Fanfic: Like Rain in the Desert (Star Wars, Qui/Obi, post RotS)
I just realized that I never posted this here...
Title: Like Rain in the Desert
Author: sydian
Rating: safe for the kids
Words: 993. Props to Obi-Wan for making me want to linger on this.
Summary: There's a pained look in his eyes as though he wants to ask but is afraid to know.
A/N: AU, set immediately after the events of RotS, assuming that Qui-Gon went on to train Anakin and that Yoda still sent Obi-Wan after Vader.
Feedback: Yes, please. Concrit would be most welcome.
Qui-Gon never asks about him.
Once, on Senator Organa's ship, when the horror is still fresh on your mind (Anakin, lying on the ground, burning with hatred, limbs severed; burning) there's a pained look in his eyes as though he wants to ask but is afraid to know. You look away from him then and focus on your breathing until the memory - anakin burning burning I hate you burning - fades.
Qui-Gon never looks that way at you again.
_
He arrives on Tatooine two days after you, with arms as empty as yours and Leia's sweet babyscent still lingering on his robes.
Your hut seems smaller somehow with Qui-Gon standing in the doorway, his large form blocking out most of the late afternoon sunlight. You beckon him in with a small gesture of your hand - come to me, master - and don't quite smile when his presence turns hut into home.
His shoulders are tense under your hands as you help him out of his outer tunic. He doesn't say anything, just stays where he is, his back to your chest and your hands resting not so lightly on his shoulders. You stand like this for a long time, silent, unmoving, his breath coming in time to yours.
When he steps away from you the sunlight is failing. He goes to fetch his belongings (even fewer than Before) while you busy yourself preparing tea. The spicy scent acts as a soothing counterpoint to Qui-Gon's pacing to and fro, yet you find yourself frowning into your cup.
how can I help you, master?
He joins you moments later, eyes on his cup, shoulders so taut with tension that you can sense his discomfort across the table. You grope for something to say, something significant, something that will make him raise his eyes and look at you.
Anakin said-- is all you come up with. Horrified, you squash the thought, and huddle around your teacup instead. Silence doesn't seem so bad, after all. Eventually, your own gaze locked now on the depths of your cup, the stillness sheds its oppressiveness to reveal an easiness underneath that you'd thought lost. It's a fleeting thing, a shadow of a happy memory that shatters slowly under the weight of your grief.
As if sensing your uneasiness, Qui-Gon reaches out to you, pulling you up and over to the corner where you have laid out two meditation mats (even though you weren't entirely sure he'd come). His hand is firm on your arm, a reassuring reminder of his presence. He doesn't let go until you're both kneeling opposite each other, close enough that your knees are touching.
When he closes his eyes, you spend a long time looking at him, searching him, despairing a little more with each minute sign of his pain that you find. Perhaps it's because you know what to look for; perhaps it's because his grief is so momentous that even Qui-Gon can't keep it contained. It's there in the tight set of his jaw, in the way his breath hitches from time to time, in the way his fingers want to curl into fists where they rest on his thighs.
Your own fingers clench as you feel rage rise inside you and you wish, you pray to the thirteen major deities of your homeworld to be allowed just one second of undiluted hatred for the one who betrayed him. But you know that you can't, that you mustn't permit yourself such weakness, if only for your master's sake.
He can't lose you, too.
You watch him as he sits silently, rigid like a statue, tension rolling off him in almost palpable waves. He's grieving, you realize, without appearing to. Storing his pain behind a mask that he won't ever allow to crack, as if by releasing his grief he would somehow betray the memory of the dead. Punishing himself for another's failure. The thought is agonizing; it spurs you into action.
Letting your eyes drift close, you scoot forward until your knees press tightly against Qui-Gon's. You slow your breath and slip into a light meditation, safely grounded in your center. Then you drop your shields, listening. Waiting.
And after a while, in the silence of the desert night, tears start to spill from the corners of your eyes.
_
You wake with your head resting against Qui-Gon's shoulder, both of you still kneeling on the ground. One of his hands is lightly massaging the back of your neck; you can see the other resting calmly on his thigh.
Good, you think, this is good.
You start to move away but a slightly increased pressure on your neck stills you.
"Shh. Rest now, Obi-Wan."
His voice is rough and scratchy as he speaks, a thorny flower blossoming in the desert stillness. It's the most beautiful thing you have heard in a long time. So you comply, relaxing against your companion, content to let sleep reclaim you.
_
He is gone in the morning, his footsteps in the sand already being overblown by a scorching wind. Your heart clenches with concern, a tight fist in your chest that doesn't uncurl until he returns in the evening, his face burned by the sun and encrusted with salt. Silence is swirling thickly around him, but there's a calm in his eyes that speaks of a storm gone by.
_
That night, you wake with your head cradled in Qui-Gon's lap, your body sprawled on the mat he's still kneeling on. He's holding on to you with gentle hands, his eyes so intent on yours that your heart stutters in your chest.
"You will see him again," he whispers, frowning, as though there's more but he won't tell. You find you don't care, now, because then he bends down to kiss you softly on the mouth, his skin teardamp against yours, and you thank the Force that you're the one he shares himself with.
