“It’s done,” Claire said, somewhat needlessly, and quite nearly collapsed to sit heavily in the chair by the window. The moon had set, the liquid red of the late night sky on this humid planet casting her features into strangely bloody shadows.
Wordless, Qui-Gon moved behind her, hands sliding automatically to her shoulders and smoothing over the iron knots of muscle gathered at the back of her neck and along her shoulder blades. He tried never to probe too openly, but he did reach out to her through the unusual bond they shared, offering calm and projecting serenity, soothing her as much with his mind as with the touch of his hands...if she would allow it of him.
After a moment she leaned back into his touch, answering his mind with hers, returning the gesture as if they were clasping hands, or perhaps something deeper--like knitting muscle to bone. They balanced easily, but never quite the way Qui-Gon expected. More like shield and sword than blade against blade.
“She’ll live,” Claire murmured. He already knew.
The Council disliked sending them on missions together; their bond made the point moot. One of Yoda’s worst frustrations, Qui-Gon supposed, with an unbecoming surge of smugness. Wanting the bond severed, Mace had argued against Qui-Gon in Council sessions for some two months, but Qui-Gon had met him with the steeled resolved of an entirely determined mind and the new authority of his recent promotion to the Council itself. In any case, that position tended to keep him to Alderaan, where the Order had reestablished the Temple after the flight from Coruscant, and Claire--while her training was nominally complete, despite a great many breaches of tradition that gave Qui-Gon a certain wily glee--tended to remain near.
This mission was a rarity. Despite the strain on them both, he appreciated it for the relative privacy it gave them, together.
He was not particularly bothering to shield from her, and the slight catch of her breath, just a ripple of anticipation between them, suggested his thoughts had been overheard. “Qui-Gon,” she murmured aloud, her hands covering his. She was not yet entirely subtle, but always persistent, and after only a moment or two he yielded to her, opening his mind to hers and allowing her to read him however she would.
They would certainly never be conventional, Qui-Gon supposed some time later, when dawn was just staining the edges of the horizon with a touch of pink, and her body was tucked into the curve of his, her breathing shallowing in sleep. Nevertheless...the touch of the Force between them, and the devastating sense of home he felt every time he moved inside her... It convinced him that their path was right.
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Date: 2006-08-30 12:37 am (UTC)Wordless, Qui-Gon moved behind her, hands sliding automatically to her shoulders and smoothing over the iron knots of muscle gathered at the back of her neck and along her shoulder blades. He tried never to probe too openly, but he did reach out to her through the unusual bond they shared, offering calm and projecting serenity, soothing her as much with his mind as with the touch of his hands...if she would allow it of him.
After a moment she leaned back into his touch, answering his mind with hers, returning the gesture as if they were clasping hands, or perhaps something deeper--like knitting muscle to bone. They balanced easily, but never quite the way Qui-Gon expected. More like shield and sword than blade against blade.
“She’ll live,” Claire murmured. He already knew.
The Council disliked sending them on missions together; their bond made the point moot. One of Yoda’s worst frustrations, Qui-Gon supposed, with an unbecoming surge of smugness. Wanting the bond severed, Mace had argued against Qui-Gon in Council sessions for some two months, but Qui-Gon had met him with the steeled resolved of an entirely determined mind and the new authority of his recent promotion to the Council itself. In any case, that position tended to keep him to Alderaan, where the Order had reestablished the Temple after the flight from Coruscant, and Claire--while her training was nominally complete, despite a great many breaches of tradition that gave Qui-Gon a certain wily glee--tended to remain near.
This mission was a rarity. Despite the strain on them both, he appreciated it for the relative privacy it gave them, together.
He was not particularly bothering to shield from her, and the slight catch of her breath, just a ripple of anticipation between them, suggested his thoughts had been overheard. “Qui-Gon,” she murmured aloud, her hands covering his. She was not yet entirely subtle, but always persistent, and after only a moment or two he yielded to her, opening his mind to hers and allowing her to read him however she would.
They would certainly never be conventional, Qui-Gon supposed some time later, when dawn was just staining the edges of the horizon with a touch of pink, and her body was tucked into the curve of his, her breathing shallowing in sleep. Nevertheless...the touch of the Force between them, and the devastating sense of home he felt every time he moved inside her... It convinced him that their path was right.