From his huddled covert, Obi-Wan could now see a thin wash of colour over Qui-Gon’s face, a sprinkling of starlight reflected in the silver of his beard, his hair. Slowly, he began to move, taking a few steps towards to water’s edge. He leaned down, picked up a pebble and skimmed it neatly across the shimmering surface. The air was sweeter now and brighter with every passing moment. Obi-Wan could just follow the little stone’s trajectory in pale jumps of froth. He smiled to see his serene and remote Master do something so out of character.
He nearly fell over in a bush when Qui-Gon abruptly slipped the robe off his shoulders.
Obi-Wan, waiting with his friends to enter the dining hall, overheard some Masters talking about the legendary Jinn. “Too bad the man’s so gorgeous. Nice of him to grace us with his presence once in a while, eh?”
“Oh, don’t sell him short… I remember what he used to be like.”
“Yeah? Do tell…”
“He was warm, generous, a very loving man.” The speaker was a short woman of a furred species unknown to Obi-Wan.
“Not kidding,” the Master replied ruefully. “He used to spend a lot of time with the children, even. A large and open heart, that one had. But now he prefers the silence of his own pain. Too bad.”
“No Padawan would want him like this, I’m sure,” the other answered sadly. “Who would want a broken Master? He *is* completely luscious, though…”
The pair moved on then, and Obi-Wan went into lunch with his friends. But the conversation had given him much to think about.
An alternate reality in which padawans take a more active role in choosing their masters – and in which the Master/Apprentice relationship is much more intimate. I adore young Obi and his determination to help a Qui-Gon who thinks he can never love again.
Roger knew that he needed a wife who was his equal in mind, but as he held Molly’s face between his hands he thought of how often he had neglected the body in his consideration of who would make an ideal partner! He had been charmed by Cynthia’s beauty and pleasant discourse, but to him she had always seemed like a sort of fairy bride, a charming pixie whose heart lay just beyond his reach. In his hands, Molly was flesh and blood, a woman.
Pharm’s fingers spiderwalk up Dean’s back and rest at his shoulders. “There’s soup in the fridge, and roti.” He yawns, and Dean feels a flutter of an exhale against his throat that makes it very hard not to hold him tighter, until it would surely hurt. As it is, Dean has basically swallowed him up. “P’Dean,” he says, with feeling, tugging hair at the nape of Dean’s neck, “let me go so you can eat.”
“I look at you and forget I’m hungry.” This close, he can hear the click of Pharm swallowing. “I forgot everything but this.” Slowly, he moves his hand so he can stroke the side of Pharm’s chest, a glide of his palm. He catches the edge of Pharm’s nipple, and he drops his hand as a scold to himself.