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“I have to report back to the Council.” Qui-Gon tugged at his beard, eyes tight, then turned to Obi-Wan until he was sure that his Padawan was listening. “It’ll take a while, since there’s so much to tell. Make good choices.”
As he swept out of the cockpit, Obi-Wan’s nose wrinkled. Make good choices? What was that supposed to mean? They were simply floating in space, immobile, after fleeing the planet in the midst of multiple bombings. He stared blankly through the window, down at the soft gray expanse of Mandalore. Having a ship with which to escape was a lucky break, since Qui-Gon had predictably lost his in a streak of bad choices—his own brand—within the first few rotations of the mission. But of course, the Duchess insisted that she be returned to the surface as soon as possible. She had to be with her people, to give them hope and courage, to guide them. Obi-Wan wished that he could tune her out sometimes, because she so thoroughly perplexed him, but instead he usually found himself unable to tear himself away from her idealistic monologues.
The door to the cockpit slid open, and Obi-Wan rotated in his chair, expecting Qui-Gon to have returned for something forgotten. He startled upon seeing Satine in the doorframe. She wore the same loose blue tunic and heathered leggings as the past few days, her hair loose and floating around her face in a gentle wave. The goal was to look like a civilian, unimportant. Obi-Wan thought she had utterly failed in that endeavor, but he hadn’t said a word. As she approached and rested her hands on the back of the chair, turning him toward the window again, he struggled to tear his eyes away from the smooth curves of her legs. He was fairly certain that she had longer legs than him. He liked the thought, as pointless as he knew it to be.
“I’m relieved that we can’t see the bombs from here,” she murmured, eyes glassed over with concern. “The desert looks so tranquil.”
“You don’t sound relieved.”
She smirked down at him, and only then did Obi-Wan realize how far he was craning his neck to look up at her. “I want to be down there. You know that.”
“They were so close to killing you today, Duchess. You—”
“Please. Stop saying ‘Duchess.' It’s been long enough.” She was right; after nearly a year on Mandalore, she was far more than another diplomat to protect. Obi-Wan knew that if he slipped up too many times, however, he’d let himself believe, well, more. At the very least, he’d like to act professional in front of his Master. Satine, on the other hand, was fully aware that his concerns didn’t end with the mission. “You’re sweating, Obi-Wan. I personally find it to be quite cold on this ship, don’t you?”
He swallowed. “It is. I’m just—anxious. Stressful day today.”
“Does a Jedi feel anxiety?” she prodded, sitting down in Qui-Gon’s chair with her chin in one hand. The shadow of her hair danced on the controls in front of Obi-Wan, and he forced himself to stare at that rather than examining her face like an ancient Jedi holocron.
“Well, I—I should release it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t, uhm. Feel it in the first place. It’s all part of the training.” He rubbed the back of his neck, wincing when his fingers accidentally tugged at his braid.
Satine’s delicate fingers floated over to the arm of his chair. “When was the last time someone hugged you, Obi-Wan?”
His mouth went dry. “I. What? Hugged?”
“You heard me.”
When he gathered the willpower to look up at her, she had moved closer, half-lifted out of her chair. Her nose was a form of exquisite in and of itself. He’d never seen a face like hers, so long and elegant and sculpted, yet still full of the childish joy of someone dedicated to impossible ideals. They still argued over her way of thinking, but he was beginning to realize that she couldn’t be defeated. Remarkable, for someone who would never intend to harm another creature. “M-Master Qui-Gon hugs me sometimes.”
“Sometimes, as in, a few years ago when you almost died on some daring mission, and he pulled you out of the rubble, and of course him carrying you across some strange planet while unconscious counts as a hug?” Her lips twinged with the beginnings of a smirk. Obi-Wan reddened.
“You nearly read my mind. Had you been a bit more specific, I’d refuse to believe you weren’t a Force-wielder.”
