AUTHORS: Briony (Hippediva@aol.com) & IvyBlue (ivyblue@celticweb.com)
TITLE: Fickle FInger of Fate
ARCHIVE: M_A, Padawan-Pain (if there is one), certainly for anyone else, just ask.
DISCLAIMERS: George owns Qui & Obi and the whole SW universe. We don't own any of this stuff, and we don't make a cent. But we do have fun!!!
CATEGORY: Pain, angst, humour
PAIRING: Q/O, preslash
RATING: NC-17 for self-abuse
SPOILERS: None
WARNINGS: mild spew factor at one point, massive silliness
FEEDBACK: Is the breath of life.....we love it!!
SUMMARY: We decided that the concept of Padawan/Pain had to be examined under a different sort of microscope.
Any more information will spoil the story.
************

Obi-Wan arched backward, his head nearly touching the wall. The water played over his body in a pounding spray, silvering his flesh against the ice-blue tiles of the 'fresher walls. The muscles of his left arm strained against the bonds that held him tethered to the towel rack. He closed his eyes against the surf-spray of the water. He concentrated on feeling Qui-Gon's hands hard against his slick skin. Blue eyes narrowing, then dilated. Fingers bruising against the tender flesh of his inner thigh. A hand nearly as large as his head grabbing hold of his hair, lips crushing his own, drawing blood. He felt light-headed, spluttering for breath against the shower spray, his own sweat hotter than the humid air.

"Touch yourself. Let me see you." His Master's voice growling low in his ear.

He ached. His legs ached from stretching upwards on his toes. His arm ached, stretched up and back over his head. His cock, hard against his palm, just ached.

"Padawan?"

The muscles in his thighs were beginning to spasm.

"Padawan!?"

He was close, so close he could taste it---

"PADAWAN!!"

His breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. But why was Qui-Gon shouting? That wasn't part of this fantasy. Shit!

"PADAWAN, WHAT IN SITH HELLS ARE YOU DOING IN THERE!?"

He spiraled back down into reality at double-time. Damn, damn, damn, and damn again!!! Frantically, he struggled to get his wrist untied from the towel-bar, but the terry cloth tie to his robe was soaking wet and it stuck in the knots, making horrible grindy-squeaky noises that grated on his ears like nails on a slate. He could hear Qui-Gon moving around the common room, getting uncomfortably close to the 'fresher door. Had he locked it? He couldn't remember - such details had been the last thing on his mind as he'd prepared to enjoy Qui-Gon's absence by indulging in this latest fantasy one last time before tomorrow's mission. Panic robbed him of his characteristic grace, and any ability to concentrate and harness the Force on his own behalf .. At the moment, he was just another horny, humiliated teenager, about-to-be-caught in the act. Toes scrabbled on wet tile and water ran stingingly in his eyes as he strained to turn his body toward the towel bar. Unbalanced as he was, both mentally and physically, it took nothing more than a stray sliver of soap, eddying innocently underfoot, to send him crashing in an undignified heap on the floor of the stall. He was in pain, mortally embarrassed, and excruciatingly unsatisfied... but at least he was free of the towel bar. In fact, so was the wall, as the towel bar lay in two splintered sections, one still attached to his aching wrist by the sodden remains of his bathrobe tie. Worse, there was a splinter at least an inch long jammed in the sensitive pad of the third finger of his right hand. Cursing, Obi-Wan tried to sit up, mentally cataloguing the collection of bruises that would no doubt be visible come morning. The splinter pushed further into his finger as he attempted to haul himself upright. The door swung open. So, he hadn't locked it after all. Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow at the sight of his beached Padawan. Obi-Wan's struggles to hide the evidence still adorning his left arm were not lost on him.

"Sparring with the towel bar, Obi-Wan? It appears to have bested you."

