Title: Assassins Always Get Paid (1/7)
Author: Darth Diebin darthdiebin@hotmail.com (Feedback loved and repayed
with nekid Jedi!)
Rating: Part 1 is PG-13
Archive: All lists can take it. Anyone else can too as long as they shoot me
an e-mail saying where!
Summery: You're an assassin. Obi-Wan is an old friend who needs a place to
hide. Qui-Gon is a not-so accommodating Houseguest.
Disclaimer: All hail the God King Lucas, creator of the stuff all women's
fantasies are made off. Share the wealth, Georgie--you keep the money, we'll
play with the toys.
~~~~~~~~~~~

You're just getting ready to go to sleep when you hear the soft knock on
your door. Almost without realizing it you find yourself with a blaster in
your hand, sunk into a defensive crouch. You weren't expecting anyone--and
assassins don't have random visitors. Ever.

A pause, and then another knock. A pause, three more.

Still staring at the door, you put your blaster away.

Pause. Not quite--

Knock.

Pause. Almost--

Two knocks.

You're already moving when you hear the slurred, "S'me . . . please--" from
the other side of the door. Even if the code hadn't identified him, the soft
accent, even blurred by what sounded like pain, told you exactly who was
standing outside your rooms.

Worried, you fling open the door just in time to catch Obi-Wan Kenobi as he
stumbles across the threshold into your arms.

He's bruised, bloody, incoherent--and obviously holding onto consciousness
by the thinnest of threads. Heart pounding in your chest you drag him across
the room, lowering him as gently as possible into your bed before returning
to shut the door and activate the locks. All of them.

"What happened?" you whisper after returning to the bed, voice soft as you
carefully begin to peel the blood-soaked tunics away from him. A tolerance
for blood is definitely a requirement for your profession, but the site of
his injuries still make you wince.

"Negotiations went wrong," Obi-Wan grates out, twisting slightly and letting
out a low moan as you ease his pants down past a painful blaster burn in his
leg. Hands long accustomed to delivering mortal wounds skate carefully over
Obi-Wan's body as you check his injuries almost frantically--but as far as
you can tell, he'll survive.

"Where's Qui-Gon?" you ask softly, bending down to drag your extensive
first-aid kit out from under the bed. Nothing as advanced as he's used to,
for sure--but you've patched yourself up more than once. It'll do.

"Call him--" Obi-Wan's hand catches yours and leads it to his discarded
belt. "Comlink. Bring him here. Safe here."

You freeze, staring down at the face of your friend and sometime lover.
Obi-Wan has known you for a long time, knows your past, and accepts the fact
that you make your way through the world in a slightly less than legal
fashion.

Qui-Gon doesn't know of your existence--but if he did he certainly wouldn't
approve. After all, Qui-Gon is a Jedi Master, paragon of morality and
protector of the weak.

You're just an assassin. A rather successful one at that. And now Obi-Wan
wants you to invite a Jedi Master into your hiding place.

As well march down to the police headquarters and lock yourself into a cell.
With a full confession.

"He--he won't judge," Obi-Wan says suddenly, his trembling hand reaching up
to touch your cheek. "Please--save him."

"Let me at least help you first," you temporize, reaching down to sort
through the first-aid kit for a bacta spray. Before you can find it his hand
clasps yours again--bruising strength despite his injuries.

"I won't let you touch me until you've called him," Obi-Wan says, his voice
shaking with exhaustion. "He's my Master. I need to take care of him."

Biting off your comment that you thought it was the other way around, you
reach out and snag the comlink. "You owe me, Kenobi. A week of mind-blowing
sex. Flowers. A five course meal that you cook for me. By yourself. Wearing
nothing but an apron. Maybe even new boots."

"All of it and more, love," Obi-Wan promises.

"Just don't forget it, Kenobi," you growl, flipping the comlink on and
waiting for a reply. "Assassin's always get paid."

Obi-Wan smiles, sinking back to the bed in relief as he hears the strained
voice of his Master over the comlink.

Sighing, you invite the Jedi Master into your lair.

