Fic: "Future Imperfect (The Day Will Explode)" [Star Wars, Obi-Wan/Bail, Hard R]
Title: Future Imperfect (The Day Will Explode)
Author: florahart
Summary: It's been a long time, and Obi-Wan could use the company. But it also can't happen again.
Fandom: Star Wars
Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Bail Organa
Rating: Hard R
Disclaimer: Lucas's baby, not mine.
Original story: When Day Explodes by Amy Fortuna (elance)
Future Imperfect (The Day Will Explode)
Always in motion is the future.
Among the Jedi, this is a truism, which, Obi-Wan is well aware, means it is true. Any moment can go this way, or that, and it's rare, indeed, for any one man to have control over all the factors which influence any one path. Awareness of the many possible futures is always there, in the Jedi's mind. Awareness of the ways in which his actions may nudge the path one way or another; awareness of costs that may not now be apparent or may later appear greater than anyone would have guessed.
This has been a topic of many days and weeks of contemplation in the years he has spent in the desert.
It is still true; however, this truth is tempered, as is any other, by point of view.
It's another Jedi truism: this and that may each be the truth, from a certain point of view. This is the root of many conflicts, and conflict drives politics. Explaining that two opposing truths are both true is an exercise in frustration, and the Jedi role of negotiator is frequently one of avoiding this concept entirely and instead attempting to bring a third truth to mind.
The Jedi themselves are apolitical, at least in principle, though of course their presence as a council, their influence, protectorship and guidance, have brought and kept them in contact with the Senate and its machinery for centuries. Every time his mind touches on this, it shies away. It's no longer a physical shudder, when he thinks of what the Senate has become, but five years have not dulled it to stillness. This is evidence he needs to spend more time in meditation, but ironically, the loneliness of the desert makes it difficult for him to reach trance. He supposes that in time, he will learn. Right now, he is still lonely, even when Qui-Gon is present, and while he knows he has to find a way live with the Force and no other company, he's not there yet.
At least it's warm, here, during the day. If his body felt as cold as his heart, he'd never make it, and then they truly would be without hope. He's spent the warm days learning his environment and making friends with the local wildlife--if 'friend' is a term one can rightfully apply to a krayt dragon--and, recently, contemplating the issue of point of view.
Somehow learning to reliably see despite the heat mirage has brought a sort of clarity he hasn't had before, not on Naboo or Coruscant or Kamino, and in recent days, as he's felt the approach of an old friend, he's been sorry to see that the motion of the future is spiraling around a finite number of points, and among these, it seems that one outcome is clear: if he succeeds in the opening gambit of this long game of his, still distant to him now, the cost to this man will be high. The future, itself, is in motion, it is true; however, the part on which he has recently focused is not.
His success would be nothing, the game foregoable and the future it brings reanimable, but for that it must be also the recompense for his older failure, and so it must be that he plays it as best he can. He closes his eyes on the still future, and waits. It's unusually warm already, with the first sun just now halfway to its zenith, but for the first time in a long time, he falls into a productive trance readily, his body slowing as he rests and waits. It's paradoxical but true: his pleasure at the prospect of a visit has eased him, and as long as he has the feeling in his grasp, he must take advantage and learn to create it in himself. There are yet many years before he may re-enter the world.
It's mid-afternoon when he emerges from the trance and rises to his feet, hip joints popping, in case he should need the reminder that time is passing and he is aging out here in the wasteland. He drinks a tiny cool clear glass of the precious water that absorbs slowly from the air, and starts the type of simple dinner to which he is accustomed, a sort of ragout of tough hard root vegetables and tougher dried meat cooked in the fat of the local beasts and the juice of a gourd bought at the market. He takes extra care, to make it tasty for the guest whose ship has just landed, a league away through the ravine and over the rise; for his own purposes it is only important that it be nourishing and safe to eat, but Bail is a prince, accustomed to nicer things.
The low edge of the first sun is just dipping to the horizon when the stew is done. Obi-Wan tastes it on his finger and shrugs; it will do. He goes to the door, a towel in his hands wiping them clean, and walks outside, feet sure on the familiar path despite the shifting sands and shale. He's looking, when Bail comes around the jagged turn in the ravine, and waves a hand high, as though he is expected.
Which, of course, he is, to Obi-Wan, but this is hardly something pre-arranged.
