Title: Done!
Author: Sethra
Category: ABH
Characters: Obi-Wan and you
Status: Complete
Feedback: Give it to me, Obi! Um, I mean baby. I mean…never mind. s_lavode@yahoo.com
Summary: Your dream becomes flesh-and asks you to turn down your stereo.
Disclaimer:
Georgie Porgie, Sith and Jedi
Murdered the Master and made the girls cry
But left us the Padawan to see us through
The tedious wait until Episode 2.
(Mr. George Lucas made all the Star Wars stuff famous and tied it up legally. Sniff.)
Part 1
"Woo-hoo!" A grin splits your face as you bounce through your door, chucking your backpack at the far wall and not caring how it lands. "It's over!!"
You just took the final in the vilest class you've ever encountered at the University of Coruscant’s College of Engineering. It really doesn't matter how you did since you're so glad it's over but, as you looked over the answer sheet the dreaded Darth Professor handed out when you turned in the exam (the only answers he's *ever* given) on the way home to the student ghetto, you realized you'd done amazingly well. In celebration you run to the sound system and crank up the loudest album you've got. Your roommates have all gone home or away for the holidays (lucky freakin' stiffs) and you have the apartment blessedly to your thoroughly hyper self.
Singing along to the music as you throw stuff around in the kitchen for dinner, you plan out your evening: read during dinner, curl up with a blanket and a large stuffed dog while you watch your favorite holovid and snack on munchies, take a nice, long bath, chat a bit with your listsibs, and then bed. Perfect. But first, while dinner heats up, you decide to change into something more comfortable. Sweat pants, t-shirt, and slipper socks sound just about right, and you have to take your contacts out before they finish gluing themselves to your eyeballs. Ten minutes later, you've changed and are about to figure out if your food is done yet when someone starts pounding at the door.
"All right, all right, keep your shorts on," you mutter as you turn off your dinner and bounce towards the door. Normally you'd yank it open and demand an explanation, but you're still in such an elevated mood that you keep the door under the sound barrier when you answer it. "Hello?" you ask before you get a look at who's standing there, and a good thing, too.
He's gorgeous. He's sexy. And he's too damn much like you imagined...except for the little braid hanging down behind his ear. The little PADAWAN braid. Holy--but wait: he speaks!
"Hi. I wondered if I could get you to turn down your stereo a bit? It's quite distracting." And he grins. Be still, my beating heart... "As much as I like that song, it doesn't go well with studying."
*That* catches your attention, especially since you've actually *tried* studying to that and didn't like the consequences. "Oh, um, sure. Sorry, consider it done. I'm just rather excited--I just finished an exam."
"I see. Congratulations! And I'm sorry to dampen your fun, but..."
You wince at the word "damp" (oscillations, simple harmonic motion, arg!) but wave off his apology, more interested in him. "Are you staying with someone? I haven't seen you around here, I don't think."
"I just moved in next door. The tenant moved out after her finals, I think." He paused, then grinned and stuck out a hand. "I'm Obi-Wan Kenobi."
Gahhh. Had you said 'keep your shorts *ON*'? Never mind that... Somehow you manage to introduce yourself, promise to turn down your music, and close the door behind him before you start gibbering. Or drooling. Or possibly both. After all, what do you do when your fantasy comes to life, knocks on your door, and complains about the noise?
You’ve had this daydream for years-since high school, actually, when your friend convinced you to keep writing and you branched out into new territory. There was one story that wouldn’t leave you alone; others you’d start, figure out the end, and never finish, but this one… The characters bugged you. Occasionally you’d catch yourself wondering if this one would like that movie or if that one would act kind of like the dork in your physics class. But the one who obsessed you the most was the most inexplicable.
Dark hair was what you liked in a guy; dark and lean and suave. So how did your male lead become, over the course of rewrites and plot twists and more rewrites, this discreetly muscled, straightforward man with a red-gold buzz? But once his-ahem-attributes had settled, they stuck. You’d even toyed with making him a Jedi, but nixed that idea on the grounds that you weren’t writing a soap opera so how the heck would you…er, the main character meet a Jedi?