Shaking his head as his Padawan gaped wordlessly up at him, Qui-Gon silently closed the 'fresher door. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, over a painfully silent meal, Obi-Wan struggled to keep from turning the same colour as the k'alla berries on the table. Qui-Gon's unexpressed amusement left Obi-Wan with no doubt that his Master knew exactly what he had been up to. His refusal to remark on it was even worse. He could only pray that Qui-Gon had not discerned his own starring role in Obi-Wan's ill-fated production. His answers to Qui-Gon's mild conversation were monosyllabic sounds worthy of a Hutt with a hangover. He kept his head down and only grunted when his Master asked him a direct question. The questions were unbearably hard. Things like, please pass the bread. He reached for the bowl of sliced bread and yelped as the pressure drew a drop of blood to his wounded finger.

"What is it, Padawan?"

"Nothing."

"Let me see."

"It's nothing, Master. Just a little cut."

"Or splinter." Qui-Gon observed, his face the picture of quiet innocence.

Obi-Wan shot him a murderous look from under knotted brows.

"Don't ignore such things, young Padawan. You know how easily small wounds get infected during space travel. "

"It's really nothing, Master." he mumbled into his salad.

"Nevertheless, you might want to stop by the Healers and have it taken care of before we leave for Am'rika tomorrow. It's a rather savage place."

"Alright, Master."

The rest of the meal proceeded with all the conviviality of a Daktarian wake. Qui-Gon took care of the dishes, mindful of his Padawan's war-wound. After putting away the dishes, Obi-Wan finally dared to speak more than five consecutive words.

"Master, may I go out this evening?"

"Of course, Padawan. I trust you've finished your studies and our packing?"

"Yes Master."

"Then I see no reason you shouldn't have the night free. Just remember to get in at a decent hour. We leave early."

"Thank you Master, I will Master."

"If you stop by the Quartermaster's on your way out, you might want to ask them to replace that towel-bar while we're offworld."

Obi-Wan turned swiftly, his face flaming as he fled to the door.

"And Obi-Wan?"

"Yes, Master?"

"Don't forget to have the Healers look at that."

The Padawan bolted out of their quarters at a dead run

. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Wet Dream was the refuge toward which he fled. Located on the third sub-level, the bar was the furthest down into Coruscant's teeming world of nightlife a Jedi Padawan could be seen and still retain any veneer of respectability. Slouched petulantly against the blue-dyed fake-Tauntaun-fur-covered booth, Obi-Wan swallowed the dregs of his third Sith Sunrise. Garen eyed him dubiously.

"So you almost got caught. Almost doesn't count. If he ever asks, just tell him you were--"

"I was what?? Practicing ballet? Anticipating a rancor attack in the 'fresher? Impersonating a Sovrainian slave sacrifice? Besides, he knows. He HAS to know. It was obvious."

"Does he know you think about him?"

Obi-Wan paled. "Force, I hope not!"

