Summary: Obi-Wan and Satine share a private moment together, then and now. Takes place sometime during the season two "Duchess of Mandalore" arc of Star Wars: The Clone Wars. Title comes from Christina Perri's "A Thousand Years." Rated M for softly-explicit het.
Darling, Don't Be Afraid, I Have Loved You
He remembers the days spent running, the endless hours whittled away, always searching for their next strategic location, forever trying to keep a step ahead of the various factions whose frequent attempts to stifle Satine's idealistic pacifism would place them in this precarious role of caretaker and bodyguard for nearly a year. The nights, many spent in caves, are long and arduous; sleep is necessary, of course, but often hard to come by. Often, the Duchess grows increasingly cranky as twilight falls, another day wasted and no closer to her goal of a peaceful Mandalore. More than once, her complaints grow into impassioned arguments; for his part, Qui-Gon prefers to let Obi-Wan do the lion's share of holding up their collective end during such discussions, both to hone the young man's increasingly impressive debate skills, and also because the Jedi Master tires quickly of rehashing worn disagreements. (Qui-Gon Jinn is many things, but never a diplomat.) More than once, such evenings end with Satine hunched on one side of their latest temporary hovel, with Obi-Wan slouched next to Qui-Gon on the other, frustrated and tight-jawed as he stokes the fire.
The day he sustains (minor, decidedly non-fatal) injuries protecting her is the day things begin to change. He half-expects her to act derisive, to scoff at his hurt because, after all, she does not approve of the fighting that has led to it. He even has a particularly acerbic rebuttal slated to slide off of his too-oft-bitten tongue as soon as her initial concern over his well-being - can't have a Jedi protector if the Jedi protector is dead, after all - has been replaced by the Duchess' usual, charming personality.
It is not to be, however. Rather, her eyes are wide at the sight of the considerable amount of blood, and when she asks if he is truly all right, her voice is soft, almost girlish, not that of the obstinate woman he has come to know and be frequently challenged by. "Should we contact Master Jinn?" she asks.
"Of course not," he scoffs, because it's really nothing a few bacta strips won't fix, certainly not enough to interrupt Qui-Gon during his solo scouting expedition. Largely ignoring her, he sets to work cleaning himself up; his tunics are ripped, stains soaked into the fabric that make his blood loss appear much more excessive than it is. For some reason, this seems to bother the pretty, haughty Duchess, whose lower lip is very nearly quavering. "Are you cold?" he asks, and she shakes her head.
At some point - maybe he sustains an injury in a particularly hard-to-reach spot and she decides to try her hand at being a nursemaid - her hands are on him, fingertips brushing rent flesh. Her pale blue eyes are quite lovely when she isn't rolling them, and he recalls staring into them for quite some time before anything more happens. Eventually, it does, though; he does not recall any particular finesse on his part, but he also does not recollect any complaints - blissfully, for once! - on Satine's behalf. And lo, perhaps it is simply difficult for the Duchess to bite out her usual breadth of scorn while her tongue is otherwise occupied in Obi-Wan's mouth, her teeth clicking against his as their heads pivot in order to find the most satisfactory angle for the both of them, but the memory upholds.
Time has changed them both. He's not so unwieldy now, though they are both more weathered; experience has hardened their bodies as well as their minds, and their wary stares back-and-forth hold the promises of twenty years spent apart, becoming themselves. Their kissing is slower, less frantic, and when it comes time to help the Duchess let down her hair, so to speak, Obi-Wan does not fumble like the gawky twenty-year-old he was, but deftly unfastens, unbuckles, and otherwise removes articles with measured patience. When they're on the run, Satine has to forego the sophisticated garb of her position for more perfunctory clothing, and occasionally a disguise to grow even more layers of subterfuge in order to keep her safe. The thick dresses she favors now are simple enough - privately, Obi-Wan has always preferred Mandalore's less ostentatious clothing to that of, say, Naboo nobility - but still, he does not rush.
"You are hurt," she had breathed back then, but now, her concern is more inwardly-driven, her hand moving, tellingly, not to caress his bicep, but to cover the faint lines near her eyes: "You do not find me beautiful anymore."
At this, he sighs. "As usual, your grace, you mischaracterize my intentions." Still, he is compelled to lead her towards the bed, to show her what cannot be said. The Duchess' private chambers are a vast improvement over the site of their first coupling (and nearly all of the others, besides), and he enjoys the contrast of the cerulean bedding against Satine's alabaster skin. He takes the lead, skimming down her throat, cupping her bared breasts, watching (and feeling, beneath the pads of his thumbs) her nipples harden. Intentionally, he rests his hand on her belly because she seems to curl in on herself when he reaches her torso, and while dual decades, in a largely sedentary lifestyle, besides, has certainly altered things, the woman below him retains a softly athletic form.
Her hand is on his face, now. "I suppose I'll have to get used to the beard," she murmurs, and, inspired, he grins with uncharacteristic wickedness before sliding onto his own stomach. The kisses along her inner thighs are met with increasingly urgent whining, and then his mouth hovers over her nethers, his fingers gently prying her apart, nudging, circling her clit, and she keens. "Obi, please," she gasps, and he obeys, ever her Jedi servant, plunging his tongue inside of her, lapping as she moans and clutches the soft fabric below her hands. Her knuckles whiten. His own hands caress her legs, tug her wider apart, give him leverage to continue pleasuring her with his mouth. He had never dared such a feat all those years ago - it seemed indulgent, and they rarely had the privacy that allowed for extensive love-making; as it was, Qui-Gon had never broached the topic, but there were close calls, and he had almost certainly known what it had been like for his Padawan and the Duchess to at last part ways - and when he wipes at his face with the back of his hand and brushes his mouth up and along her stomach before settling himself over her, propped on his arms, her dilated pupils hint that this has been more effective foreplay than those days of only blunt, exploratory fingers.
He inserts himself with brief fanfare and they rock back and forth together. When they were young, this had not taken long; even that early time, Obi-Wan bandaged and perhaps even a tad feverish, had drawn up enough mutual interest between them for him to power through it and then some, rutting against her as though, if he stopped before it was finished, she would evaporate like the faceless figure in one of his smutty pubescent dreams. They're both slower now, and Obi-Wan takes his time, each time driving into her carefully, optimizing his pleasure and her own through the Force; a judicious utilization, perhaps, but an effective one. He holds himself off until Satine has found her own pleasure, her mouth opening in a near-silent scream as his measured thrusting assuages the waves of her orgasm, and then allows himself to tip over the edge himself, gasping into her neck, kissing her throat and then attaching his mouth to hers until everything peters out.
The cuddling is also new. Swaddled in blue, they hold one another, Satine's hand tracing patterns across his chest. Talk of the past is almost bemusingly inevitable, though Satine's brand of pillow talk still surprises him: "If I had asked you to stay with me after your duty was done, would we still have spent twenty years apart, wondering whether this would get better with age?"
He considers it, and decides to keep things lighthearted. "Do you think it has?" he queries. He meets and holds her gaze, and, because they have, in fact, matured, there is no need to spend this night in separate rooms following an argument, smarting from lobbed accusations of half-truths and hyperbole.
Instead, the Duchess smiles and pats his scruff. "It's growing on me," she asserts, and the night curls snugly around them, together, for now, and it must be made to be enough.