Bail is another handful of steps closer before he waves back and hurries his pace, as though they don't have all night. Obi-Wan spends the time it takes for his friend to make his way over reaching to pull open the cover over the decrepit vaperator's spout and drawing a glass. It's exorbitant, he supposes, to offer a glass of this size, but this visit has been a long time coming, and it isn't much of a trick to coerce the air around him here to produce just slightly faster than those on the surrounding farms.
He cools the water--also not much of a trick, though he's sure this is the sort of thing which is earning him a reputation, amongst the small ragged boys who kick a makeshift ball about the open spaces at the market, as a crazy old wizard--and straightens to offer the glass, which Bail takes immediately with a wide, crooked grin. Obi-Wan says nothing as he watches each swallow bob in Bail's throat under smooth skin he will of course wait to touch, though he'd like nothing better than to taste the salt there now.
"I was passing through," Bail says, handing back the glass.
Obi-Wan takes it and lets go, directing it back into the kitchen. It's a frivolous use of the Force, but he doesn't want to take a moment away, and it's justifiable, if he tries; it's important that he maintain enough skill that, when the time comes, he will have what it takes to teach young Luke. "On your way to Naboo?" He can all but hear Yoda's sorrowful cluck at the fallacy, but he also can see Qui-Gon, no more inclined to toe any party line in this state than he ever was in any other, chuckling.
Bail nods and steps toward the door, eyebrows raised in question. Obi-Wan lets his hand be caught when Bail reaches for him, lets himself be tugged into the little house. The first sun is more than halfway gone, the mirage effect rendering the semicircle fluid and thick. Soon it will be dark, and they should go inside and eat, as though the civility of a shared meal is what they've both intended all along.
"Still practicing," Bail observes, his smooth diplomat's fingers grazing Obi-Wan's rough palm, hardened from the hundreds of hours he has gripped a light saber. He doesn't leave him time to answer, immediately shushing him with a finger over his lips; and before they've made it to the table they are kissing, Bail chuckling against Obi-Wan's lips. "I wasn't sure about the beard, before," he says. "But I think I've decided I like it."
"Just as well."
"Yes. Just as well."
They kiss again, slow and soft and even though it should feel urgent--even though Obi-Wan recognizes he does feel the tug of time and destiny--it's not. It's a leisurely kiss that goes on as the air softens from the brighter yellow to the softer orange of a single sun.
At last, Obi-Wan pulls back with a gentle tug of teeth on lip. "Dinner?" he asks. "I assume after such a long trip, you must be hungry."
"You taste better," Bail teases. Obi-Wan turns away to duck into the tiny kitchen.
He chuckles when Bail follows, the greater bulk of him ridiculous in the cramped arch where he stops because clearly he can't actually stand in this room. "I don't doubt it," he says after a moment, all mild innocence and honesty. "But you'll need your strength,"
Bail laughs under his breath and then stops holding it back, allowing the heartier sound to echo in the dining nook to which they adjourn with bowls of stew and thick slices of the chewy fibrous bread that's common here. Even in the worst of times, they've always known how to laugh together, and it feels achingly nice.
They speak very little as they eat, exchanging looks and minor pleasantries and refraining from anything deeper because the more they talk the slower they'll eat, and dinner is obviously not the outcome toward which they are striving.
Finally, the last rays of the suns fade, and the last bites of the stew are sopped up on the bread. Obi-Wan waits a moment in the dark, listening to the native insect life and breathing in the company of another, before he lights a candle, which ought to be reserved for meditation, but then, this is going to be another form of worship, and smiles. "You're wearing too many clothes."
It's only a moment until they're both standing, unfastening belts and buttons as they move toward the bedroom. It's just as small as the kitchen, and Bail has to hunch down to fit through the arch. Obi-Wan takes advantage of this break in his movements to take over the task of removing his shirt, running his hard hands over Bail's smooth chest and shoulders until the fabric drops free on the floor.
He tips his chin up for another kiss and feels his own shirt coming off, his breeches falling. It occurs to him belatedly that he should have taken off his shoes, but it's been a long time--a very long time--and he forgives them both the anxious hurry. They sit together on the side of his bed, pants around their knees and ankles, and kiss again, bodies turned halfway toward each other, and Obi-Wan isn't willing to wait for shoes. He falls back, pulling Bail with him, until they both are on their sides, and like this, it doesn't matter about their feet because knees can push between knees and thighs can rub and oh! and cocks can rub too, and Obi-Wan honestly forgets to breathe for long enough that his lungs object because trance and sex are certainly nonsimilar. "I--" he starts to say, and then he can't continue. He wants to say many things: don't go home, and come again and I've missed you. However, as much as he will justify--the water, the anxiety, the inherently-forbidden connection between them itself--he can't say things that will influence his single goal, and he knows, if he says these things, Bail will come back, and come back, and possibly even stay, and it is true, the future is in motion, but that would bring his purpose here to a grinding and final halt.
