Star Wars: Quinlan Vos-- R for ramshackle
Title: Blown Off
author: helgaleena
helgaleenas@yahoo.com
fandom: Star Wars Clone Wars
pairing: Obi-Wan-Quinlan, Obi/Bail
category: angst-slash
rating: R
word count: 1606
summary: Quinlan Vos wishes he could do more for his old friend Obi-Wan, after Geonosis, but he isn't equipped.
prompt: ramshackle
He was dressed as an information smuggler named Korto Vos, in a seedy part of the Capital where the Labyrinth bled out the edges of CoCo Town, waiting for his contact and feeling sorry for himself.
After Geonosis, he'd really thought that Obi-Wan might come to him, cash in some of the favors he'd done for Quin over the years, take some comfort. But he didn't. It was absurd to feel responsible for what happened to Obi on that dirt-ball full of bugs, but he still did. Spies were supposed to prevent wars, and he had not, and there was now war. Keeping the peace was no longer an option.
His information was now about arms, and strategies, not drugs or felons. And Kenobi was going to be a general, any day now.
Obi-Wan had given him so much of his old self back, after the mind-wipe on Ryloth, when he'd been merely a Jedi-shaped framework that struggled to understand why he was as he was at that point in history, why his hair was black and matted, why his sabre felt better in one hand or the other, what bothered him about Jedi he'd supposedly known well, and didn't now. He'd stood there after reporting to the Council, not knowing what he ought to do next, and this beautiful man with aquamarine eyes had walked up to him, exuding compassion, and clasped his hand with both of his own. Obi-Wan Kenobi did not stand on ceremony; he made himself completely known, this friend and fellow Master, who'd known him since they both were boys. Recognition had flooded through his psychometry like a scented deluge of joy. He had clung to Obi-Wan for dear life, trying to preserve his decorum in that public place, murmuring repeatedly his thanks.
Night after night, once the healers were done with him, his old friend had lain beside him, in his arms, skin to skin, sharing memories by letting him touch. His hand would trace a cream-fleshed collarbone, and vividly Obi-Wan would recall when that spot had been abraded by Kiffar stubble, purpled by Kiffar teeth and suction, and how it had made him react at the time. Young Quinlan Vos and his fellow padawan had done a lot of experimenting, taught one another many things. They relived them, re-enacted them, built upon them, and let them provide conversations that filled in Quinlan's missing life-- until he was finally ready to bring back his own padawan, Aayla, from the encroaching darkness.
He would not have been in time to save her from the Dark Anzati, if not for Obi-Wan. And all his undercover work since, his efforts to prevent that debacle at Geonosis, had only resulted in his dear friend's wounding. Dooku hadn't been stopped in time, and had done unspeakable things, to Obi-Wan and to his student as well, before putting them on display to be slaughtered in the arena..
He knew the sort of tactics Dooku was purported to use, to break the will of prisoners. He didn't bother with the worst, the ones interdicted within the Republic for their cruelty, for the common, easily broken beings. But he indulged in using them for Force-sensitives, because it took so much less to hurt them more. There was a raggedness unmistakeable in the Force signature of those who had been so used. He'd seen it in the heroic centerpieces of the spectacle that day, Obi and his padawan. They had shone in the Force anyway, despite the signatures of abuse, brighter than the clean garments they wore.
That overly sunny, cylindrical pile of layered spitcrete, brown as the dust of Geonosis itself, swam again behind his eyes. The Count had laundered their Jedi garments for a better showing, before stringing them up from three massive pillars, one each for Anakin, Obi-Wan and Senator Amidala. The buzz of the Geonosian crowd, the flapping of their huge wings to cool themselves, had been deafening. Yet it had seemed as if the three of them had gained energy from the very presence of each other, and each had fought valiantly to preserve their lives, until the crucial Jedi intervention. He'd seen it, from the shadows. It was hard to tell which had lit up more at the sight of the other, master or Padawan.
Yes, they'd fought on, and been triumphantly astride the reek sent to kill them, rendered suddenly as biddable as an eeopie. The Force had been with them, and they'd chased down Dooku himself as well, when the main force of clone troops arrived, and the wise rat was running. And they had managed to live, when so many had died.