The song changes on the sound system and snaps you out of your mental dithering, freeing you to pad over and finally turn it down. A giggle bubbles up that you try to stifle, but another quickly follows it, which in turn brings a few of its friends. You thought you were having a good day *before*? Your dream made flesh just moved in next door! Obi-Wan Kenobi; you roll the name off your tongue. Then you wince and glance around stupidly, wondering exactly how many of those mind-reading Jedi rumors were true.
*~*~*~*~*~*
tbc…if anyone wants
Part 2
All right, so having your dream standing in front of you, real, solid, touchable-down, girl. Ahem. Meeting Obi-Wan, your new neighbor, can only freak you out for so long. You decide to skip dinner and go straight for the munchies; you can let your favorite holovid calm you down. Of course, ‘calming’ would hardly be the word most people would choose for the uproariously funny flick, but then you always knew you weren’t most people, right from the day in second grade when you made a pun you had to explain to the teacher. Reciting the best lines along with the characters works like a soothing mantra for you. Usually.
So you curl up under a fluffy blanket on the couch, the munchies on one hand, something to drink on the other, and a large stuffed dog on your lap. Soon you’re laughing at the holo and all is right with the world. But gradually, inexorably, something impinges on your enjoyment of the holovid. The feeling that someone is watching you grows ever stronger until at last you hit pause and listen to the spreading silence.
This isn’t the vague notion that someone somewhere could know what you’re doing, this is an immediate *certainty* that there is someone else in the room. From somewhere else in the building, you hear people arguing, a baby crying, pots and pans clanging. . . You’re staring at the spot in the air that it feels like it’s standing in, wondering if you’ve finally fallen over the edge, when the feeling vanishes. Just like that, punctuated only by a thud from some other apartment. ‘How rude,’ you think irritably. After interrupting your vid, the least your hallucination could do was show you a good time. Just in case, though, you make a tour of the apartment and assure yourself that absolutely no one is with you. Sighing and wondering just what your diabolic professor has managed to do to you in the past horrific semester, you return to your nest on the couch and restart the holovid.
This time the presence manifests more slowly, so you’ve accepted it before you realize it’s there. It-he-is sitting close to you on the couch. You studiously ignore him, concentrating on the vid, wondering what to do. Wondering, that is, until you realize you’re enjoying his presence. Maybe you’re completely insane, but the gentle (illusory?) pressure against your legs is companionable. Still, you jump when a hand begins to caress you absently. Oh, it feels good, but. . .you know whose touch it is. Your unwritten character has apparently taken his doppelganger’s appearance as permission to leave your daydreams and invade the waking world. “This is ridiculous,” you can’t help commenting aloud. Your ‘companion’ apparently agrees as he vanishes (‘An invisible friend vanishing: *that’s* a neat trick!’ you mutter), accompanied by another thud.
Annoyed that you’ve missed part of the vid due to rampant insanity you hit rewind, absently noting the open-and-close-door routine of your neighbor leaving. Obi-Wan Kenobi. What a hunk! The utterly confident way he stood in your doorway should have irked you; his perfection should have disgusted you. In anyone else, they undoubtedly would have, but somehow. . .Kenobi. What would his touch-you snort. The man’s a Jedi! Hmm, a Jedi. You know all the stories, but you suspect that what you don’t know would fill the Senate chamber. Perhaps a small research project would be in order before you go trying to ‘borrow sugar’.
Then again, if he *can* read thoughts, you’ve already blown your cover all the way out to the Outer Rim territories.
You sleep in the next morning, then stay in bed reading and reveling in the freedom for a couple of hours. When you finally get hungry enough that your stomach strangles your spinal cord you get up and head for the kitchen. Grabbing a data pad, you download the morning’s news and messages while your tea heats up, then bring breakfast and data back to bed.
As you scan the pad’s contents, you notice a message that was logged to the apartment account just after the news and is addressed to you. ‘Early risers are Sith spawn,’ you mutter automatically as you open it, wondering who that you knew was masochistic enough to be at your door that early.