It's not a cost that's his to pay. This is all he will get, and it's all he can afford. He moves again, just a fraction, hips sliding forward and cock jumping against Bail's, and then their hands are there between them, guiding and pressing and sliding. Obi-Wan rolls forward, increasing the pressure, and it doesn't take much of the Force for each of them to feel how good it is for the other. He lets that sensation take over and knows Bail does too, his dark hair coarse against Obi-Wan's cheek as they rock against each other, as Bail turns to suckle at the flesh below Obi-Wan's ear.
The motion of the future stops, just for an instant, when they come, warm-wet between them, dripping and slick as they pant and slow and touch again with gentle hands.
At last, Obi-Wan turns onto his back. "Let's sleep," he says, reaching up and pulling a damp towel off the bedside stand where he left it hours earlier, aware it would be needed. He runs it over both their bellies and catches sticky drops on their fingers and cocks and on the bed-cover beneath them "You've a long journey in the morning." He puts the Force behind the statement with regret, subtle and fine and still, enough to push a strong mind, because this cannot happen again no matter how badly he wants it. In the morning, Bail will leave, and he won't be back.
Bail sits up and finishes untangling their pants and shoes, then snatches the towel from him, grinning, and throws it lightly against the headboard of the bed. He clearly isn't perturbed by Obi-Wan's directive, and he gathers Obi-Wan close. "Love you," he says.
Obi-Wan murmurs, a non-answer that is fundamentally dishonest but allows the impression of a returned sentiment to stand as Bail's heart slows and he sleeps. It isn't long until he snores, and Obi-Wan lies awake.
Always in motion is the future. From a certain point of view. He sees it, just there, just in the last few moments: another piece has frozen into place.
He tries to pretend the bright flash he has seen is his body's leftover response, neurons sparking in orgasm, and at the same time, tries to forget, it is not. The two intents cannot coexist, and with a sigh, he acknowledges the truth, and takes a deep breath, burrowing further into Bail's arms.
Despite his troubled thoughts, sleep comes easily held close as he is, and as he drifts off, he is glad.
Author: florahart
Summary: It's been a long time, and Obi-Wan could use the company. But it also can't happen again.
Fandom: Star Wars
Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Bail Organa
Rating: Hard R
Disclaimer: Lucas's baby, not mine.
Original story: When Day Explodes by Amy Fortuna (elance)
Future Imperfect (The Day Will Explode)
Always in motion is the future.
Among the Jedi, this is a truism, which, Obi-Wan is well aware, means it is true. Any moment can go this way, or that, and it's rare, indeed, for any one man to have control over all the factors which influence any one path. Awareness of the many possible futures is always there, in the Jedi's mind. Awareness of the ways in which his actions may nudge the path one way or another; awareness of costs that may not now be apparent or may later appear greater than anyone would have guessed.
This has been a topic of many days and weeks of contemplation in the years he has spent in the desert.
It is still true; however, this truth is tempered, as is any other, by point of view.
It's another Jedi truism: this and that may each be the truth, from a certain point of view. This is the root of many conflicts, and conflict drives politics. Explaining that two opposing truths are both true is an exercise in frustration, and the Jedi role of negotiator is frequently one of avoiding this concept entirely and instead attempting to bring a third truth to mind.
The Jedi themselves are apolitical, at least in principle, though of course their presence as a council, their influence, protectorship and guidance, have brought and kept them in contact with the Senate and its machinery for centuries. Every time his mind touches on this, it shies away. It's no longer a physical shudder, when he thinks of what the Senate has become, but five years have not dulled it to stillness. This is evidence he needs to spend more time in meditation, but ironically, the loneliness of the desert makes it difficult for him to reach trance. He supposes that in time, he will learn. Right now, he is still lonely, even when Qui-Gon is present, and while he knows he has to find a way live with the Force and no other company, he's not there yet.
At least it's warm, here, during the day. If his body felt as cold as his heart, he'd never make it, and then they truly would be without hope. He's spent the warm days learning his environment and making friends with the local wildlife--if 'friend' is a term one can rightfully apply to a krayt dragon--and, recently, contemplating the issue of point of view.