Anakin bore the mark of his ordeal on the outside, his mechanical arm. But Obi-Wan-- his wounds were inside. Quin could tell, just from how his old friend had been carrying himself, fancying himself so stoic and inscrutable. Maybe it was selfish of him, to want to repay Obi-Wan some of that healing, in the same way he'd been helped earlier. But he couldn't ask. Obi-Wan didn't come.
If this Force raggedness that he viewed from afar persisted, he was going to have to go to Obi-Wan. But the correct juncture in the ensuing days, in the Force currents of Temple life, never seemed to come. He had to keep up his networks, dress down as a lowlife information smuggler, and haunt the outer rim of Invisible Sector, where it ran into CoCo Town.
He took a pull on his ale, and looked idly at the sabacc cards in his hand, watching them change. There was dirt under his nails. It crept up on you, in this neighborhood. Cursorily he checked to see if his psychometry was letting him know what the cards would do in the crucial split second before each shift. He hadn't discarded for some time, or augmented his hand. Too busy brooding. And drinking. He emptied the bottle while he was at it.
Was it with Anakin, where Obi-Wan was taking his solace now? The two had always been exceptionally close, bonded by the loss of Qui-Gon, on top of the padawan bond.
But it couldn't be Anakin this time, who was putting Kenobi back together. He'd been sent off immediately to Naboo again, to tuck the little Senator back into the bosom of her family. It had to be somebody else. Mace? Stass Allie? Garen?
That's when he saw them, accross the way. This area was close enough to Uscru District to have a few swanky venues tucked in between storefronts, above the street. There was a tall Alderaani, expensively but soberly dressed, hand in hand with the perfectly proportioned man in form-fitting black, full-bearded, his hair swept back tightly into a reddish tail. It pleased Quin to see Obi-Wan so at ease. The taller man inclined his head, listening to him, revealing an immaculate goatee and a distinctive profile. Bail Organa. Beneath his fingers, the cards shifted suits again. The hand was still mediocre. They were turning in to a doorway...
They entered an extremely exclusive and discreet private club, that catered to those who mixed pain with their pleasure, in certain highly disciplined ways. Together.
This was something Quin did not want to know. Korto Vos had no use for the knowledge, either. He let his scowl deepen, and threw the entire hand face up upon the table. Wouldn't have won anyway.
Stalking to the bar for another ale, he struggled with what he had seen, trying to reassemble himself before his contact arrived. It felt as if a hot and ruthless breeze had blown accross the short distance between the buildings, right through his synth-leather vest, shredding everything in his chest and then scattering the pieces like dusty chaff, into crevices behind his eyes that made them water.
Bail Organa...a damned prince. Not that Obi-Wan didn't deserve the best-- he did. Hells, maybe it took an aristocrat to fix what another aristocrat had inflicted. He looked at his reflection in the glass behind the bar, rough and scowling, tribal stripe vivid over his cheeks beneath the sooty mane and stubble. He looked down at the bottle in his hand, at the scuffed gauntlets he had on over his wrist-wraps, part of the kit of a former Kiffex Guardian, on the run from his past.
Not prince material, this. Princes didn't drink ale from the bottle, if they drank ale at all. Princes had wine, and fine tailoring, and silken gags and blindfolds, no doubt. There was absolutely no need for him to be involved at all.
He could not, with the Force or without it, think of a single reason to struggle against the unseen breeze that was blowing him apart, his chest hollow like that damned arena full of chopped up droids and the bodies of his friends, devastation where once there was fanfare. The natives were no doubt shoveling the place out, spit-plastering the cracks, getting ready for the next spectacle, with droid manufacture simply being curtailed to civilian levels.
He was getting sick of CoCo Town, sick of the Works, and of Invisec, sick of the Crimson Corridor and the labyrinths below Corusca Circle. Hells, he was sick of the damned Jedi Temple as well. Korto Vos wanted any excuse to get off-world. Where he wouldn't have to watch senators and generals and princes in dark side-streets...