“I’d like to apologize properly for raining on your parade,” the note read. “May I come by later with restitution? ~ Kenobi, 42C”
You goggle at the screen for a few seconds before a grin breaks across your face. Asking you to bring the decibel level back down to habitable conditions (through a wall, no less!) doesn’t require *restitution *, although you have a real good idea of what you *wish * the restitution involved! In fact, any one of a dozen highly detailed ideas your listsibs offered last night (Re: Gorgeous neighbor!) would do nicely. Slap, slap, slap: down, thou smutty thoughts! The note inspires you to a fit of cleaning while you wonder if possibly he found you a tenth as attractive as you found him.
You’re scrubbing the kitchen sink when you feel his presence again, this time directly behind you, and you freeze. ‘There is no one there,’ you tell yourself silently. ‘Absolutely no one.’ You slowly resume scrubbing, resolutely continuing even when phantom hands splay across your back. There is pressure and movement but no heat, no solidity in the touch. Well, there is some heat, but you’re pretty sure that’s all you. The hands come up to caress your shoulders, down your arms to the elbows, back up to your neck. . . It was different, less explicitly sexual than the visits your mind usually conjured up involving a ‘character visit’, but no less sensual. You’d stop scrubbing and enjoy if you weren’t certain the touch would stop as soon as he knew you were aware of it. He’s tracing the shape of your hips now, not your belly or your rear, but down the sides as if teaching your figure to his hands. He steps in closer and you can feel him against your back as he puts his chin over your shoulder, reaching down for your hands.
You can’t help it; the serenity, the intimate perfection of the position makes you catch your breath-just for a moment, but he vanishes. But not before you felt the brush of his tightly plaited Padawan braid.
~*~*~*~*~*~
tbc. . .next time: the restitution.
Part 3
You have nothing to do. Your apartment is spotless-you even VACCUUMED, wonder of wonders-your listsibs are silent, and there’s nothing worth watching unless you feel like listening to another Outer Rim senator wail and moan over appropriations. All you have left to do is wonder what’s happening to you that your obnoxiously tempting JEDI neighbor could have taken over your fantasies so thoroughly. Since that’s a subject you’d rather leave alone, on the grounds that if you think about it too hard it might go away, you bounce around aimlessly in search of occupation.
Having alphabetized the colors in your sock drawer and organized your food cupboard by size, shape, and contents (and here you thought you’d never wish for homework!), you’re about ready to scream when the doorbell chimes. You know, of course, who it is and rush for the door. Your hand is inches away from opening it when you freeze. Will you be able to deal with him without. . .well, you know, making a fool out of yourself. You grin wryly at yourself; it’s a bit late for that! And with out further ado you open the door.
Obi-Wan Kenobi (definitely an FM name for an FM guy) stands there with a small smile and. . . “Ye gads, is that a torte?” you demand, staring at the confection he’s holding.
“It’s my restitution,” he tells you, grinning as you salivate discreetly. “I took a chance; I hope you like chocolate cherry.”
All right, don’t faint, don’t faint, don’tfaintdon’tfaint. . . A gorgeous, sexy hunk is standing at your door offering you chocolate. !!!!! “Why don’t you come in,” you manage to say almost normally.
“Actually, I’m hoping you’ll offer me a piece,” he comments with a mischievous smile as he puts the torte into your hands and steps inside. “The aroma was been driving me wild.”
Wild? Gahh. . . You firmly clamp down on those thoughts, will some steel into your knees, and carry the confection into the kitchen. “Of course! I’ll just get a knife and a couple of plates.” He leans on the breakfast bar and watches you flit about the kitchen, getting forks, napkins, plates, a knife, and a few discreet eyefuls of him. Finally you have to ask. “So, you *are* a Jedi, right?”
He responds, “Yes, I am,” obviously amused.
“So why are you living in the student ghetto?”
Startled, he laughs out loud, and you get the impression that it’s not something he does very often. “Is that what it’s called? Well, well, I’ll have to tell *that* to. . .ahem. Actually, it’s an interesting combination of overcrowding and fumigation at the Temple.”
“Oh, I see.” While not that unusual on crowded Coruscant, you somehow have a hard time envisioning the fumigation of the Jedi Temple, but from the way he ended his sentence you get the feeling he’d rather not talk about it. As a matter of fact, he seems to be staring into space now, or perhaps into himself. Thinking that it’s probably one of those inscrutable Jedi things you concentrate on cutting into the yummy-looking torte from the yummy-looking man leaning on your bar-and jump in surprise when the phantom hand touches your shoulder.