Somehow learning to reliably see despite the heat mirage has brought a sort of clarity he hasn't had before, not on Naboo or Coruscant or Kamino, and in recent days, as he's felt the approach of an old friend, he's been sorry to see that the motion of the future is spiraling around a finite number of points, and among these, it seems that one outcome is clear: if he succeeds in the opening gambit of this long game of his, still distant to him now, the cost to this man will be high. The future, itself, is in motion, it is true; however, the part on which he has recently focused is not.
His success would be nothing, the game foregoable and the future it brings reanimable, but for that it must be also the recompense for his older failure, and so it must be that he plays it as best he can. He closes his eyes on the still future, and waits. It's unusually warm already, with the first sun just now halfway to its zenith, but for the first time in a long time, he falls into a productive trance readily, his body slowing as he rests and waits. It's paradoxical but true: his pleasure at the prospect of a visit has eased him, and as long as he has the feeling in his grasp, he must take advantage and learn to create it in himself. There are yet many years before he may re-enter the world.
It's mid-afternoon when he emerges from the trance and rises to his feet, hip joints popping, in case he should need the reminder that time is passing and he is aging out here in the wasteland. He drinks a tiny cool clear glass of the precious water that absorbs slowly from the air, and starts the type of simple dinner to which he is accustomed, a sort of ragout of tough hard root vegetables and tougher dried meat cooked in the fat of the local beasts and the juice of a gourd bought at the market. He takes extra care, to make it tasty for the guest whose ship has just landed, a league away through the ravine and over the rise; for his own purposes it is only important that it be nourishing and safe to eat, but Bail is a prince, accustomed to nicer things.
The low edge of the first sun is just dipping to the horizon when the stew is done. Obi-Wan tastes it on his finger and shrugs; it will do. He goes to the door, a towel in his hands wiping them clean, and walks outside, feet sure on the familiar path despite the shifting sands and shale. He's looking, when Bail comes around the jagged turn in the ravine, and waves a hand high, as though he is expected.
Which, of course, he is, to Obi-Wan, but this is hardly something pre-arranged.
Bail is another handful of steps closer before he waves back and hurries his pace, as though they don't have all night. Obi-Wan spends the time it takes for his friend to make his way over reaching to pull open the cover over the decrepit vaperator's spout and drawing a glass. It's exorbitant, he supposes, to offer a glass of this size, but this visit has been a long time coming, and it isn't much of a trick to coerce the air around him here to produce just slightly faster than those on the surrounding farms.
He cools the water--also not much of a trick, though he's sure this is the sort of thing which is earning him a reputation, amongst the small ragged boys who kick a makeshift ball about the open spaces at the market, as a crazy old wizard--and straightens to offer the glass, which Bail takes immediately with a wide, crooked grin. Obi-Wan says nothing as he watches each swallow bob in Bail's throat under smooth skin he will of course wait to touch, though he'd like nothing better than to taste the salt there now.
"I was passing through," Bail says, handing back the glass.
Obi-Wan takes it and lets go, directing it back into the kitchen. It's a frivolous use of the Force, but he doesn't want to take a moment away, and it's justifiable, if he tries; it's important that he maintain enough skill that, when the time comes, he will have what it takes to teach young Luke. "On your way to Naboo?" He can all but hear Yoda's sorrowful cluck at the fallacy, but he also can see Qui-Gon, no more inclined to toe any party line in this state than he ever was in any other, chuckling.
Bail nods and steps toward the door, eyebrows raised in question. Obi-Wan lets his hand be caught when Bail reaches for him, lets himself be tugged into the little house. The first sun is more than halfway gone, the mirage effect rendering the semicircle fluid and thick. Soon it will be dark, and they should go inside and eat, as though the civility of a shared meal is what they've both intended all along.
"Still practicing," Bail observes, his smooth diplomat's fingers grazing Obi-Wan's rough palm, hardened from the hundreds of hours he has gripped a light saber. He doesn't leave him time to answer, immediately shushing him with a finger over his lips; and before they've made it to the table they are kissing, Bail chuckling against Obi-Wan's lips. "I wasn't sure about the beard, before," he says. "But I think I've decided I like it."
"Just as well."
"Yes. Just as well."
They kiss again, slow and soft and even though it should feel urgent--even though Obi-Wan recognizes he does feel the tug of time and destiny--it's not. It's a leisurely kiss that goes on as the air softens from the brighter yellow to the softer orange of a single sun.
At last, Obi-Wan pulls back with a gentle tug of teeth on lip. "Dinner?" he asks. "I assume after such a long trip, you must be hungry."