He needed to shovel all the detritus out of his chest and into the Force. It had not been well built in the first place. Before his contact got here. Hells, he couldn't even get drunk until after that.
end
author: helgaleena
helgaleenas@yahoo.com
fandom: Star Wars Clone Wars
pairing: Obi-Wan-Quinlan, Obi/Bail
category: angst-slash
rating: R
word count: 1606
summary: Quinlan Vos wishes he could do more for his old friend Obi-Wan, after Geonosis, but he isn't equipped.
prompt: ramshackle
He was dressed as an information smuggler named Korto Vos, in a seedy part of the Capital where the Labyrinth bled out the edges of CoCo Town, waiting for his contact and feeling sorry for himself.
After Geonosis, he'd really thought that Obi-Wan might come to him, cash in some of the favors he'd done for Quin over the years, take some comfort. But he didn't. It was absurd to feel responsible for what happened to Obi on that dirt-ball full of bugs, but he still did. Spies were supposed to prevent wars, and he had not, and there was now war. Keeping the peace was no longer an option.
His information was now about arms, and strategies, not drugs or felons. And Kenobi was going to be a general, any day now.
Obi-Wan had given him so much of his old self back, after the mind-wipe on Ryloth, when he'd been merely a Jedi-shaped framework that struggled to understand why he was as he was at that point in history, why his hair was black and matted, why his sabre felt better in one hand or the other, what bothered him about Jedi he'd supposedly known well, and didn't now. He'd stood there after reporting to the Council, not knowing what he ought to do next, and this beautiful man with aquamarine eyes had walked up to him, exuding compassion, and clasped his hand with both of his own. Obi-Wan Kenobi did not stand on ceremony; he made himself completely known, this friend and fellow Master, who'd known him since they both were boys. Recognition had flooded through his psychometry like a scented deluge of joy. He had clung to Obi-Wan for dear life, trying to preserve his decorum in that public place, murmuring repeatedly his thanks.
Night after night, once the healers were done with him, his old friend had lain beside him, in his arms, skin to skin, sharing memories by letting him touch. His hand would trace a cream-fleshed collarbone, and vividly Obi-Wan would recall when that spot had been abraded by Kiffar stubble, purpled by Kiffar teeth and suction, and how it had made him react at the time. Young Quinlan Vos and his fellow padawan had done a lot of experimenting, taught one another many things. They relived them, re-enacted them, built upon them, and let them provide conversations that filled in Quinlan's missing life-- until he was finally ready to bring back his own padawan, Aayla, from the encroaching darkness.
He would not have been in time to save her from the Dark Anzati, if not for Obi-Wan. And all his undercover work since, his efforts to prevent that debacle at Geonosis, had only resulted in his dear friend's wounding. Dooku hadn't been stopped in time, and had done unspeakable things, to Obi-Wan and to his student as well, before putting them on display to be slaughtered in the arena..
He knew the sort of tactics Dooku was purported to use, to break the will of prisoners. He didn't bother with the worst, the ones interdicted within the Republic for their cruelty, for the common, easily broken beings. But he indulged in using them for Force-sensitives, because it took so much less to hurt them more. There was a raggedness unmistakeable in the Force signature of those who had been so used. He'd seen it in the heroic centerpieces of the spectacle that day, Obi and his padawan. They had shone in the Force anyway, despite the signatures of abuse, brighter than the clean garments they wore.
That overly sunny, cylindrical pile of layered spitcrete, brown as the dust of Geonosis itself, swam again behind his eyes. The Count had laundered their Jedi garments for a better showing, before stringing them up from three massive pillars, one each for Anakin, Obi-Wan and Senator Amidala. The buzz of the Geonosian crowd, the flapping of their huge wings to cool themselves, had been deafening. Yet it had seemed as if the three of them had gained energy from the very presence of each other, and each had fought valiantly to preserve their lives, until the crucial Jedi intervention. He'd seen it, from the shadows. It was hard to tell which had lit up more at the sight of the other, master or Padawan.
Yes, they'd fought on, and been triumphantly astride the reek sent to kill them, rendered suddenly as biddable as an eeopie. The Force had been with them, and they'd chased down Dooku himself as well, when the main force of clone troops arrived, and the wise rat was running. And they had managed to live, when so many had died.