Satine laughed. It was genuine, warm, soft, and Obi-Wan didn’t think he’d ever said anything funny enough in his life to deserve something so bright. He couldn’t keep the smile off of his own face, and that only seemed to encourage her. She said nothing, just swooped forward and pulled him out of his chair, then wrapped her arms around him and squeezed hard enough that they could feel each other still giggling. Obi-Wan may well have abandoned his brain on some frozen ice world, only to come back for it years later and expect it, somehow, to work. His arms acted before he could thaw any form of rationality. She was so slender, made more so from months on the run. She rested her head on his shoulder, and her hair tickled his face, sending a shiver to his stomach. This is what Qui-Gon meant, this is a bad choice, he must’ve sent her here to test my resolve or something, she—
“Obi-Wan. Take a deep breath.”
She had pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, and she evidently knew how panicked he was, because her teasing smirk had become a concerned frown. One of her hands was resting on his waist. He immediately thought of battle, of protecting himself from fatal gashes from another’s lightsaber, and started to pull away, but before he could move, she stood up on her toes and brought her lips to his. Just for a moment. It was hardly a kiss, even, just the tiniest contact between their mouths, but Obi-Wan felt so many things all at once that he was certain he could die at any second.
“You have been hugged. Now, go back to your Jedi emotion-denial business.” Satine let go of him and started back toward the door, but before she could leave, it slammed shut. Obi-Wan wasn’t aware of even raising his hand. He had definitely done that, though. Too late to turn back now.
Her expression was unreadable, almost stoic, but through the Force Obi-Wan could feel the same affectionate anxiety in her that was also plaguing him. “Uh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to slam that. Could you, ah, come back here?”
“It still entertains me how so many people believe you to be so suave and composed,” she replied. “Are all Jedi this clueless, too?”
Despite her teasing, she turned around again and sauntered back to him, waiting this time for him to take action. “Probably, yeah,” he whispered. The cockpit was too quiet, too cold, and she had been so warm moments before, and she was so warm now, when his hands somehow appeared on her waist and then her hands on his shoulders and they could be dancing, spinning, and they were, and by the time Obi-Wan surfaced from the intoxicating waters of emotion, they were sitting side by side in the chair and kissing. Furiously. Her knees were pulled up onto his lap, both pairs of feet dangling off the chair, and he was tangling his fingers in her impossibly fine hair like he’d always wanted, even dreamed a few times. Outside of the Temple, he had never felt this safe. Ironic, since their lives were constantly at risk, and he was spitting in the face of every philosophy he was raised to follow. But no Jedi, not even his Master, had ever made his life feel so completely worth living. Satine pulled back long enough to let out an airy laugh, meet his eyes, and then dive back toward him, pushing him over slightly so that she could lean forward into his chest. It only felt natural to rest his hands on her hips and keep her this close. He could barely keep track of the world around him, even through the Force, and he couldn’t tell where her emotions met his and melted so easily into one another. Her hand slid down from his hair and crept down to the top of his tunic, just low enough on his chest to make him tremble. She was unbelievable. He, Obi-Wan, was a good Jedi, a true believer in the Code, and yet he was shaking and giddy and lost in the arms of this woman, wondering how he could’ve gone from simply protecting her to being so entwined.
A gentle cough came from the door, and Obi-Wan jerked back hard enough to startle both Satine and himself. He hadn’t noticed the door opening. Really ought to work on my awareness, he thought, before realizing that that was only the beginning of his problems.
“Good choices, Padawan,” Qui-Gon reiterated, before turning and leaving the cockpit again. Satine was blushing so deeply that the tip of her nose had gone red, and Obi-Wan knew that he looked the same. He should’ve felt ashamed. Guilty, at least. Instead, he started to laugh again, still caught up in Satine’s warm, loving humor. Qui-Gon’s footsteps faded. With a flick of his hand, the door closed again, and Obi-Wan could no longer control his laughter.
She laughed, too.