[I think maybe I fail. If you don't like it, give me another chance and I'll try again? Mwah.]
The touch of one gloved hand woke Qui-Gon out of whatever half-conscious state he had achieved, and he pulled back from it as best he could, drawing in a sharp breath, a moment of panic, without recognition. After a second or two he registered the unyielding shapes beneath the glove, long spindles of metal flexing, the very faintest whirr of machinery. Anakin, then. He opened one eye; the other was still swollen shut. For now he simply regarded Anakin silently, ostensibly waiting for him to speak, in actuality waiting for his vision to focus a bit.
When it cleared, Anakin was looking pale and poignant, not particularly composed. He was holding a cup, and kept holding it patiently while Qui-Gon did his best to drink from it, lacking depth perception and physical fortitude just now. “I’m sorry,” he whispered at last, after a long silence, and then he flung the cup to one side, shattering it against the floor. “It wasn’t supposed to be...” He shook his head, strangely belligerent, too juvenile still despite the dangerous fire burning blue in his eyes. “He promised.”
“I hadn’t guessed.” Qui-Gon’s voice sounded ragged, and he gave a pointed glance at the strips of synthetic fabric that bound both wrists above his head. Surprisingly strong weave. With a sigh, he closed his eye again. “Xanatos promises a great many things, Ani.”
He felt the more hesitant touch of a human hand this time, fingers curving against his cheek, Anakin’s breath strangely sweet against his lips for just a moment. “I don’t know how to stop,” Anakin said, his voice a growl, the words tinged with an aspect of the confessional nevertheless. “How to stop him or...even myself--”
With weary determination, Qui-Gon turned his head a bit. Just enough to press them together, forehead to forehead, drawing strength from each other. “It will be all right,” he murmured. “Whatever else happens. It will be all right.” Anakin’s sudden kiss did not surprise him, but the faint taste of desperation in that perfect mouth did. Even so, he could wait. For Xanatos, control was always an illusion of greater or lesser quality. Given enough patience, he could find the proper tool to bring the pieces of this particular deception shattering apart.
no subject
The touch of one gloved hand woke Qui-Gon out of whatever half-conscious state he had achieved, and he pulled back from it as best he could, drawing in a sharp breath, a moment of panic, without recognition. After a second or two he registered the unyielding shapes beneath the glove, long spindles of metal flexing, the very faintest whirr of machinery. Anakin, then. He opened one eye; the other was still swollen shut. For now he simply regarded Anakin silently, ostensibly waiting for him to speak, in actuality waiting for his vision to focus a bit.
When it cleared, Anakin was looking pale and poignant, not particularly composed. He was holding a cup, and kept holding it patiently while Qui-Gon did his best to drink from it, lacking depth perception and physical fortitude just now. “I’m sorry,” he whispered at last, after a long silence, and then he flung the cup to one side, shattering it against the floor. “It wasn’t supposed to be...” He shook his head, strangely belligerent, too juvenile still despite the dangerous fire burning blue in his eyes. “He promised.”
“I hadn’t guessed.” Qui-Gon’s voice sounded ragged, and he gave a pointed glance at the strips of synthetic fabric that bound both wrists above his head. Surprisingly strong weave. With a sigh, he closed his eye again. “Xanatos promises a great many things, Ani.”
He felt the more hesitant touch of a human hand this time, fingers curving against his cheek, Anakin’s breath strangely sweet against his lips for just a moment. “I don’t know how to stop,” Anakin said, his voice a growl, the words tinged with an aspect of the confessional nevertheless. “How to stop him or...even myself--”
With weary determination, Qui-Gon turned his head a bit. Just enough to press them together, forehead to forehead, drawing strength from each other. “It will be all right,” he murmured. “Whatever else happens. It will be all right.” Anakin’s sudden kiss did not surprise him, but the faint taste of desperation in that perfect mouth did. Even so, he could wait. For Xanatos, control was always an illusion of greater or lesser quality. Given enough patience, he could find the proper tool to bring the pieces of this particular deception shattering apart.