Fragments of the Galaxy

It was supposed to have been a simple bit of reconnaissance. That was all. But it had ended with them running through the ruined skeleton of a warehouse and finding themselves in a battle with a rather large nest of monsters that, as they had learned firsthand, died in an incredibly messy fashion. An explosive sort of fashion.

VIOLENTLY explosive. All over them.

Over HER.

Somehow she’d managed take the brunt of it. And what made it worse was that Obi-Wan had one splotch of the stuff on him. ONE. Siri wasn’t amused. AT ALL. She might have been, if there hadn’t been so much of it on her. She was soaked from head to toe in sticky, vaguely gelatinous monster goop that smelled of brimstone.

She stalked into Obi-Wan’s apartment, squishing with every step and leaving a repulsive, mucky trail behind her. It was his fault, she had decided, the least he could do was let her clean up at his place.

Siri sat sprawled in the farthest corner booth in the bar, fingers tapping impatiently along the rim of the untouched drink sitting in front of her. Obi-Wan had asked her to meet him there, and she had agreed without hesitation. There had been something in his voice… to anyone that didn’t know him, he would have sounded fine. But she DID know him, she knew him better than anyone, and to her he had sounded… devastated.

So she waited. And worried. Not that she’d ever admit that out loud.

The moment he arrived she knew she was right to worry. He strode through the bar, ignoring everyone and making a beeline straight for her. They’d always had the odd ability to do that, to find the other in a room no matter where they were. He reached her booth, picked up her drink and knocked it back in a single swallow before letting the now-empty glass thud back to the table to reach for her hand. Tangling his fingers tightly with hers he pulled her from the booth, towards the nearby store room.

Fuck. What had happened?

The moment the door to the store room closed behind them his hands were cupping her face and he was kissing her fervently, like he was fucking drowning and she kissed him back, because she didn’t know what had happened and it didn’t matter; he needed her. He broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, clutching her tightly and drawing her against him. He pressed his forehead to hers and closed his eyes in anguish; he was shaking, fuck he was shaking, and she slid her arms under his leather jacket and held him tight.

“Qui-Gon is dead,” he murmured brokenly, and she felt her world shift. NO.

“What? Fuck, Obi-Wan, I…” I’m sorry seemed so fucking trite. Pointless. She cradled his face with her hands. “What do you need?”

“This. You.”

“Always.” They’d been something of an on-again/off-again couple, with on-again always seeming to happening whenever they were in the same place at the same time for any amount of time whatsoever, no matter how much they tried to avoid it, or deny it; hunting wasn’t exactly a business conducive to a serious relationship. Or any relationship at all, really.

But they always came back to each other.