Anakin bore the mark of his ordeal on the outside, his mechanical arm. But Obi-Wan-- his wounds were inside. Quin could tell, just from how his old friend had been carrying himself, fancying himself so stoic and inscrutable. Maybe it was selfish of him, to want to repay Obi-Wan some of that healing, in the same way he'd been helped earlier. But he couldn't ask. Obi-Wan didn't come.
If this Force raggedness that he viewed from afar persisted, he was going to have to go to Obi-Wan. But the correct juncture in the ensuing days, in the Force currents of Temple life, never seemed to come. He had to keep up his networks, dress down as a lowlife information smuggler, and haunt the outer rim of Invisible Sector, where it ran into CoCo Town.
He took a pull on his ale, and looked idly at the sabacc cards in his hand, watching them change. There was dirt under his nails. It crept up on you, in this neighborhood. Cursorily he checked to see if his psychometry was letting him know what the cards would do in the crucial split second before each shift. He hadn't discarded for some time, or augmented his hand. Too busy brooding. And drinking. He emptied the bottle while he was at it.
Was it with Anakin, where Obi-Wan was taking his solace now? The two had always been exceptionally close, bonded by the loss of Qui-Gon, on top of the padawan bond.
But it couldn't be Anakin this time, who was putting Kenobi back together. He'd been sent off immediately to Naboo again, to tuck the little Senator back into the bosom of her family. It had to be somebody else. Mace? Stass Allie? Garen?
That's when he saw them, accross the way. This area was close enough to Uscru District to have a few swanky venues tucked in between storefronts, above the street. There was a tall Alderaani, expensively but soberly dressed, hand in hand with the perfectly proportioned man in form-fitting black, full-bearded, his hair swept back tightly into a reddish tail. It pleased Quin to see Obi-Wan so at ease. The taller man inclined his head, listening to him, revealing an immaculate goatee and a distinctive profile. Bail Organa. Beneath his fingers, the cards shifted suits again. The hand was still mediocre. They were turning in to a doorway...
They entered an extremely exclusive and discreet private club, that catered to those who mixed pain with their pleasure, in certain highly disciplined ways. Together.
This was something Quin did not want to know. Korto Vos had no use for the knowledge, either. He let his scowl deepen, and threw the entire hand face up upon the table. Wouldn't have won anyway.
Stalking to the bar for another ale, he struggled with what he had seen, trying to reassemble himself before his contact arrived. It felt as if a hot and ruthless breeze had blown accross the short distance between the buildings, right through his synth-leather vest, shredding everything in his chest and then scattering the pieces like dusty chaff, into crevices behind his eyes that made them water.
Bail Organa...a damned prince. Not that Obi-Wan didn't deserve the best-- he did. Hells, maybe it took an aristocrat to fix what another aristocrat had inflicted. He looked at his reflection in the glass behind the bar, rough and scowling, tribal stripe vivid over his cheeks beneath the sooty mane and stubble. He looked down at the bottle in his hand, at the scuffed gauntlets he had on over his wrist-wraps, part of the kit of a former Kiffex Guardian, on the run from his past.
Not prince material, this. Princes didn't drink ale from the bottle, if they drank ale at all. Princes had wine, and fine tailoring, and silken gags and blindfolds, no doubt. There was absolutely no need for him to be involved at all.
He could not, with the Force or without it, think of a single reason to struggle against the unseen breeze that was blowing him apart, his chest hollow like that damned arena full of chopped up droids and the bodies of his friends, devastation where once there was fanfare. The natives were no doubt shoveling the place out, spit-plastering the cracks, getting ready for the next spectacle, with droid manufacture simply being curtailed to civilian levels.
He was getting sick of CoCo Town, sick of the Works, and of Invisec, sick of the Crimson Corridor and the labyrinths below Corusca Circle. Hells, he was sick of the damned Jedi Temple as well. Korto Vos wanted any excuse to get off-world. Where he wouldn't have to watch senators and generals and princes in dark side-streets...
He needed to shovel all the detritus out of his chest and into the Force. It had not been well built in the first place. Before his contact got here. Hells, he couldn't even get drunk until after that.
end