Your face heats furiously as you realize how silly that looked; sure enough, Obi-Wan is staring at you. Thoroughly mortified, you return your attention (what’s left of it, anyhow) back to the torte, only to have your chin caught and raised by a strong hand. Kenobi, who had gotten around that breakfast bar faster than you ever imagined possible (and you’d been imagining quite a bit lately, thank you), forces you to look at him. One glance into his changeable blue-grey-green eyes, then you find yourself staring at the cleft in his chin (mmm. . .).
“Err, the torte,” you stammer, but he isn’t listening.
“It *was* you,” he murmurs. He abruptly releases your face (‘Thank the maker!’ flashes across your mind, followed quickly by, ‘Can I get him to do it again?’) and takes a step back. “I owe you another apology, I’m afraid.”
And you thought you were confused before. “You. . .what. . .you mean, that was you before? Not my imagination?” you blurt, not realizing how it sounds, but Kenobi doesn’t seem to notice. He glances down at his boots (*nice* boots) before looking you in the eyes and replying.
“Yes. Lately during meditation I’ve found myself drawn. . .elsewhere. I truly didn’t-“
“Wait a minute, how lately?” you interrupt desperately.
“What do you mean?” he asks, confused.
“How lately? How long; since when?”
“A few days; since I moved in here. I never would have. . .”
You let him talk for a moment, tuning out his (admittedly wonderful) voice. As he explains earnestly about the Force and the Jedi Code your mind whirls. *He* is your mysterious, invisible visitor, so you’re not insane on that account, but it still doesn’t explain his resemblance to your character. Despite everything, however, you remind yourself of something you’ve always known, that you’re not one to start a physical relationship with someone you’ve just met a few days ago, no matter how sexy they are or how familiar they feel.
He’s wound down his apology/explanation (not that you would have understood it if you’d heard all of it) and is looking at you expectantly, a strange mixture of embarrassment, trepidation, and-is that hope in his eyes?
“Is there any way to keep this from happening, Obi-Wan?” you ask, even as a tiny part-make that *large* part of you is screaming, ‘You fool! What are you *doing*??’ “I mean, I have to admit it was. . .enjoyable,” *oh*, yeah, “but it’s rather, er, disconcerting.”
“For me as well,” he admits frankly, then sighs. “Like I said,” (he did?), “I’m not entirely certain why it’s happening, but I think now that I’m aware of it, I should be able to take care of the. . .problem.”
You think about that for a moment and nod, then are suddenly struck by something he said earlier. “This has been happening when you meditate?”
“Well, yes. Have you been hearing any loud noises?” You nod, thinking of the thumps you’d been hearing, and he smiles, half-embarrassed, half-naughty. “That was me.”
After he’s left (yes, you did finally manage to serve the torte, and what a wonderful one it was. . .you think), you slump into the most comfortable chair and hug your stuffed dog to your chest. You’re relieved, depressed, elated, and most of all exhausted. You’re not insane, but your ‘visitor’ won’t be returning (except in your daydreams), but he did (does?) find you attractive. What a mess. So normality (such as it ever was), which never seemed quite so dreary before, returns to your life. . .for a few days, anyhow.
*~*~*~*~*
tbc. . .next time: it’s not over yet!
Part 4
As the days pass, you find yourself glancing over your shoulder, looking for your phantom visitor, even though Kenobi swore he had a handle on the-ahem-problem. Speaking of your delicious neighbor, you haven’t seen much of him around in the flesh (I said DOWN, girl!), either. Of course, you have *heard* him, which is an extra piece to your ‘finished’ puzzle.
You’d been invited out with friends and had the absolutely *perfect* bracelet to go with your outfit; the only problem was you hadn’t worn it since you moved in, which meant it was still in (dum da dum-dum) the dreaded STORAGE CLOSET. Girding yourself for battle, you sent out a short prayer to whichever deities happened to be listening, then dove into the fray-er, closet. An hour later, as you sat back in triumph, holding aloft the long-sought and hard-won accessory, you hear his muffled but clear (and yummy) voice. You soon realize that, due to the flimsy walls prevalent in the student ghetto, you’re hearing Obi-Wan’s half of a comm conversation. And what an interesting half it is, too. . .