Fin.
Title: Like Rain in the Desert
Author: sydian
Rating: safe for the kids
Words: 993. Props to Obi-Wan for making me want to linger on this.
Summary: There's a pained look in his eyes as though he wants to ask but is afraid to know.
A/N: AU, set immediately after the events of RotS, assuming that Qui-Gon went on to train Anakin and that Yoda still sent Obi-Wan after Vader.
Feedback: Yes, please. Concrit would be most welcome.
Qui-Gon never asks about him.
Once, on Senator Organa's ship, when the horror is still fresh on your mind (Anakin, lying on the ground, burning with hatred, limbs severed; burning) there's a pained look in his eyes as though he wants to ask but is afraid to know. You look away from him then and focus on your breathing until the memory - anakin burning burning I hate you burning - fades.
Qui-Gon never looks that way at you again.
_
He arrives on Tatooine two days after you, with arms as empty as yours and Leia's sweet babyscent still lingering on his robes.
Your hut seems smaller somehow with Qui-Gon standing in the doorway, his large form blocking out most of the late afternoon sunlight. You beckon him in with a small gesture of your hand - come to me, master - and don't quite smile when his presence turns hut into home.
His shoulders are tense under your hands as you help him out of his outer tunic. He doesn't say anything, just stays where he is, his back to your chest and your hands resting not so lightly on his shoulders. You stand like this for a long time, silent, unmoving, his breath coming in time to yours.
When he steps away from you the sunlight is failing. He goes to fetch his belongings (even fewer than Before) while you busy yourself preparing tea. The spicy scent acts as a soothing counterpoint to Qui-Gon's pacing to and fro, yet you find yourself frowning into your cup.
how can I help you, master?
He joins you moments later, eyes on his cup, shoulders so taut with tension that you can sense his discomfort across the table. You grope for something to say, something significant, something that will make him raise his eyes and look at you.
Anakin said-- is all you come up with. Horrified, you squash the thought, and huddle around your teacup instead. Silence doesn't seem so bad, after all. Eventually, your own gaze locked now on the depths of your cup, the stillness sheds its oppressiveness to reveal an easiness underneath that you'd thought lost. It's a fleeting thing, a shadow of a happy memory that shatters slowly under the weight of your grief.
As if sensing your uneasiness, Qui-Gon reaches out to you, pulling you up and over to the corner where you have laid out two meditation mats (even though you weren't entirely sure he'd come). His hand is firm on your arm, a reassuring reminder of his presence. He doesn't let go until you're both kneeling opposite each other, close enough that your knees are touching.
When he closes his eyes, you spend a long time looking at him, searching him, despairing a little more with each minute sign of his pain that you find. Perhaps it's because you know what to look for; perhaps it's because his grief is so momentous that even Qui-Gon can't keep it contained. It's there in the tight set of his jaw, in the way his breath hitches from time to time, in the way his fingers want to curl into fists where they rest on his thighs.
Your own fingers clench as you feel rage rise inside you and you wish, you pray to the thirteen major deities of your homeworld to be allowed just one second of undiluted hatred for the one who betrayed him. But you know that you can't, that you mustn't permit yourself such weakness, if only for your master's sake.
He can't lose you, too.
You watch him as he sits silently, rigid like a statue, tension rolling off him in almost palpable waves. He's grieving, you realize, without appearing to. Storing his pain behind a mask that he won't ever allow to crack, as if by releasing his grief he would somehow betray the memory of the dead. Punishing himself for another's failure. The thought is agonizing; it spurs you into action.
Letting your eyes drift close, you scoot forward until your knees press tightly against Qui-Gon's. You slow your breath and slip into a light meditation, safely grounded in your center. Then you drop your shields, listening. Waiting.
And after a while, in the silence of the desert night, tears start to spill from the corners of your eyes.
_
You wake with your head resting against Qui-Gon's shoulder, both of you still kneeling on the ground. One of his hands is lightly massaging the back of your neck; you can see the other resting calmly on his thigh.
Good, you think, this is good.
You start to move away but a slightly increased pressure on your neck stills you.
"Shh. Rest now, Obi-Wan."
His voice is rough and scratchy as he speaks, a thorny flower blossoming in the desert stillness. It's the most beautiful thing you have heard in a long time. So you comply, relaxing against your companion, content to let sleep reclaim you.
_
He is gone in the morning, his footsteps in the sand already being overblown by a scorching wind. Your heart clenches with concern, a tight fist in your chest that doesn't uncurl until he returns in the evening, his face burned by the sun and encrusted with salt. Silence is swirling thickly around him, but there's a calm in his eyes that speaks of a storm gone by.
_
That night, you wake with your head cradled in Qui-Gon's lap, your body sprawled on the mat he's still kneeling on. He's holding on to you with gentle hands, his eyes so intent on yours that your heart stutters in your chest.
"You will see him again," he whispers, frowning, as though there's more but he won't tell. You find you don't care, now, because then he bends down to kiss you softly on the mouth, his skin teardamp against yours, and you thank the Force that you're the one he shares himself with.
Fin.