sanerontheinside (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sanerontheinside) wrote2018-12-06 12:44 am
sanerontheinside) wrote2018-12-06 12:44 am
Entry tags:
Excerpt: Desert Rogue (au)
original post
May the Fourth be with you!
Today was lovely, I think dopamine finally found my address again, and I’m riding this high as far as it’ll go for now. (After all, I’ll be spending Revenge of the Fifth writing unit plans, lesson plans, and possibly a kriffing paper.)
have an excerpt from that time travel au that took one look at the whole point of time travel au’s… (you know… fix-it’s….) and did exactly not that. aka Desert Rogue. @davaia, as usual, I tag you when the thing is your fault.
@meggory84 I have no words, truly, thank you <3
also, you inadvertently reminded me of this excerpt, you’ll see why
“General?” Qui-Gon started. “I’m not—”
The man’s features quickly turned neutral. He seemed almost apologetic, or maybe a touch embarrassed. “Sorry, sir. Force of habit.”
He didn’t salute, not quite. Qui-Gon saw it anyway, tightly restrained and uncomfortably trapped in years of civilian—Rebel—life. There was a slight bounce to the man’s turn, a faint nod. Qui-Gon tried to convince himself, throughout that day, that ‘sir’ was merely an informal address. All of it shouted years of respect, of well-earned faith, and he couldn’t ignore it.
It felt… dishonest. Qui-Gon hadn’t been there to earn any of it himself.
He waited until that evening, when he was, as usual, among the last still awake. Qui-Gon hadn’t slept well since he’d woken up in the middle of Jedha’s cold desert. Meditation made up, just barely, for the hours he missed. He was fortunate to get two hours of broken sleep on most nights.
No one ever mentioned it, but then, Qui-Gon suspected the others had their own reasons for restless nights. Only a few of their team were so young that they hadn’t really understood the war raging over their heads all those years ago.
Nightfall almost always found him sitting before the fire, stirring it periodically, heating a mug of tea—a local product, and truly better quality than he could have hoped for. More than once, he found himself thinking that Obi-Wan would have appreciated it, and suppressing the twinge of pain that came with the thought.
Eel had the first night watch. Qui-Gon mostly kept his insomnia out sight, taking his tea back to his pallet with him and drinking it there when sitting at the fire might have provoked well-intentioned but completely unwanted questions. But Eel didn’t seem at all surprised by Qui-Gon’s disruption of his pattern. He settled across from the Jedi, his expression open and relaxed. Perhaps he’d expected Qui-Gon to speak to him, after their exchange earlier that day.
Eel seemed inclined to leave the conversation up to him. The man could have rivaled a Jedi in his patience, Qui-Gon thought. Master Yoda had certainly been one for patient silence, waiting for his victim to find their direction before taking the floor out from under them again.
“I wasn’t in the war,” Qui-Gon said quietly. “I died.”
The vet eyed him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Right.”
Of course. They’d all died. Qui-Gon bit back a curse.
“No. I died,” he insisted. Eel looked up at him again, brow furrowed. “Ten years before the war began, near as I can tell.”
There was a long moment of stillness. “Oh.”
“Yes.”
Nothing else seemed forthcoming for a long moment. Qui-Gon turned his attention back to his tea.
“Weird Force shit?”
Qui-Gon sputtered, nearly choking on the hot liquid. “Something like that,” he agreed, between coughs.
The man grinned. He’d definitely timed that, the bastard.
Qui-Gon decided he may as well ask, after all. “I take it you had ample opportunity to see such things, then.”
Eel’s smile faltered slightly. “A bit, yeah. You sound a lot like one of our Generals, sometimes. Makes it harder not to fall back on old habits.”
“Hm.” Qui-Gon dared to take another sip. “I wonder if I knew them.”
“General Kenobi,” Eel said, “the Negotiator.”
Qui-Gon froze. His hand tightened on his knee, but beyond that and the too-long pause, he at least hadn’t let the cup drop from nerveless fingers. “Oh, he would’ve hated that.”
Eel laughed. “He did! Stopped complaining we started calling him Tekhemiren Shus’huk.”
