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Thick blankets covered the long sleepcouch in Master Jinn's room, vaguely resembling what could have been a human sitting up in bed, wrapped head to foot to mattress with every blanket this side of the Temple. From the odd-shaped lump in the center of the bed came a muffled cough, followed by a long, drawn-out tissue blowing session that culminated in a white ball of used tissue being tossed out the cave-like tunnel burrowed in the top the blankets. The mini-projectile rocketed out through the opening like a rock belched up by a volcano. It landed perfectly on top of a growing pile beside the bed, making the pyramid just a little taller. It teetered slightly off center, but with a Force-push it rocked back into place. A satisfied snort sounded from under the blankets.
Someone disengaged the lock and activated the door to the room, causing the lump to stir a little. The tips of three horns peeked out over the rim of the blanket-cave. "Where's my juice?" a rough and stuffy voice demanded.
Qui-Gon sighed deeply as he entered the room, activating the privacy lock once again. "The cafeteria has never heard of dragonfruit juice. In fact, no one has. I had to run to the store to purchase whole dragonfruit myself." He walked over to the lump on the bed, tossing his cloak in the direction of the closet. His tunics were wrinkled, as though he had dug them out of the bottom of the closet, and his hair was without its usual hair binder. All in all, the Jedi looked out of sorts. Carefully he balanced on the edge of the mattress and reached out to stroke his forefinger down the middle horn. "How are you feeling Maul?" he cooed in his best bedside manner.
The horns disappeared under the blankets in a rush, the cave door closing just a little more. "Don't touch me," Maul snapped angrily. "You did this to me."
"I did no such thing, Maul, and you know it," Qui-Gon countered quickly. "How was I supposed to know that you didn't have an immunity to Correllian influenza? You never told me." Everyone in the Republic over seven standards old were immune to the common disease. If he had known that Maul was susceptible, he would have never suggested that trip to the crèche.
The lump shrugged, then scooted away from Qui-Gon. "You did it on purpose. You hate me," Maul whined, wheezing slightly through stuffy nasal passages.
For being a bad-assed Sith, Maul could be rather pathetic when he was sick. "I do not hate you," Qui-Gon assured in measured tones, his hand patting around the front of the lump trying to find Maul's knee to give him a reassuring squeeze. All he could feel was the soft give of the blankets. "I find you charming and sexy as hell. Would I be fetching you dragonfruit juice in the middle of the night if I hated you?"
"Yes." Qui-Gon's hand found something that felt like a toe. It wiggled a little under his touch, then shifted away. "You do it just to torture me. You Jedi scum kill with kindness." The blankets billowed as Maul blew his nose hard. Another white ball flew out from the cave opening, this time hitting Qui-Gon square on the nose before bouncing off to land on top the pile, right next to the previous ball. "These tissues are too rough. Get me new ones."
As bossy as Mace on Life Day. "Yes Master," Qui-Gon mumbled under his breath sarcastically.
"Whut was that?" The top of the lump twisted, and Qui-Gon could sense Maul staring right at him though inches of taun taun fur separated them. "I can't hear you; my ears are stuffed up."
'My lightsaber,' Qui-Gon thought, 'you heard me just fine.' He rose his hands in defeat and spoke directly into the little opening in the blankets. "Right away, my love. No problem, my love. I'll run down to the Healers at 4:30 in the morning to get you those, my love." He was being sarcastic again. He'd have to do extra serenity katas the next day before Yoda finds out, otherwise he'd have to listen to the 'Sarcasm leads to anger' lecture again.
"Son of a Bantha," Maul cursed at Qui-Gon. Another white ball flew out of the opening, but this time Qui-Gon caught it in his hand before dropping it on the pile. "I knew it. You hate me." The lump sort of collapsed, slowly falling in on itself until the blankets settled over the vague outline of a curled Sith with a bad case of the flu.
Qui-Gon let out a long suffering sigh, humouring his lover. "I'll be right back." Qui-Gon left the room, heading into the common area between their quarters and Obi-Wan's. He covered the space in a few long strides. "Padawan!" He kicked the door a couple times with the side of his boot, not being delicate about waking the boy at such an early hour. "Padawan, wake up!"
There was a noise of something crashing to the floor, then the door was answered by a slightly disheveled Padawan Kenobi. His hair was crushed flat on one side, and his braid had a nasty 90 degree angle crimped into it. Qui-Gon refused to feel any kind of guilt over waking Obi-Wan; at least HE had gotten some sleep tonight.
Blinking his eyes several times without actually focusing, Obi-Wan ground out with an impatient grunt, "Whut?" He sounded just like Maul. Great, now Qui-Gon had to deal with two grumpy, inarticulate Force users.
"Padawan, I need you to run to the Healers right away."
Obi-Wan woke up a bit at that, his voice finding his usual cultured speech patterns. "Master, is someone hurt?" The smaller man stretched his neck, looking for the familiar presence that usually hung by Qui-Gon's side.
"He's okay, he just as the flu. Go to the Healers and get some soft tissues. The kind with the lotion in them."
The concern dropped from Obi-Wan's face at the realization that he was being sent on a silly errand. "But Master, he's YOUR lover," he whined as he scratched his collarbone and yawned--all at the same time.
"And you are my Padawan, now move." Qui-Gon dragged the barefooted, half-naked Padawan out into the hallway. "And hurry!" He watched from the doorway as Obi-Wan scuffled his way down the corridor towards the turbolifts. When he disappeared around the corner, Qui-Gon went back inside and stood in the kitchen area. On the counter was a bag of a dozen dragonfruits. Somehow he had to turn these tough-skinned, prickly little fruits into a glass of cold juice...
"Qui-Gon!" a deep voice whined from the bedroom. "Where's my juice?"
And he'd have to figure it out, fast.