"You taste better," Bail teases. Obi-Wan turns away to duck into the tiny kitchen.
He chuckles when Bail follows, the greater bulk of him ridiculous in the cramped arch where he stops because clearly he can't actually stand in this room. "I don't doubt it," he says after a moment, all mild innocence and honesty. "But you'll need your strength,"
Bail laughs under his breath and then stops holding it back, allowing the heartier sound to echo in the dining nook to which they adjourn with bowls of stew and thick slices of the chewy fibrous bread that's common here. Even in the worst of times, they've always known how to laugh together, and it feels achingly nice.
They speak very little as they eat, exchanging looks and minor pleasantries and refraining from anything deeper because the more they talk the slower they'll eat, and dinner is obviously not the outcome toward which they are striving.
Finally, the last rays of the suns fade, and the last bites of the stew are sopped up on the bread. Obi-Wan waits a moment in the dark, listening to the native insect life and breathing in the company of another, before he lights a candle, which ought to be reserved for meditation, but then, this is going to be another form of worship, and smiles. "You're wearing too many clothes."
It's only a moment until they're both standing, unfastening belts and buttons as they move toward the bedroom. It's just as small as the kitchen, and Bail has to hunch down to fit through the arch. Obi-Wan takes advantage of this break in his movements to take over the task of removing his shirt, running his hard hands over Bail's smooth chest and shoulders until the fabric drops free on the floor.
He tips his chin up for another kiss and feels his own shirt coming off, his breeches falling. It occurs to him belatedly that he should have taken off his shoes, but it's been a long time--a very long time--and he forgives them both the anxious hurry. They sit together on the side of his bed, pants around their knees and ankles, and kiss again, bodies turned halfway toward each other, and Obi-Wan isn't willing to wait for shoes. He falls back, pulling Bail with him, until they both are on their sides, and like this, it doesn't matter about their feet because knees can push between knees and thighs can rub and oh! and cocks can rub too, and Obi-Wan honestly forgets to breathe for long enough that his lungs object because trance and sex are certainly nonsimilar. "I--" he starts to say, and then he can't continue. He wants to say many things: don't go home, and come again and I've missed you. However, as much as he will justify--the water, the anxiety, the inherently-forbidden connection between them itself--he can't say things that will influence his single goal, and he knows, if he says these things, Bail will come back, and come back, and possibly even stay, and it is true, the future is in motion, but that would bring his purpose here to a grinding and final halt.
It's not a cost that's his to pay. This is all he will get, and it's all he can afford. He moves again, just a fraction, hips sliding forward and cock jumping against Bail's, and then their hands are there between them, guiding and pressing and sliding. Obi-Wan rolls forward, increasing the pressure, and it doesn't take much of the Force for each of them to feel how good it is for the other. He lets that sensation take over and knows Bail does too, his dark hair coarse against Obi-Wan's cheek as they rock against each other, as Bail turns to suckle at the flesh below Obi-Wan's ear.
The motion of the future stops, just for an instant, when they come, warm-wet between them, dripping and slick as they pant and slow and touch again with gentle hands.
At last, Obi-Wan turns onto his back. "Let's sleep," he says, reaching up and pulling a damp towel off the bedside stand where he left it hours earlier, aware it would be needed. He runs it over both their bellies and catches sticky drops on their fingers and cocks and on the bed-cover beneath them "You've a long journey in the morning." He puts the Force behind the statement with regret, subtle and fine and still, enough to push a strong mind, because this cannot happen again no matter how badly he wants it. In the morning, Bail will leave, and he won't be back.
Bail sits up and finishes untangling their pants and shoes, then snatches the towel from him, grinning, and throws it lightly against the headboard of the bed. He clearly isn't perturbed by Obi-Wan's directive, and he gathers Obi-Wan close. "Love you," he says.
Obi-Wan murmurs, a non-answer that is fundamentally dishonest but allows the impression of a returned sentiment to stand as Bail's heart slows and he sleeps. It isn't long until he snores, and Obi-Wan lies awake.
Always in motion is the future. From a certain point of view. He sees it, just there, just in the last few moments: another piece has frozen into place.
He tries to pretend the bright flash he has seen is his body's leftover response, neurons sparking in orgasm, and at the same time, tries to forget, it is not. The two intents cannot coexist, and with a sigh, he acknowledges the truth, and takes a deep breath, burrowing further into Bail's arms.
Despite his troubled thoughts, sleep comes easily held close as he is, and as he drifts off, he is glad.