Qui-Gon set down the mug and stared. “My Mando’a is not exactly in the finest shape, but—Walking Disaster?”
Eel nodded, laughing.
“I’ll bet he took that well.”
“Gave up and made us promise not to name another ship after him.”
Qui-Gon was still coming down from the shock of walking right into someone else’s memory of Obi-Wan Kenobi. His Padawan had grown into a Knight and a General and a walking disaster, and Qui-Gon hadn’t been there to see any of it. “Well, that sounds like him.”
“So you knew him!”
“I trained him,” Qui-Gon admitted. He wanted to say more; there was so much more in the seven years they’d had together, but he didn’t know how or where to start. His Obi-Wan had been a Padawan on the cusp of Knighthood, and this man had known parts of him that Qui-Gon had only ever seen the potential of. If he’d been wise enough to see it at all.
The silence that followed his words stretched, weighted with something heavy and important. Qui-Gon looked up at the soldier, wondering what he’d see, but found only sympathy.
“You’re awful solid for a ghost, Master Jinn,” Eel said.
The use of his name surprised him, and somehow did not. “Please tell me I wasn’t some legendary Jedi Master,” Qui-Gon grumbled wearily, reaching for his mug again.
“You had a great-grandpadawan.” Eel grinned at what must have been a bewildered look on Qui-Gon’s face. “You were a legend to her.”
“I—”
A great-grandpadawan. Qui-Gon wished, suddenly, for something much stronger than the fragrant tea in his mug, or even the bitter caff there were probably tonnes of somewhere in the catacombs. Something poisonously alcoholic, like that awful brandy Obi-Wan had found once when there had been no good options in the cantina, and no good options for the mission, either. Qui-Gon would have liked to say they hadn’t been in many warzones over the years of Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship, but they’d been in more than most Jedi teams, and more than he would have ever wanted his Padawan to see.
No matter how loosely he played with the number of years between his death and his… resurrection, no matter how difficult it was for his mind to process the length of time—there was no way his great-grandpadawan could have been that much older than Obi-Wan on Melida-Daan, at the start of the war.
Qui-Gon sighed. “Tell me about her.”
Eel belongs tothedeadcat
May the Fourth be with you!
Today was lovely, I think dopamine finally found my address again, and I’m riding this high as far as it’ll go for now. (After all, I’ll be spending Revenge of the Fifth writing unit plans, lesson plans, and possibly a kriffing paper.)
have an excerpt from that time travel au that took one look at the whole point of time travel au’s… (you know… fix-it’s….) and did exactly not that. aka Desert Rogue. @davaia, as usual, I tag you when the thing is your fault.
@meggory84 I have no words, truly, thank you <3
also, you inadvertently reminded me of this excerpt, you’ll see why
“General?” Qui-Gon started. “I’m not—”
The man’s features quickly turned neutral. He seemed almost apologetic, or maybe a touch embarrassed. “Sorry, sir. Force of habit.”
He didn’t salute, not quite. Qui-Gon saw it anyway, tightly restrained and uncomfortably trapped in years of civilian—Rebel—life. There was a slight bounce to the man’s turn, a faint nod. Qui-Gon tried to convince himself, throughout that day, that ‘sir’ was merely an informal address. All of it shouted years of respect, of well-earned faith, and he couldn’t ignore it.
It felt… dishonest. Qui-Gon hadn’t been there to earn any of it himself.
He waited until that evening, when he was, as usual, among the last still awake. Qui-Gon hadn’t slept well since he’d woken up in the middle of Jedha’s cold desert. Meditation made up, just barely, for the hours he missed. He was fortunate to get two hours of broken sleep on most nights.
No one ever mentioned it, but then, Qui-Gon suspected the others had their own reasons for restless nights. Only a few of their team were so young that they hadn’t really understood the war raging over their heads all those years ago.
Nightfall almost always found him sitting before the fire, stirring it periodically, heating a mug of tea—a local product, and truly better quality than he could have hoped for. More than once, he found himself thinking that Obi-Wan would have appreciated it, and suppressing the twinge of pain that came with the thought.