~~~~~~~~~

His eyes have been on you for a half an hour now, staring at you as you go
through your morning stretches. How the man can sit so insufferably still is
beyond you, but he has been there for at least an hour, only his eyes moving
as they follow you about the room.

Disapproval practically rolls off him. It only took him ten minutes to
discern your profession--how he figured it out so quickly will always be a
mystery to you--but it was only a few moments more before he was on his
feet, ready to toss Obi-Wan over his shoulder and leave. If it hadn't been
for Obi-Wan's rather serious wounds, chances are he would be long gone by
now, probably tipping the police off to your whereabouts on his way.

That had been last night. He'd insisted on sleeping next to his Padawan, as
if you were some man-eating spider who was planning on sneaking into the
bedroom in the night and devouring Obi-Wan whole. Upon rising this morning
he had refused to speak to you, staring at you from that horribly lofty
height as if you were a dangerous animal that was necessary, but far from
friendly.

And you had even cooked him breakfast. Ungrateful bastard.

Trying to ignore the force of those blue eyes on you is difficult, but
somehow you succeed in finishing your morning workout. Settling to the floor
you begin your stretches, a routine designed to keep your body in acrobatic
shape.

"You're overextending," he says suddenly, startling you enough in the middle
of one of your complicated back bends that you lose your balance and sway
dangerously. Feeling the muscles in your back screaming you carefully
readjust, you finish the move before bouncing to your feet to glare at the
Jedi Master.

"I thank you to keep your comments to yourself," you snap, eyes blazing.

"I was trying to be helpful," Qui-Gon says, voice unreadable.

"Well I /am/ being helpful," you reply harshly. "I'm feeding you and
sheltering you while your Padawan heals. The least you could do is keep your
disapproval and your smart comments to yourself."

"Are you Force sensitive?" Qui-Gon asks, voice as even as if he hadn't even
heard your angry outburst.

"I'm dead as a stone," you reply, rolling your eyes. "I've been through this
with Obi-Wan already. He's got more of the midichlorian things in his damn
little toe than I've got in my whole body." Glaring suddenly you bite your
lip, angry at having given in this much information up. "It's not any of
your business anyway."

"I'm just curious. You're in remarkable shape for someone who has had no
training and is not in tune with the living Force." You can almost hear
grudging respect in his voice, but the strains of disapproval are still
there.

Is the Jedi Master trying to have a conversation with you? With an assassin?

"I've had plenty of training," you reply a little bitterly. "More training
than you, I'd imagine. And I spend a great percentage of my time keeping my
body in this shape."

"So you can kill people," Qui-Gon says calmly, springing the trap you so
blindly walked into.

For a few moments you stare at him, at loss for words. "So I can survive,"
you finally respond, turning slowly on your heel and drifting towards the
door. "If it's okay with you, your worship, I'm going to go check on my
friend."

"My Padawan would not be friends with an assassin," Qui-Gon says suddenly,
his voice so confused it makes you pause. Have you actually managed to push
a Jedi off balance?

"Maybe you should keep closer tabs on him," you reply, casting a mocking
smile at him over your shoulder. "He's certainly more than made friends with
me."

The last thing you see as the door slides shut is Qui-Gon's mouth, hanging
slightly open.
~~~~~~~~


Title: Assassins Always Get Paid (2/8)
Author: Darth Diebin <darthdiebin@hotmail.com>
Rating: Part 2 is PG-13
Spoilers: Shhhh---JEDI ARE HUNKS! Whoops, let it slip. Okay, no more
spoilers other than that.
Archive: All lists can take it. Anyone else can too as long as they shoot me
an e-mail saying where!
Summery: You're an assassin. Obi-Wan is an old friend who needs a place to
hide. Qui-Gon is a not-so accommodating Houseguest.
Disclaimer: All hail the God King Lucas, creator of the stuff all women's
fantasies are made off. Share the wealth, Georgie--you keep the money, we'll
play with the toys.
~~~~~~~~~~~

"You're goading him," Obi-Wan snaps, disapproval in his sea-gray eyes.
"Please don't."

