Obi-Wan wasn't used to going so long without speaking.
He could do it, oh yes, and had before, for meditations or when creating a Lightsaber, in solitude. But never by choice, and never when there was someone there to speak to. Even among Jedi, Obi-Wan was a man that lived more by his word than anything else. He had not been named 'The Negotiator' for no reason, after all.
But now the place inside where eloquent words came from seemed to have dried up, like the mirage of an oasis in the unfathomable deeps of the endless Tattooine wasteland. He was cold and silent, and the wind blew right through his thoughts, trancelike against the soft rush of Siri rubbing at the pot.
Without a word, he takes the teapot, and pours. One for her, one for him. Not alone.
He opens his mouth to speak- so natural a reaction, after all. She's warm, there, against his shoulder, and he's reminded with brutal honesty how little they've touched in the past month. How little anyone had touched him before then. It seems another life.
A life that is closed off behind a partition in his mind, distant and removed.
The wind is picking up again outside, and the light is fading. It'll be a bad storm, then, but they'll get by. Jedi are prudent, after all. It's been too long, and he closes his mouth again and sighs. What is he doing?
"Let's go to bed, Siri," he murmurs, turning his head towards hers.
Siri kisses him before he can protest, gently at first, then cupping both sides of his face and pressing her lips against him harder. There's a spark of greed rising up. She pretends this is really a poorly-lit Temple hallway, or a star destroyer's bridge after hours, or-- anything. Anything that would get a response back to prove that the brilliant part of her life that is Obi-Wan is still there as she remembers in some small way or another.
"Good idea," she finally says, slightly embarrassed.
Comments 12
He could do it, oh yes, and had before, for meditations or when creating a Lightsaber, in solitude. But never by choice, and never when there was someone there to speak to. Even among Jedi, Obi-Wan was a man that lived more by his word than anything else. He had not been named 'The Negotiator' for no reason, after all.
But now the place inside where eloquent words came from seemed to have dried up, like the mirage of an oasis in the unfathomable deeps of the endless Tattooine wasteland. He was cold and silent, and the wind blew right through his thoughts, trancelike against the soft rush of Siri rubbing at the pot.
Without a word, he takes the teapot, and pours. One for her, one for him. Not alone.
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Siri leaned her head on his shoulder, faking sleepiness. "Are you going to be awake for a while?"
Yes or no questions seemed to be her best bet.
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A life that is closed off behind a partition in his mind, distant and removed.
The wind is picking up again outside, and the light is fading. It'll be a bad storm, then, but they'll get by. Jedi are prudent, after all. It's been too long, and he closes his mouth again and sighs. What is he doing?
"Let's go to bed, Siri," he murmurs, turning his head towards hers.
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"Good idea," she finally says, slightly embarrassed.
She shouldn't be acting like this.
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