Eel had the first night watch. Qui-Gon mostly kept his insomnia out sight, taking his tea back to his pallet with him and drinking it there when sitting at the fire might have provoked well-intentioned but completely unwanted questions. But Eel didn’t seem at all surprised by Qui-Gon’s disruption of his pattern. He settled across from the Jedi, his expression open and relaxed. Perhaps he’d expected Qui-Gon to speak to him, after their exchange earlier that day.
Eel seemed inclined to leave the conversation up to him. The man could have rivaled a Jedi in his patience, Qui-Gon thought. Master Yoda had certainly been one for patient silence, waiting for his victim to find their direction before taking the floor out from under them again.
“I wasn’t in the war,” Qui-Gon said quietly. “I died.”
The vet eyed him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Right.”
Of course. They’d all died. Qui-Gon bit back a curse.
“No. I died,” he insisted. Eel looked up at him again, brow furrowed. “Ten years before the war began, near as I can tell.”
There was a long moment of stillness. “Oh.”
“Yes.”
Nothing else seemed forthcoming for a long moment. Qui-Gon turned his attention back to his tea.
“Weird Force shit?”
Qui-Gon sputtered, nearly choking on the hot liquid. “Something like that,” he agreed, between coughs.
The man grinned. He’d definitely timed that, the bastard.
Qui-Gon decided he may as well ask, after all. “I take it you had ample opportunity to see such things, then.”
Eel’s smile faltered slightly. “A bit, yeah. You sound a lot like one of our Generals, sometimes. Makes it harder not to fall back on old habits.”
“Hm.” Qui-Gon dared to take another sip. “I wonder if I knew them.”
“General Kenobi,” Eel said, “the Negotiator.”
Qui-Gon froze. His hand tightened on his knee, but beyond that and the too-long pause, he at least hadn’t let the cup drop from nerveless fingers. “Oh, he would’ve hated that.”
Eel laughed. “He did! Stopped complaining we started calling him Tekhemiren Shus’huk.”
Qui-Gon set down the mug and stared. “My Mando’a is not exactly in the finest shape, but—Walking Disaster?”
Eel nodded, laughing.
“I’ll bet he took that well.”
“Gave up and made us promise not to name another ship after him.”
Qui-Gon was still coming down from the shock of walking right into someone else’s memory of Obi-Wan Kenobi. His Padawan had grown into a Knight and a General and a walking disaster, and Qui-Gon hadn’t been there to see any of it. “Well, that sounds like him.”
“So you knew him!”
“I trained him,” Qui-Gon admitted. He wanted to say more; there was so much more in the seven years they’d had together, but he didn’t know how or where to start. His Obi-Wan had been a Padawan on the cusp of Knighthood, and this man had known parts of him that Qui-Gon had only ever seen the potential of. If he’d been wise enough to see it at all.
The silence that followed his words stretched, weighted with something heavy and important. Qui-Gon looked up at the soldier, wondering what he’d see, but found only sympathy.
“You’re awful solid for a ghost, Master Jinn,” Eel said.
The use of his name surprised him, and somehow did not. “Please tell me I wasn’t some legendary Jedi Master,” Qui-Gon grumbled wearily, reaching for his mug again.
“You had a great-grandpadawan.” Eel grinned at what must have been a bewildered look on Qui-Gon’s face. “You were a legend to her.”
“I—”
A great-grandpadawan. Qui-Gon wished, suddenly, for something much stronger than the fragrant tea in his mug, or even the bitter caff there were probably tonnes of somewhere in the catacombs. Something poisonously alcoholic, like that awful brandy Obi-Wan had found once when there had been no good options in the cantina, and no good options for the mission, either. Qui-Gon would have liked to say they hadn’t been in many warzones over the years of Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship, but they’d been in more than most Jedi teams, and more than he would have ever wanted his Padawan to see.
No matter how loosely he played with the number of years between his death and his… resurrection, no matter how difficult it was for his mind to process the length of time—there was no way his great-grandpadawan could have been that much older than Obi-Wan on Melida-Daan, at the start of the war.
Qui-Gon sighed. “Tell me about her.”
Eel belongs to
thedeadcat