Garen was struggling with his fourth can of beer. Obi-Wan watched him fight with the tab top for a moment, then grabbed the can. With a flourish, he yanked the top free and yelled as his now-aching finger rasped along the metal ring. Now it was sliced crossways as well as punctured. He sucked on it while Garen ordered another round. Some nights were just perfect for a sullen, miserable drunk.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Morning came far too early for Obi-Wan's taste. In fact, the only thing he could taste upon waking was the waste left behind by the army that had apparently bivouacked in his mouth overnight. Damn. He was supposed to do something today -- what was it? Qui-Gon's cheerful whistling pierced through the closed bedroom door and into his brain like a rusty scalpel. Ugh - Rusty Scalpel - wasn't that the name of the drink he'd switched to last night after Garen refused to buy him another Sith Sunrise? Groaning, he dragged himself into the 'fresher. He spent a long, mindless moment staring at the broken towel bar. Wasn't there something Qui-Gon had said about that? It all came flooding back in a rush. The broken towel bar. The mission! And hadn't he promised Qui-Gon that he'd see the Healers before this morning's departure? Well, for his hangover maybe, but a little splinter in his finger couldn't possibly be worth the bother. It was probably healing on its own already anyway. He reached to turn on the hot water, trying to force himself through his usual morning routine. He stuck his hand under the tap and yelled as liquid fire shot up his arm, waking him rudely but more effectively than any traditional stimulant. What in all the Sith hells...??! The third finger of his right hand was swollen. More specifically, the first knuckle and a half of said digit had disappeared in a mass of angry red flesh, now puffed out to nearly twice its normal size. Experimentally he pressed at the wound with his thumb, and regretted it immediately - the searing pain brought tears to his eyes, and he couldn't suppress an agonized curse. "Obi-Wan! Please stop cursing, and finish whatever it is you're doing in there. That sort of behavior is unbecoming for a Padawan. And mind the chrono - our transport leaves in fifteen minutes." There went any vague hopes Obi-Wan had harbored about sneaking covertly off to the Healers before departure. He'd just have to hope the finger would take care of itself, and that the hangover would pull up stakes and move out on its own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Obi-Wan suspected an ulterior motive when Qui-Gon left him to struggle alone with the entirety of their luggage. He managed to get three of the cases to the docking bay, and only dropped one of them on his foot. Exasperated, and now limping, he Force-shoved it all up the ramp and into the ship. Qui-Gon's disapproving glance assured a future lecture on the appropriate uses of the Force. Obi-Wan groaned. He'd probably assign more meditation exercises as well, he thought sourly. Oh well, anything that didn't involve more heavy lifting was okay at the moment.

"You'll be wanting to pilot the ship, won't you, my Padawan?"

Qui called from the cockpit. Obi-Wan groaned again, louder.

"Of course, Master. I'll be right there."

He trudged up to the cockpit, trying to ignore his throbbing head, finger, and toe. The ship was a fairly standard Republic Level C model, small, sleek, and fast, its mechanics well-known to the increasingly miserable padawan. He reached overhead to turn on the controls and yelped as he caught the swollen finger on one of the switches. Insult was added to injuries when something shorted out in the control panel, delivering a brief but powerful shock that threatened to overload Obi-Wan's addled and still hung-over senses.

"That's it!" he shouted, spinning around abruptly and attempting to storm out of the cockpit. "I'm going back to bed! This day isn't worth it!"

Unfortunately, what he had pictured as a dramatic exit was more of a clumsy retreat, hampered by a large Jedi master in a very small cockpit. He shuffled past Qui-Gon toward the back of the ship, painfully aware of a very cold pair of blue eyes tracking his shameful exodus. A small battalion of repair droids fell to work on the short, and had the ship space-worthy in less than an hour. The assigned pilot set their course, and Obi-Wan tried to curl up on a rock-hard pallet that passed for a bed. It had apparently been designed for an Ewok with scoliosis. He had just begun to drift to sleep when Qui-Gon entered his cubicle.

"Padawan, I am most disappointed in you this morning. You neglected to bring two of the cases from our quarters. You used your Force abilities in a totally frivolous, unnecessary fashion loading our luggage. And, you appear to be hung over."

Obi-Wan's eyes were enormous. "I'm sorry, Master," he whispered, pain creasing a line between his brows. Qui-Gon just shook his head.

"Get some rest now. I'll be back with something that should help your headache."

Obi-Wan curled back up into a ball of unhappy padawan. Well, at least the big puppy eyes worked this time. He didn't try that on Qui-Gon often. Usually, it was met with either icy contempt or dry sarcasm. He sighed and tried to roll over, squashing his hand between his body and the bulkhead. He moaned, and looked down at his finger in dismay. Now is was purple, and throbbed unbearably. Every time he closed his eyes, the back of his eyeballs throbbed along with it. It didn't look like he'd be falling asleep any time soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He eventually achieved several hours of restless sleep, punctuated by a series of bizarre nightmares. The worst of these found Obi-Wan at the Healers, aghast at the horrible news that his hand was about to be amputated.

"As a matter of fact," the Healer spoke cheerfully, "we'd better play it safe and take it off at the shoulder. You'll want to see the quartermaster about getting some new robes made. Now hold still, this won't hurt a bit..."