"He's being an arrogant ass," you respond calmly, ignoring Obi-Wan's soft
growl. "Stay still--I'm checking your arm."

"I told you we healed it," Obi-Wan replies, rolling his eyes as you continue
to unwrap the bandage. "I'm perfectly fine--all I need is a little rest. I
wore myself out healing."

As much as you'd like to disagree, the horrible gash on his arm is healed to
a thin white scar, held together carefully by medical tape. "I can't win
with you," you grumble, wrapping his arm back up and shaking your head.

Before you can pull away strong fingers sneak up around your neck, pulling
you down so that your face is close to his. "I believe I promised you
something about mind-blowing sex," he says softly, brushing a soft kiss
across one cheek. "I dare say you'd win with that."

"A weeks worth," you correct, leaning down to capture his lower lip between
your own, sucking gently. A low growl rumbles through his chest as his other
hand comes up, pulling you onto the bed as his lips latch onto yours,
kissing you with deep intensity.

He has you rolled over and trapped beneath him, lips still devouring yours,
when the sound of the door whisking open makes you jerk back. Obi-Wan rolls
over with a grimace, his face flushing as he closes his eyes and shakes his
head.

"What do you want," you growl softly at the imposing figure of the Jedi
Master. "And haven't you ever heard of knocking?"

"What are you doing to my Padawan?" Qui-Gon thunders in response, striding
forward to pry you off of the bed with one large hand.

Before he can lever you off the bed you flip, body twisting as you push off
of his shoulders for leverage, spinning around in the air and landing with a
muttered curse on the floor behind him.

"Don't touch me, Master Jinn," you spit as the man twirls, his robe flying
out behind him.

"Don't touch my Padawan!" Qui-Gon responds, voice low. "He is injured, and I
will not let you take advantage of him--"

"/Me/ take advantage of /him/?" you choke, the accusation so comical you
can't help but laugh. "Don't know Obi-Wan very well, do you?"

"Hey now--" Obi-Wan protests from the corner, propping himself up on one arm
and leveling a glare at you. "Don't you start with that . . ."

"He started it, braid-boy," you snarl. "Next time you want to bring a
friend, bring one who isn't so stiff and proper that he can't sit down!"

"There will /be/ no next time," Qui-Gon exclaims at the same time Obi-Wan
mutters, "Never complained about stiff friends /before/, have you?"

Both men stop and stare at each other, Obi-Wan slightly startled and Qui-Gon
pale as death.

"You come here often?" Qui-Gon demands, crossing his arms and tucking his
hands into the sleeves of his robes.

"She is my friend," Obi-Wan responds softly, eyes cast down. He struggles to
sit up and only Qui-Gon's gentle hand on his shoulder prevents him. "No,
Padawan--save your strength. We need you healthy."

"As you wish, my Master," Obi-Wan replies, voice subdued as he lets himself
be pushed back into the bed, the blankets settled around him. You roll your
eyes at his submissviness--and at the fact that you can tell he's not faking
it. Obi-Wan really would defer to this walking mountain in anything.

That thought gives you pause--you know that Obi-Wan is a smart man with an
independent spirit. What kind of a man would Qui-Gon have to be to demand
his immediate and total respect and obedience?

"Obi-Wan, I would like to ask you just one question." Qui-Gon has settled on
the edge of the bed, one hand still resting on Obi-Wan's forehead. "How did
you become friends with an assassin?"

Obi-Wan flushes slightly, and you fight to hide a grin. Obi-Wan shoots you a
wild-eyed look, and you can almost see his mind frantically groping for an
explanation what won't disgrace him totally.

"He saved me," you blurt suddenly, shooting a glare at Kenobi as his eyes
widen and he opens his mouth to protest. "I was being attacked on Coruscant
several years ago in a back alley. He beat off my attackers and got me back
to my hotel and took care of me. We became friends."

Qui-Gon's piercing blue gaze roots you to the floor, and you suddenly know
what your targets must feel like when they turn to see you coming for them.
No escape, no hope--just fate, rushing at you too fast to stop.

