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“And just what do you think you’re doing, hm?”
Qui-Gon Jinn freezes with his hand on the door to the ‘fresher, feeling a bit like a deer caught in a speeder’s headlights. The glitter on his chest itches, but he’s sort of worried that if he moves too fast then his Padawan will move away from his bedroom door and closer to Qui-Gon himself, and honestly he doesn’t want the teen picking up the dense fog of sweat and smoke and liquor hanging off him like robes.
Xanatos always slept through the night, he can’t help but think, inanely. I thought teenagers were meant to sleep through the night.
“Well?” his padawan asks, arms crossed, looking unfortunately adorable in his button-up striped pyjamas and sleep-ruffled hair, despite the almost palpable aura of menace. “What time do you think it is?”
It’s around three in the morning on this side of Coruscant, that much Qui-Gon knows. He also knows that admitting he knows what time it is means admitting to his Padawan that he’d been out until three in the morning, and he has a feeling that the admission wouldn’t go down well. Call it the Will of the Force. He’s pretty sure it’s the Force that’s telling him to flee right now.
The thing with his new Padawan is that he’s got a rock solid sleep schedule. By eight in the evening, he’s in bed, and out for the night. At a push, he can make himself stay up until ten, especially if he’s studying for a course, but any later than that and it’s like talking to a sleeping wall, he’s out. Qui-Gon could putter around the apartment until the sun came up and it’d make no difference whatsoever.
So he thought he’d be safe to have a night out.
And here they are. Stuck in a staredown with Qui-Gon in nothing but iridescent booty shorts and body glitter, and Obi-Wan covered from ankle to wrist to neck. Really, what is there to say?
“Nothing to worry yourself with, Padawan,” he tells the boy, trying for Zen calm and falling at least a little short if the narrowing of his Padawan’s eyes are any indication. His chest is incredibly itchy, the urge to give in and scratch is becoming near-impossible to ignore.
“Hm.” Is the response he gets, along with a raised eyebrow which is frankly a little insulting. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
With that ominous proclamation, the door to his Padawan’s rooms closes with a muted whirr. Qui-Gon’s muscles slowly untense as it doesn’t reopen, even as he finally, tentatively, makes his way into the fresher to wash off the remains of the rave. What in the Sith hells just happened? He can’t help but wonder as he washes the scent of smoke from his hair.
“Oh, Master, before I forget,” Qui-Gon jumps as the door to the ‘fresher rushes open, billowing a cloud of club-fragrant steam into the corridor. “We have a meeting with the Council at seven in the morning today. Please do try to be on time.” The tone is mild, as his Padawan’s tone so often is, but Qui-Gon can hear the steel under the words. This is a punishment, isn’t it. It has to be.
As soon as his voice comes back, he rasps out a weak, “I shall naturally do my best, Obi-Wan.”
“Thank you, Master.”
The ‘fresher door closes with a whoosh, leaving Qui-Gon damp and petrified under the scalding spray of water. He only hopes that he can make it back to the safety of his bed without his Padawan appearing again.
He’s had enough excitement for one night.