shera. A training bond is just that.
Master and padawan share emotions and, at times, thoughts, but
that is all. It cannot and will not cause one to desire the
other, to do so would be a corruption of all the Jedi stand
for. There have been cases where, once an apprentice has been
knighted, the bond has changed and deepened, but it almost
never happens while they are still in training."
Heat. Strength that complemented and augmented his own
abilities. Need. Security. The weight of Qui-Gon's hand on his
communicated all that and more to Ben and he nodded in
understanding. "Then if I had become your padawan . . ."
"Until you had passed your trials, there would have been
nothing more between us," Qui-Gon said gently.
After a long silence while he tried to decide if that would
have been a positive or a negative, Ben gave up. It was in the
past and had never happened anyway, what was the point of
worrying over it? Twisting his hand, he closed his fingers
around Qui-Gon's, brushing their palms together as he did so.
"So then you and your first apprentice . . ."
"Is that a note of jealousy I detect?" the Jedi smiled,
risking an eruption of the fighter's anger by leaning in to
brush a kiss over his lips to erase the scowl that was growing.
"No, Ylena was my student and I her teacher and at the time our
hearts belonged to others, but she was and is a dear
friend."
Ben made a small noise of agreement at that, not liking the
fact that he felt relieved by Qui-Gon's assurance but accepting
it.
"Not going to hit me? I must be growing on you." Taking his
free hand, Qui-Gon traced a finger along Ben's cheekbone and
was rewarded with a quickly in-drawn breath.
"Your head's too hard, what's the point in it?" the fighter
muttered.
"That isn't the first time I've heard that and I doubt it will
be the last." As he spoke, the Jedi continued his feather-light
caresses. "May I kiss you, a'shera?"
Ben coughed out a laugh and looked at the older man
incredulously. "Isn't it a little late to be asking
that?"
"No. Now we know who we are."
The fighter almost asked 'Do we?', for while he knew more of
his old life, he still didn't understand the Jedi in the least.
Deciding to let it be for the moment, Ben tangled his hand in
Qui-Gon's hair, stepping in to meet the taller man half-way as
he pulled him down, granting permission and asking it at the
same time.
As their lips closed together, smooth skin met rough bristles,
the fine hairs tickling and teasing as their jaws worked. The
contact was good, but it wasn't enough and their mouths fell
open, tongues sliding together in an effort to taste and
memorize everything about each other. Fingers clenched,
grinding their hands together and soon their bodies were doing
the same, drawn together by mutual agreement and desire.
Ben stripped out of his shirt and had Qui-Gon's tunic half off
before the older man stepped back, struggling for control. "Not
out here, not where any transport pilot can see, want you to
myself."
Ben had been about to interject that he didn't care, but
Qui-Gon's last words stopped his objection. "Inside then," he
murmured, nudging his bondmate toward the door, then pulling
the entry shut behind them.
A flicker of Qui-Gon's hand over a sensor darkened the room.
Shadows cast by exterior lights leapt into stark relief against
the pale walls. Two of the shades writhed together, entwined so
closely that it was impossible to tell where one began and the
other ended.
Near-silent gasps changed to throaty moans as the forms
dropped to the floor, becoming lost in the thicker shadows cast
by the furniture. A sharp gasp, a murmur of reassurance that
bled into a low cry. All was silent after that save for the
harsh breathing and slamming heartbeats that distinguished the
men from their shadowy revenants.
"Jinn?" Ben yawned as he sat up in the bed and looked around,
rubbing at his eyes and blinking away the fatigue when he
realized that the other man wasn't anywhere nearby. Memories of
the night before rose behind his eyelids and he couldn't help
the satisfied smile that formed in response to them.
The things that man could do with his mouth . . . Some of them
should be illegal and probably were somewhere in the galaxy.
Ben chuckled at that and rolled over, arching his back in a
feline-like stretch. But then, some of the things he'd done to
the Jedi were probably illegal too, so who was he to
talk?
"Where have you gone now . . ." he muttered, sliding from the
bed, then seeing the datapad that had been left on the bedside
table.
~A'shera,
Duty calls. I have a meeting with the Council that will take
up the morning. Take care and try not to kill anyone. I will
see you this afternoon.~
"Think you're so funny, Jedi . . ." Muttering curses that
somehow sounded more like endearments, the fighter pulled on
his pants and trudged out to the kitchen, wondering what he was
going to do with himself for the majority of the day. "No way
in the hells I'm going to sit around on my ass waiting for
him."
He had just brewed a pot of tea when the door chime sounded.
After a moment's deliberation, Ben went to answer it and found
himself looking up at a tall Mon Calamari dressed in the garb
of a padawan learner. "He's not here, come back later . . ."
Ben's voice died away as he was swept into an embrace that
filled his nostrils with the scent of the sea.
"Obi-Wan, it is you. I can't believe it!"
It took all of Ben's control not to break out of the Jedi
apprentice's hug as his reflexes screamed that it was an
attack. When she finally released him, he took a step back,
staring up into her huge, silvery eyes. He opened his mouth to
speak, and what emerged was an undignified croak. "Bant?"
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