Rating: PG
Disclaimer: George Lucas owns Star Wars, all of the characters therein, and anyone who he may have breathed on in the last 20 some odd years. Me, I don't even own a copy of the movies. I'm just borrowing for a little while, and I promise to give them back when I'm done. So please don't sue me, since all it will get you is an extensive Highlander: The Series collection (the show, however belongs to Davis/Panzer and co., as I have been telling myself for years.)
Notes: This is proof that I've been depressed. This story was supposed to be a smut story, with Obi making her feel better after a long day at work. Oh well, what the muse wants….
Feedback. I love feedback. Even just a single line to let me know what you think of the junk that comes from the darkest recesses of my mind.
Archive: Temple Voices, OKEB. Anyone else, lemme know. I have an HTML of this, too, BTW.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not really. Just hold me for a while, okay?"
In answer, Obi-Wan pulls you even tighter into his arms. You sigh partly in pure frustration and exhaustion, and partly in happiness. Obi-Wan always seems to know what you need. Asking you if you want to talk about it was only a courtesy to show you he will never assume to know everything about you.
You feel his lips in your hair, gently kissing the top of your head. You smile into his chest.
"I love you, you know," you tell his sternum.
"Yeah. I know," the rumble in his chest shakes a primitive part of you. But right now, this is what you need more than anything. To be held. Again you sigh, ready to talk now.
"Darth Boss was on my back again today; 'do this' 'do that' 'could you' 'would you' 'get this' 'come here,'" you mimic your manager, nicknamed Darth Boss by your friends. "Not to mention the customers were truly evil today. Maybe it's the moon, but I think it's more likely something in the drinking water. Why else would so many people be so terminally stupid?"
Obi-Wan guides you over to the couch, cuddling you in his lap as you both sit. He knows that when you get frustrated, you need this physical contact. You want to tell him how you love him again, but don't. He knows.
"Why not just quit?" He asks you.
"And do what, Obi-Wan? I have too many responsibilities!"
"You could come with me. Travel around the Universe. Who needs credits when you're living with a Jedi?"
"Somehow, baby, I don't think 'Jedi's Concubine' will look very impressive on a resume."
You're too tired to be sweet and gentle on this tender subject. You love him, he loves the Force. You understand that you will always come second. You may not like it, but you understand. God, how you wished he loved you!
He shifts, and looks you in the eye. There is a serious light there that you have rarely seen. In fact, you only see it during these conversations. Great, you think. Fight time.
"That's not all you are to me, and you know it," he admonishes you gently.
"Yeah, I know. Friends as well as lovers," but not love, you silently add, careful to keep your link with him closed.
He nods, and keeps eye contact, as though to make sure you truly understand. You break the contact, not wanting him to see all that is within your heart right now. He sighs. He doesn't need the Force to know what you are thinking.
"Love is a word that is thrown around a lot on this planet. 'I absolutely love this movie!' 'I love chocolate ice cream!' and so on…"
He doesn't think you really mean what you tell him daily? You stand, putting distance between you two, trying to give the shards of your breaking heart room to fly. You will not cry. You will not cry. You will not cry.
"I'm so glad we have such trust and confidence between us, -darling-," you put a sneer into the endearment. "If we didn't, why, we would never know what the other truly meant!"
In mock dismay, you touch the back of your hand to your forehead. Anger. It is so much more convenient than tears. If he cannot love you, and will not believe that you love him, then you will not let him see you cry. Your tears have always been private things, shed in the dark, while Obi-Wan held you silently, until you finished, and then he would make slow, sweet love to you…
You shake you head, trying to banish the tender images from your mind. No matter how cherished they are to you, you know nonetheless that it was not love that urged him to do that. Sympathy, yes. Gentleness, yes. But love, no.
You try to look at him, and find his image wavering in a distinctly watery manner. You curse softly, and turn your back. You cross your arms around your middle, and hunch your shoulders, whether to hold yourself together, or to ward off the blows of an indifferent Fate. You are concentrating so hard on blocking the link between you two, that you do not hear him move.
You feel him brush a lock of your hair away from your down-turned face. Again, you turn away, this time because you can't bear to see him. You knew, somewhere, deep inside, that tonight was coming, but had managed to lie to yourself, and convince yourself that maybe you were wrong. But tonight is here, and you must be strong.
"I… I think you should go, Obi-Wan." How can you be strong, when you are tearing out your own heart?
"What?"
"Leave. Go home, wherever you call that. Just…" you close your eyes, and drop your arms. "Just go."
He stands there for a moment more, regarding your back. Oh, please, let him leave soon, you beg every deity in the sky. If he stays much longer, you will not be able to resist throwing your body at his feet, sobbing, begging for forgiveness, swearing you can have one-sided love, so long as you have him.
But when your prayer is answered, you wish he had stayed. If he stayed, he would have been telling you without words that he did love you after all. But he left. Because he doesn't love you, and because you asked him to go.
The door closes with a quiet, final click, and your legs fold from beneath you. You make no effort to quiet your sobs now. And so you cry. You cry until you are certain that there is not a tear left in your body, only to find that you have oceans more. You cry until your head feels as though it would burst, and your throat is on fire from your sobs. You cry, trying to exorcise your pain, your anguish; and in the end, once your tears cease, all that is left is a shell that was once you, filled with an all pervading emptiness.
They say that the human heart is not really the location of emotions, that it is no more than a complex muscle, pumping blood and oxygen to the furthest reaches of your body. But if that is so, then why is your hurt located right at the spot where even now blood is being sent to and fro? Why do you feel as though someone has stabbed you in the stomach and heart, leaving you to bleed to death on your carpet? You feel as though your heart has turned to lead, pumping blood only because your system wills it, and spreading your sadness throughout you body with it.
It is as though someone had reached in, grabbed your soul, and twisted their tight fist until all that was happy, all that was loving in you was wrapped up into this tight ball of pain. You want to scream out at the unfairness of it all; but all you can do is whimper. You want to throw things, destroy all around you as all inside you has been destroyed; but all you can do is cry.
Minutes later, hours later, days later, you are not sure, you find you can move from your spot on the floor. Slowly, as one injured in a great war, you stand, and survey the room. It has not really changed, the logical part of you notices; the couch is still against the wall where you and Obi-Wan moved it to last month, the TV he brought home as a holiday gift still has its big red bow on it. You were going to watch your first movie on it tonight. The big difference is that he is gone. Really gone. Even when he had to go before, you knew he would return. But now, the absence of him is stamped into your knowledge, and every sight that greets you is enhanced by this. Then, you see the box.
It is a plain black box, no more than an inch and a half in any dimension. It sits upon your coffee table, a stark contrast to the white wash on the wood. You move towards it, a part of your mind screaming over and over to you to stop, to turn around and pretend you don't see it. Then your hand closes over it, you open the box, and your tears begin anew.
Inside, is a ring. Simple, it is but a platinum band holding a heart shaped diamond that winks at you, sending miniature rainbows to pierce the rain that falls from your eyes. There is a note, as well. Twisted up like a scroll, it is being held in place by the ring. With trembling hands, you unroll it.
"I'm sorry," the note reads, in Obi-Wan's familiar handwriting. "I'm sorry that I have not said the words you have needed to hear for so very long. I have wanted to, but I have not been able to find the way. I hope this is the best way to tell you. I love you."
With a keening wail, you clutch the box and note to your breast, and realize where pride has brought you both.
The End