“I’ve found her, Master. (pause) No, I don’t-(pause) Well, yes, she is. (pause) (indignantly:) No! Of course not! (pause) (shocked:) Master! (short pause) Well, yes. (longer pause) (reluctantly:) Yes. . . (pause) (testily:) Yes. (pause) (softly:) I. . .Yes. (pause) Yes-No! Master, this isn’t funny! (very long pause, so long you almost left the closet) I see, Master. Very well, I shall see you in a little while.”
That had been just a few hours after he left your apartment. Now, days later, you’re still wondering what Obi-Wan’s master had gotten him to admit so reluctantly. Of course, you’re just a *little* embarrassed that Kenobi discussed the matter with someone else and you wonder what this master of his is like, but that’s incidental. You do hope he hasn’t gotten into any sort of trouble over this; in fact, what you’d really like is for those Jedi to tell him he really should explore the phenomenon in more depth! But then, if wishes were starships then beggars would fly, and a man like him you could forgive just about anything.
Oh, well. Sighing, you curl up in bed with a new book, not planning to resurface until hunger drove you to it. You inhale deeply the scent of the printed pages; real, physical books are one of your few indulgences, so much more satisfying than data pads and text screens. Then you plunge into the world the words weave for you and forget for the moment about your frustratingly attractive neighbor.
You’re in the middle of the novel when you feel someone lying next to you on the bed. There’s no preamble, nothing gradual about it this time; he’s simply there. You know better by now than to look up from your book; besides, you’re only two pages from the end of the chapter. Then your visitor’s hand sneaks across your belly and it feels as though he’s leaning closer, reading over your shoulder. Your imagination takes a brief break from the novel to paint him for your eyes: lying on his side, propped up on one elbow with his Padawan braid swinging free, a small smile curving those lips, and of course the hand that’s tracing crazy little patterns on your midsection. Your eyes cross briefly at the thought, but you take a deep breath and try to concentrate on the last page of the chapter.
Then his hand moves upwards, blowing away your concentration and causing you to stare *through* the book. He’s tracing the lower curves of your breasts with one finger, just above the band on your bra, and wreaking havoc with your breathing as he begins to work his way upwards, taking all the time in the world. It’s like one of those ancient laser printers you read about; he’s forming your figure, one line at a time. Despite the printed words swimming before your eyes, you’re not seeing anything in the room; you’re envisioning throwing yourself at him and kissing that mouth you’ve been dreaming about until *his* eyes cross.
Then his touch reaches your nipple and the tide floods in, washing your entire being in heat and that wonderful, tingling ache. Your nerveless fingers drop the book as you gasp, completely overwhelmed. . .and he vanishes. Just like that, leaving you heaving for air. You grab for the book and start cursing in a low, steady monotone as soon as there’s anything in your lungs to do it with. It’ll be awhile before the words on the pages you stare at will make any sense.
It’s a good thing you’ve got parties to go to in the next few days to distract you, you think; then you stop, horrified. What if this happens *in public*?! By the Maker, you’d never live it down if people noticed! Then you snort, remembering the sort of people that are likely to be at those parties. If any of them thought that was weird you were completely mistaken about them. Still. . .this is too much. Grabbing the book, you head out to the kitchen in search of ice cream.
~*~*~*~*~*~
tbc. . .next time: the conclusion! (i think)
Part 5
To your mingled relief and disappointment, another few days have passed without the sight (you sigh), sound (you melt), or touch (you drool) of Obi-Wan Kenobi. The parties were fun, but no one there compared favorably to the neighbor you kept searching the room for, even though you knew there was no way he’d be there. So you laughed, chatted with friends, stuffed yourself silly with amazing food, and tucked your bruised feelings (and lust) away for later. Of course, those bruised feelings were a riot since *you’d* asked him to stop. And he was trying. . .it was only that once in an entire week that he’d ‘visited’ again.
But that once was enough; if you weren’t insane before, you’re quickly speeding yourself there now, unable to decide whether you want his phantom back or not. You mind screams, ‘Not!’ while your body says, ‘Hell, yes!’