"Hold still, Padawan. This will hurt a bit."

Qui-Gon was examining the wounded finger as Obi-Wan opened one eye, fully prepared to see his master wielding a vibro-scalpel and a single-sleeved robe. Finding Qui-Gon armed with nothing more than a pair of tweezers, a roll of gauze, and a generous supply of bacta-strips was a short-lived relief.

"That's quite an injury. Exactly how did you come to tangle with that towel bar, my Padawan?"

"I slipped," was the reply he chose after considering and rejecting a number of more imaginative responses. The absolute truth was, of course, out of the question. The look Qui-Gon shot him fairly shouted disbelief, but his reply was mild.

"Perhaps we should consider installing safety treads and a handrail. Now, let's see about removing that splinter."

The agony that followed was unlike anything that Obi-Wan had ever experienced, including a memorable double root-canal and his first (and last) Malastarean Pink Zombie hangover. When Qui-Gon did, indeed, reach for a small scalpel, Obi-Wan passed out cold. It was probably a good thing, as the wound had to be lanced before his ever-patient and dexterous Master could get the splinter out with the tweezers. The sight of the resultant gush of bodily fluids, best left undescribed, would have made the swooning padawan (and the authors) violently ill in addition to being in pain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Obi-Wan's third waking of the day was a vast improvement over the previous two. Despite the remains of the hangover that still clung to him like a shroud, he was no longer in excruciating pain. Qui-Gon's efforts had reduced his finger to nearly normal size, and the throbbing agony had nearly vanished. However, the bandage around his finger was enormous. Worse, Qui-Gon had splinted the digit into an awkward upright position, thereby rendering Obi-Wan's entire right hand useless.

"Are you awake, Obi-Wan? We're nearly there."

Qui-Gon entered the small sleeping area, carrying a beaker of some noxiously-hued liquid. Obi-Wan dreaded seeing the bilious green concoction. It could only be his master's pet cure-all, which he claimed was equally effective for hangovers, a variety of planetary flus, and the odd bout of chicken pox.

"Er, I'm feeling much better, Master." Obi-Wan attempted a grin, but Qui-Gon was having none of it. He simply held out the beaker, with a long stare. There was no arguing with that look, or the unspoken command.

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan sighed, reluctantly accepting the beaker. Was it his imagination, or was the foul liquid actually bubbling? Realizing that there was no escape from his formidable master, the cowed padawan awkwardly held the container in his left hand, preparing to raise it to his lips. Just at that moment, the small ship hit a patch of turbulence. The entire mixture leapt from its container and immediately coated Obi-Wan's rumpled tunics, as well as his neck, his braid, and a generous portion of the bulkhead wall. He had hoped to avoid the evil cure, but this had not been the looked-for escape route. Qui-Gon, unmoved, raised an eyebrow.

"I believe you left your other robes in one of the two cases you neglected to bring. Try to make yourself presentable. I'm going to assist our pilot with landing procedures."

Obi-Wan leaned back against the wall, staring blankly at nothing. Things were going from bad to worse. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Obi-Wan's brief acquaintance with the mission outline had not prepared him for his first sight of the planet's capital city, Stat'isld. It was a dirty, crowded, humid conglomeration of ugly buildings and uglier inhabitants. High-tech towers soared above antique hovels, and a hot wind blew off the muddy river moving sluggishly to a polluted sea.

"Master, are you sure that we are in the right place?"

Obi-Wan couldn't keep the dismay from his voice. Qui-Gon glanced at him sharply.

"Surely you aren't implying that our pilot wasn't doing his job properly? Or that Arbiter Clonn gave us the wrong coordinates?"

