If I Were To Close My Eyes

By LuvEwan

(pg)

summary: After Obi-Wan is returned from nearly seven month's captivity, Qui-Gon is seized by an intense fear. Written in narrative from Qui-Gon's perspective.

(angst/drama)

main characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn (A real surprise there, huh?)

disclaimer: pssst…I've got a secret. George Lucas is really a short, seventeen year old girl who hates plaid and makes absolutely no profit whatsoever.

DEDICATED TO my readers, as always. You instill a desire to write within me, thanks to your constant support. You don't understand how deeply I appreciate it, and since there are no words to tell you all, I hope you'll know through this. If I didn't receive the kind words and helpful comments you provide, I would not only be less of a writer, these stories would most likely remain tucked away in my computer or my head. Wait…maybe that would be a good thing…

…..

What am I to do

If I don't have you? -Paul McCartney

…..

One: The Panic in Me

I'm not going. I don't need to. I already checked. I already checked twice. Three times…Four?

I flip onto my side, tucking the pillow beneath my head and clenching my eyes shut.

I try to quiet my mind, hush the incessant little voice that repeats, over and over, that I should check on him.

Just a glance into his room--only to be certain he's alright.

That he's really there.

A soft snort at my absurdity.

I'm reminded of Tahl, walking fluidly along the row of tiny beds in the dimly lit creche, her honey-tan skin caressed by invading moonlight.

I asked her why she performed the nightly ritual of crouching beside each slumbering infant and toddler, lingering in their innocent, guileless presence, ruffling their feathery hair.

With twinkling jade eyes, she'd say:

"Who can watch over such precious lives without…making sure?"

I admit I couldn't fully understand her motivations then. A young, famously (or infamously, I suppose you could argue) rebellious Knight has little in way of paternal tendencies, and absolutely no talent for that sort of intuition.

But now…Gods I can comprehend her words.

I feel the tingle in my stomach, the tightness that seems to bind my lungs until I can't gather a breath.

And I have the same powerful impulse to stop beside his bed, to wait for his warm breath to meet my palm.

If I resist, if I force myself to remain lying here, the pillow turns to stone under me. The air grows cold, restless, disdainful

I sometimes think I'll go mad.

Initially, after reclining on the duvet and settling in the mild comfort of weariness receded, I'll drift. I meditate on the closing day, the events and thoughts passed taking on a blurry incoherence as my senses slightly dull…

Then, a harmless image from the recent hours will enter my mind. A parry during an intense spar, when he stumbled backward due to a lethargic reaction, a chagrined smile splitting his face.

I smiled in turn…

But lying in my bed, the memory is a haze that twists, that mutates.

Until I see him huddled in the healing ward, tears cascading down his cheeks, a patch secured over one eye.

My heart contracts at the scene, moisture spiking in my own eyes.

Yet, that isn't the end. It isn't ever the end.

I could take it if it didn't go beyond that. I could endure the remnant of his suffering, as I have the course of our partnership, if it were to stop there.

But no. No.

Visions are painted in morbid color in my periphery. I watch him being stolen…being taken away….while I…while I…

Slept in oblivion, a matter of feet from him.

At the time, I was unable to hear the hoarse, cruel curses of the criminals (Demons. I can't deny that…Why would I want to?) As he was being abducted from the safety and assurances of our room, I was probably snoring. So I have imagined the sounds that roughly permeated the silence.

I can only invent the startled gasp that must have fallen from his slack lips.

Naturally I was told there could be no fault placed on my shoulders.

"You were drugged, Master Jinn. What could you have done?"

What I could have done…

There's something that's become the bitter locus of my soul. Slowly, from the moment I discovered his disappearance, it stalked like a vehement beast within me, hungering for an answer that could provide satisfaction.

Perhaps I could have declined the drinks. Refused the beverages, with their ruby red color. A shade that I can detect everywhere now. There's an entire cluster of flowers in the Garden stained identically. Yesterday, while we strolled the pebble-lined paths, I tore a few of the taunting blooms from the stems, then couldn't create an excuse when Obi-Wan inquired, a bit uncomfortably, why I did it.

But he pressed me no further, continuing the companionable trek in quiet.

With every step he took, I was whispering my feverish gratitude to the Force.

I could've turned down the mission, or noticed the effects of the drugs sooner…Hell, I could've Force-sealed him in a closet.

But I did none of those things.

As a reward, I was given seven months, endless days and torturous hours to consider my awful, foolish, stupid, dangerous mistakes.

Then, for added torment, these thoughts of a shrouded figure crawling through his window, their coarse hands jerking his head…

Oh Force.

And so each night, this being no exception, I throw the blankets aside and wrap my robe around my thin sleep clothes.

My paces quicken; I hasten down the thickly shadowed corridor.

I reach his room. By now my blood has frozen in the veins. Horrific possibilities flash through my frenzied mind.

When I finally pass the threshold, I'm convinced the worst has happened. The scream is already rising in my throat. A trembling hand is straying to the lightsaber hanging from my waist.

But then---I see him.

Curled up in the center of the bed, a quilt draped over his shoulders. His auburn braid is woven through several fingers, held against his jawline, snaking down his neck.

Muted saffron spills from the strip of midnight peeking out from the parted drapes, and falls in a gentle band across his face, casting shadow beneath a ginger curtain of lashes.

In a brief burst of selfishness, I wish those eyes would open, so I could see the vibrant life gleaming in his crisp azure gaze.

My hand hovers above the peaceful visage, catching the heat of a measured, dreamy exhale.

How I treasure it above…anything.

I don't really notice the shaky quality of my breaths, too absorbed by the sweet relief seeping into my soul.

He's okay. Nothing happened. Everything's fine. Look around--nothing. See? Nothing.

I stand in the darkened room, staring down at the culmination of my life…

And this time, I simply cannot bring myself to leave him. I cannot return to the ghosts and terror and eternal wondering of my quarters.

I…can't.

I pull up his desk chair beside the couch, resigned to another night spent in sleepless, desperate vigil.