You hear his keys in the lock, then his door open and close as you head for the bathroom for your shower. Smiling as you move mechanically through the routine, you wonder what he’d do if you asked him out on a date. Who knows what the Jedi Code has to say about dating? Much less dating a girl with about as much Force sense as your average brick. Maker, this would be so much easier if he was a prick or completely oblivious of your infatuation but-miracle of miracles-he’s as equally, inexplicably obsessed, if his invisible attentions are any yardstick. And perfect. Never forget that he’s perfect.
You snort to yourself as you step into the shower. You hardly know the man! You’ve actually met him face-to-face what, twice? Three times? But somehow it doesn’t matter; at some level, you feel as though you’ve always known him, and what’s been happening is exactly as it should be. You lather the herbal-scented shampoo into your hair as you wonder if this crazy, mixed-up feeling that’s driving you insane might be-nah. Good old-fashioned lust is a perfectly good explanation.
You close your eyes and tip your head back, your attention completely on how good the hot water feels drumming on your skin and flowing through your hair. You run your fingers through your hair, rinsing the lather out, and are somehow not surprised when you know he’s standing behind you. You wish you dared glance because he feels so warm on your back, even though he’s not touching. His hands cup your hips, moving across the water-slick skin with ease down your sides, then up to your stomach. His touch and the steam billowing about you conspire to steal your breath, but at this point air seems completely superfluous. He traces your shoulders in a move you remember, this time dipping over to explore your collarbone before following your throat up, behind your ears, and back down your spine. Your nerveless fingers are still tangled in your wet hair as his palms gently come to rest on your breasts. He tenderly shapes your curves with his hands open before cupping them and leaning against you to plant a soft, electric kiss to the base of your neck.
Afraid that your knees will give out and you’ll slide ignominiously to the floor, you throw out a hand. The tile is ice-cold under your fingers and the shock jolts you to your senses. “No.” Reaching down, you nearly break the shower turning the water off; you throw back the curtain, run the towel over yourself quickly, then throw on your bathrobe and storm out of the bathroom as you’re tying it, still damp. You continue right out of the apartment and into the apartment next door. You don’t stop to think about why it was unlocked, what you look like, or what he might be doing. You stalk straight into the living room where Obi-Wan Kenobi is stretched out on the couch, reading a data pad.
“I can’t live like this,” you tell him without preamble as he turns to you. “This just can’t go on or I’m gonna flip.”
“Yes. I know.” His voice goes straight through you, playing on your already heightened senses, but you quash it ruthlessly.
“What are we going to do? You said you could stop it, Obi-Wan.”
He sits up lotus-style, the data pad in his lap. You can’t tell if he’s just looking down or if his eyes are closed as he answers. “I thought I could. The difficulty is discerning between fantasies and reality.” He glances up, those changeable eyes piercing you to your soul as the word ‘fantasies’ reverberates in your ears.
“If you can’t stop it, then perhaps distance can,” you hear your own voice say softly, but your entire attention is on those blue-grey-green eyes, caught like prey in the gaze of a hunter.
“Yes,” he agrees, standing. But he’s coming towards you as he continues, “My quarters in the Temple will be done soon in any case, so I-“
There were no more words because, as soon as he was close enough, you and he reached for each other and his lips are finally, gloriously on yours. He is more, deeper, wilder than either your imagination or his phantom touches had painted him and you begin losing hold of yourself for the first time you can remember. Lips, cheeks, tongue, ears, hands, warmth. . . Your hands find a way under his shirt to his warm, muscular chest and you moan into him as you return the favor he’s done you so many times, somehow managing to remove the garment in the process. He in turn decides your robe needs to go and begins inching it down off your shoulders with his kisses.
Just before you lose all higher cognitive functions he captures your face between his hands and looks you deep in the eyes. “Are you sure this is what you want?” his beautiful, silky voice asks you solemnly.
Staring back, you know there’s no way to lie, not to him, not now. Your deepest wish surfaces and darts between your lips. “Love me?” you whisper.
A sparkle glints in his mercurial eyes, but he’s far from laughing at you. “Consider it done.” And he proceeds to steal all thought of everything but the moment and give you a gift you’ll treasure forever.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Done! I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. The plot bunny is now, officially, fanfic stew; dinner is served. J