Qui-Gon's tone ended the conversation as they made their way to a decades-old, graffiti-covered hovercar. It quickly became apparent that the driver did not speak Standard, and any communicating would have to be done via data read-out and passionate gesturing. Qui-Gon wordlessly handed the datapad to his padawan and settled himself in the passenger compartment. Awkwardly, Obi-Wan transferred the pad to his left hand and walked to the driver's side. He held it out, attempting to point at their destination coordinates with his index finger. Of course, the bandaged and splinted digit took centre stage. The driver shot him a murderous look, and punched the information sullenly into the hovercar's computer. Settling into the seat beside Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan pondered the driver's hostility. He thought to ask his Master, but one look at his tightened lips and frosty stare dissuaded any inquiry. Fortunately, the negotiations they were to oversee would take place in one of the city's more attractive buildings. The chamber itself was an odd combination of steel severity and rococo opulence, punctuated by absurd plaster whimsy. They were shown to their seats at the end of a long table by a chilly blonde assistant with an overly-polished smile. Her smile faltered as she caught sight of Obi-Wan's bandaged hand, and with a shocked look she hurried away. Obi-Wan could keep silent no longer.

"Master," he murmured, leaning close to Qui-Gon, "I cannot fathom the reasons for such hostility. Do these people distrust the Jedi? If so, why did the Senate send us here?"

Qui-Gon settled back in his chair, hands tucked into his sleeves.

"I don't know, my Padawan. We must observe, and be patient."

The negotiations that followed would have been tedious under normal circumstances. In his weakened state, Obi-Wan found them agonizing. The dispute centered on wealth distribution and land use, and the leaders of both sides became progressively more strident and insulting as the process degenerated into a verbal brawl. Even Qui-Gon seemed at a loss as to how to bring peace to the warring factions. Obi-Wan deemed it wise to remain silent. He concentrated on observing, as his master had advised him. Eventually, the shrill voices faded into an annoying hum in his ears as he lost interest in his surroundings and began to inventory his collection of physical ailments. The back of his right ear itched. That was a new one. At first, he ignored it, maintaining proper Jedi dignity, his hands tucked serenely into his sleeves. It itched unbearably. Obi-Wan was suddenly aware of the silence. Startled, he attempted to regroup, and realized that his master had managed to quell the cantankerous debate by calling for a moment of silent reflection for all participants. The itch got worse. Encouraged by the reduced tension in the room, Obi-Wan relaxed a bit. Now they were finally getting somewhere. Unconsciously, he pulled his right hand free and reached to scratch the now-maddening itch. He was appalled to realize that the source was a small patch of his master's deplorable cure-all, matted at the top of his braid. Immediately relieved, he was suddenly aware of a deafening silence in the chamber. Unlike the previous two hours, he had an uncomfortable feeling that he had now become the center of attention. Every single delegate, with the exception of Qui-Gon, was staring at him. Fixedly. Murderously. This could not be good. The shouting erupted like a clap of thunder. Qui-Gon turned to his apprentice with a completely baffled expression. His most strenuous attempts to restore calm only inflamed the assembly further. It was obviously time for the Jedi to take their leave. The last thing that Obi-Wan heard in Standard as Qui-Gon hustled him out of the room was something about the utter rudeness of young people at the galactic core and their indiscriminate use of obscene gestures.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Obi-Wan hadn't thought he would be so happy to see their cramped transport again quite so soon. He prepared to fling himself into the co-pilot's seat, but at a stern look from his master he returned to the sleeping cubicle. There he would await Qui-Gon's judgment. It was clear that he had committed some unpardonable sin - he just wondered what he had done. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Communique from Arbiter Lucas Clonn to Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn, received en route to Coruscant:

"Well, Jinn, I've known you for many years and in many circumstances, and I've never seen you pull off anything quite like that before. After fighting like rancors for the better part of a year, all the delegates came together to commiserate on the deplorable state of the galaxy's youth, including their own. Your padawan's outrageous behavior really gave them something to rally around. What a brilliant move on your part! Who would have thought that flipping an entire chamber the bird could have brought about a treaty?? We will read about this in the historic records someday, I'm sure: "Gratuitous Jedi Gesture Promotes Peace". You never cease to amaze me. I hope your journey back to Coruscant is uneventful, in the best possible way. Enjoy the Corellian brandy. Luc"

