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Seven: Pressure

The bubbles rise from the darkening depths, tiny orbs tinted tea-brown, riding the unstable surface a few seconds before popping wetly, to be replaced in an instant by another frothy barrage.

It will go on this way, boiling, popping, steaming, until removed from the instigating heat.

But if it stays on the red-glow base, nothing else can halt the cycle. The conflagration will grow, vibrating from the bottom, forcing more and more of the bubbles upward. They'll cluster and well toward the lip, the fury of flame ever beneath them. Eventually, it will be too much. The blistered moisture will spill over, first a dribble, then a stream.

And the kettle will be empty then. Drained. Spent. Perhaps even warped by the pressure.

But the heat will still be there, to attack what's left, to burn the cracking carcass.

I remove the tea from the stove top, glancing once, then twice, over my shoulder as I do so.

Gods…WHY is he out there?

I fish out two mugs from the cupboard, my eyes itching to make a third wandering. The brew is strong-we share that preference, I think-and I pour it to the top of both tumblers.

It's too cold out there.

My fingers close around the warm handles.

It's cold and he's just in a ratty pair of stockings. How did I raise such a foolish…Padawan? Padawan.

I cross the main room with a briskness that sloshes the tea. The balcony is a combination of moonlight planes, reserved blues and yellows, overlapped by shadow. His shadow.

He's perched on a lounge chair, knees drawn to his chest. Turned away from me, I can't tell where his eyes are, if they're fastened to the black sky or drifting along the towering map of dark buildings.

I walk out into the night and cool air swirls around my face.

He cranes his neck, sensing my arrival (or maybe, too, my approach).

His eyes seem to reflect the somber hues of the deck, gray and cobalt, lined by lightly-colored lashes.

"Here," I say, doing my best to be casual while worrying at the limited protection he has out here, in public air, the ledge open and too low, so vulnerable…

He takes it with quietly voiced gratitude, sipping as he waits.

Waits for me, I know. I settle on the adjacent, fold-out chair, and only then does he gradually return to his previous position.

I take a drink, feeling the warmth spread in my tightly coiled, frozen belly.

I see that both my predictions were incorrect.

Obi-Wan, in fact, doesn't appear to be looking at anything. His mouth rests on the mug's porcelain edge, his luminous eyes unfocused.

Still, I wonder what he sees.

And hope, hope to the Force, he doesn't see what I do, behind the false, unaffected film over my eyes.

For my Obi-Wan shouldn't have to glimpse fear in me.

After all, I'm the one whose supposed to be the epitome of courage, detached from mindless fretting.

I hear a small clink beside me.

He sets his cup on the ground, scoots his chair closer. Then, he curls his legs behind him, turned slightly toward me, and slips his hand in mine.

That hand is noticeably cold, and I hold it firm.

His eyes are a bit clearer when he looks up at me, but they're also tired, tainted on one side by the nearby scar.

He shouldn't be out here.

The voice rings dully, but insistently, like a rusted bell.

I give the chapped fingers a squeeze. "We should go inside, Obi-Wan. Your hand's like ice."

And I accept the weary, almost pained disappointment in his soft, moon-bathed face.

I'd rather watch that sad expression than forfeit, than lose him, and his every expression, forever.

Dutifully he pulls himself up, grabbing the mug from the floor and walking with a little numbness through the door.

I follow, locking it, then check to be certain it's secure.

For a brief instance, I stare into the savage, merciless night.

You won't have him.

And I tear way, to wait for sleep to fall-partially-over the apartment.