::I didn't lie,:: you tell yourself, wishing you believed it. One of you
/had/ been drunk, and the other one /had/ saved them and dragged them back
to a hotel to heal. But damned if it had been you overindulging . . .

"We will discuss this later," Qui-Gon says sharply, shaking his head at you
as if he knows you're lying. Turning back to his Padawan, he smoothes the
tousled hair back. "Time for you to sleep, Obi-Wan," he says, his voice
suddenly gentle. "You need rest."

Standing, Qui-Gon opens the door and gestures to you, his actions saying
more clearly than words that he's not going anywhere until you're safely out
of seducing range of his Padawan.

"I'll talk to you when you wake up, Obi," you say, shooting him an
exasperated glare. "Go to sleep, braid-boy."

~~~~~~~~~~

It's almost impossible to sneak up on you, but Qui-Gon does a fair job of it
that evening as you're trying to cook dinner. Used to only taking care of
yourself, making complicated meals is totally beyond you--but with no help
in sight your inferior talents are just going to have to suffice. You are in
the process of swearing vehemently at the vegetables when you feel a
presence approaching. Spinning, you find Qui-Gon a few steps behind you,
backing you neatly into a corner.

"Back off, Jedi man," you say cheerfully, brandishing your cutting knife. He
gives you a level look, his entire demeanor screaming louder than words that
you're behaving immaturely.

"You lied to me," Qui-Gon says softly, taking another step forward. "That
story you told me about how you met my Padawan--it wasn't true. Somehow I
doubt that you ever need saving."

Staring up at the massive man towering above you, you'd be willing to argue
that point. You've never regretted your small stature before--being small
gives you a distinct advantage in your profession--but when faced with a man
like Qui-Gon, you have a hard time not feeling dwarfed.

Well hell, you could always bite his elbow.

"Who's to say that I didn't just overindulge?" you ask with a fake smile,
shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other when the Master continues
to just stare down at you. "It happens to the best of us."

"It doesn't fit," he says, almost musingly, his eyes still pinning you to
your spot.

"Doesn't fit?" you repeat dumbly. "Hey, if this is Jedi-talk, could you go
have it with someone who will appreciate it? I'm trying to make dinner."

"According to my Padawan, 'trying' is the operative word," Qui-Gon says with
a slight smile. "He sent me in here out of self-defense. Apparently he's not
a big fan of your cooking."

"Ungrateful bastard," you mutter, turning your back to Qui-Gon and resuming
your butchering of vegetables. "You'd think he'd at least refrain from
telling bad stories. I haven't told any about him."

"I'd rather not hear them," Qui-Gon says ruefully. "I was just told by my
oh-so-respectful Padawan that, to put it bluntly, I'm a frump."

"A /frump/?" you exclaim, spinning around to face Qui-Gon again.

A smile lights the older man's face. "I believe that was the word he used. I
believe it was something I deserved." Shaking his head, he holds out a hand
to you. "I have not behaved fairly--something my Padawan brought to my
attention rather forcefully. It is not in my nature to be judgmental, but I
must admit that you are the first person I've met who is a professional--"

"Killer?" you finish mildly. You reach out a hand to Qui-Gon and clasp his
briefly. "No offense taken--well, not really. I knew it would happen when I
called you to come here. I didn't expect a Jedi Master to approve of me."

"And I lived up to that expectation," Qui-Gon says sadly, dropping your
hand. "Or should I say that I lived down to it . . ."

"Don't worry," you say briskly, shrugging one shoulder uncomfortably. "Just
help out with supper, and we're straight."

"Straight?"

"Even. Clear. Assassin talk." Rolling your eyes, you hand the knife over to
Qui-Gon. "You do vegetables--I only have one use for knives, and this isn't
it."

From the startled look on his face, Qui-Gon isn't quite prepared for jokes
about your profession.

::Well too bad,:: you think to yourself as you watch him start to carve into
the vegetables. ::Jedi man can stuff it.::
~~~~~~~~~~~~~