Qui-Gon put his head in his arms, his forehead resting on the console of the cockpit. The pilot glanced over at him, startled. Then the Jedi Master started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh, until tears were streaming down his face and he couldn't catch his breath for laughter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Further down in the cramped little cubicle, Obi-Wan fidgeted, and toyed with the hem of his tunic. He wondered how long it would be before the axe was going to fall. What would his Master do? Reprimand? No, it was obviously too serious for such a light penalty. Would he get physical? No, that was never Qui-Gon's style. The scared padawan paled. Would he be dragged before the Council for something he couldn't begin to understand? He'd ruined the mission, that much he knew. Would they throw him out of the Order? A sob caught in the back of his throat. He couldn't imagine his life without the Temple, without Qui-Gon. A wave of despair was just cresting over his head when he heard the strangest noises coming from the cockpit. It almost sounded like... Curious, he willed himself to walk forward. He paused at the door, squared his shoulders and forced his head up. Whatever was going to happen, he would face it like a Jedi. As he neared the cockpit, it was clear that his Master was laughing. Was laughing uproariously, in a way Obi-Wan had only heard him laugh once before, and that had been the first night home from a particularly nasty mission, after several large bottles of Alderanian ale. He'd been profoundly shocked at the time, and Master Windu had hurriedly rushed him out of their quarters to the refractory for his dinner. If anything, Qui-Gon was in even more of a state now. The Jedi Master had slumped into the co-pilot's chair, weak with hilarity and struggling to take a long breath. He sensed his padawan behind him and turned, then dissolved into another gale of laughter. Obi-Wan just stared at him with enormous and confused eyes.

"Mm...mmmmaster?" he squeaked. Qui-Gon waved a hand at him.

"S'okay, padawan." His laughing ebbed to the occasional giggle. "It's alright. How's the finger?"

Obi-Wan held up his injured hand with a bemused expression. He was about to answer when Qui-Gon dissolved again into fits of mirth.

"Well," Qui-Gon gasped. "Your injury managed to solidify the treaty."

Obi-Wan looked at him the way a dog looks when hearing a high-pitched sound.

"Do you know what this gesture means, Padawan?"

Qui-Gon held up one hand, middle finger extended upward in imitation of Obi-Wan's own.

"Apparently, on some systems, it translates to something quite obscene. Am'rika is one of those places."

Whatever Qui-Gon planned to say next was lost as he guffawed yet again. Slowly the truth dawned on Obi-Wan. The mission had not been a failure. Quite the contrary - he had inadvertently saved the day! He glanced at his injured finger, protruding upward from his fist. Could it mean... there was a similar gesture on Coruscant, using the third and index finger. The execution was different, but the meaning was universal: a crude suggestion for the recipient to indulge in undignified sexual activity. Funny, Obi-Wan thought wryly, that's exactly how I got the injury to begin with. Could it be that the Force has a sense of humor?? It was too much to consider at the moment, and he put the philosophical question away for later contemplation. He didn't understand exactly how such a gesture could quell the acrimonious debate that had separated the factions of Am'rika for so long, but he was sure that Qui-Gon would explain it to him eventually. At least it meant that his master was no longer angry with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Upon arriving back at their quarters, Obi-Wan was torn between curiosity to see whether the towel bar had been replaced, and fear of returning to the scene of the crime. He half-feared that Qui-Gon had secretly communicated with the Quartermaster and carried out his threat to install that handrail. Gathering his courage, he peeked into the 'fresher. The towel bar still lay accusingly splintered into several pieces, his frayed bathrobe tie now dried around one section. Wordlessly, he cleaned it up, and contacted the Quartermaster. Later that evening, after sharing a quiet meal with his master, Obi-Wan gathered his courage and asked one of the two questions uppermost in his mind.

"Master, how could an obscene gesture, deliberate or not, have had such an effect on our mission?"

Qui-Gon shot him a rare impish look.

"I'll tell you that, Padawan, when you tell me how your actions had such an effect on the towel bar."

FIN