*************
Title: Doing the Wash, or The One That Got Away
Author: BJ Stahl
*************
Rating: PG-13 (no smut, sorry, still recovering from
sex marathon with
Master
. . . :-D)
Summary: Do Jedi do laundry?
Spoilers: Zero.
Archive: Sure.
Feedback: Please, it's tasty and fat free.
Disclaimer: Godfather Lucas owns 'Star Wars.' As if he hasn't made that
clear. Any other copyrighted material is the
property of whoever owns it.
No
infringement is intended, and if sued, all I have is an overdrawn bank
account
that you're perfectly welcome to.
---
According
to Mary Poppins, "In every job that must be done, there is an
element
of fun. You find the fun, and snap! the
job's a game!" Personally,
I think
that's freeze-dried bullshit, but even freeze-dried bullshit has
it's
practical applications. Hence the cow
chip toss.
So,
with my Discman, equipped with baby speakers, on as loud as is
comfortable
and legal, supplied with all the ice cream I can scarf, here I
am
tossing dirty socks into the beat-up wash machine. I miss every third
sock or
so, but oh well, five billion folks on the flying mudball don't give
a
shit. Right? Right.
Bopping
to the beat of 'Tallica's cover of 'Last Caress,' I finish
separating
my version of colors (stuff that bleeds) from whites (stuff that
doesn't). I catch a hint of movement out of the corner
of my eye and,
thinking
it's the 7-11 dude telling me to shut the fuck up, I dial back the
volume.
"Sorry
about that," I say, turning toward the source of my distraction.
Said
source holds up one finger, looking as exasperated as any sane human
being
can as my jaw drops. "If you say
*anything* about losing your mind, I
swear
by the living force I shall lose mine!"
I shut
my trap with a click! although my eyes remain wide; wide enough that
I'm
sure they'll drop out of their sockets and land on my shoes.
Let me
be perfectly clear here, oh my sibs and only friends, I've had some
fairly
detailed and wonderfully filthy scenarios about meeting this
particular
distraction, but none, *none* of them involved me in sweats and
rag bag
flannel in a dingy laundromat in the middle of the night.
I look
over a young, delicious, wonderfully fuckable, extremely irritated,
and very
real, Obi-Wan Kenobi.
I spend
a moment gawking, searching for a greeting that doesn't imply mental
illness
or sexual perversion. I stick with the
ever-reliable, "Hi."
I don't
think I did too bad. He's calming down
at least.
And
what a sight he is; fair faced, gold hair, unbearably sexy cat's eyes.
They
look a little like mine, blue and gray, with flecks of yellow around
the
pupils. Eyes a woman can drown in easy.
I
probably would have, leaping in with a scream of purest gratitude, if he
hadn't
looked like a refugee from a slumber party; lipstick, glitter, and
sundae
trappings clinging to his shirt and pants.
His tunic's not lying
flat;
he must've closed it in a hurry.
There's lip-prints all over him,
over
skin, clothes, even his damn *boots*, man.
"So
*that's* where everyone is," I say, the dots connecting.
I
should explain. Earlier one of my gal
acquaintances, as rabid an
Obi-chick
as has ever been made, (she insists on running her Anywhere But
Here
scenarios by me, much to my horror, shit like that's private) burst
into my
room and sanctuary, all aflush, begging me to come with her to a
get-together
she was having over to Da Pit (study lounge with dungeon-like
ambience). I hate parties and needed to do laundry, so
I lied my way out of
it and
did laundry.
Well
that clears *that* up.
The
mental picture of a half-dozen hormonally driven females pouncing on
this
poor man like rabid pack wolves flashes across my mind. I can't help
it; I
start laughing.
"This
is not funny," he declares, the flush rising back to his face,
enunciating
and emphasizing each word carefully.
"Yes
it is," I blurt and regret it as the color on his cheeks darkens to an
alarming
plum shade.
I hear
the unmistakable noise of tap shoes on sidewalk and we whip our heads
around
to look out. Sure enough. You would not believe how fast these
chicks
move.
"Bathroom!"
I order, striding to him, taking his arm, shoving him inside the
tiny
closet that just happens to have a toilet and sink in it, slamming the
door,
and whirling, planting my body against it.
A
moment later the Glitter Brigade arrives, looking like rejects from The
Church
of Elton John.
"Did
you see anyone run by here just now?" one of them pants, a feather boa
around
her shoulders.
I pride
myself on the talent to fib on my feet.
"Now that you mention it .
.
." I trail off, thinking, leaving Feathers dangling. "There *was* a guy
who
went by pretty fast just a few minutes ago.
He buttonhooked around the
alley
behind Joe's."
I revel
in the blood leaving their faces. We
have an in-town campus, y'see,
and the
alley behind our favorite urban oasis is gasp! gang territory. (cue
sting)
"C'mon,
we've gotta find him!" the apparent owner, if the bright red
lipstick
is any proof, of the mouth that spent some time lavishing affection
on
Obi-Wan's boots, gasps.
"What's
he look like?" I ask. Ever-helpful
me, heh.
"Blond,
blue eyes. Dead ringer for Ewan
McGregor," my aforementioned friend
tells
me, the naughty look sparking her eyes.
"Oooh,
the Paddlewan's on the loose?" I coo, a lecherous smile baring my
teeth. Said Paddlewan is probably aghast at my
wordplay, but he'll live.
And I'm
having fun.
"You
have no idea," Bootkisser coos back as the others hop to it.
I see
them out the door, sniggering, although it's not what they think.
"Get
some for me while you're at it!" I hoot at their retreating backs.
I
manage to hold my peace until they're out of earshot, and then I start
howling
laughter. I haven't had that much fun
in *ages*, folks!
The
sight of Obi-Wan poking his head out of the bathroom like a little boy
about
to yell olly-olly-otts-in-free just makes it worse.
"It's
nice that you see this situation in such an amusing light, my lady,"
he
informs me, his voice a study in subtle and complete sarcasm.
My good
humor vanishes. Whey they find out what
I've just done . . .
"You're
welcome you bastard."
He
heaves a weary sigh, the indignation draining from his face. "I'm sorry.
I appreciate your help, I really do. It's been a rather long evening."
Oh
Jesus, I got to hear that 'I'm sorry' in person! I have to fight to
suppress
a giggle. I wish I'd known that losing
my mind would be this much
fun a
*looong* time ago.
"What
happened?" I ask.
He
sighs again, moving to one of the hard plastic chairs and simply
collapsing. I lean against the washers, watching him,
listening to the
slow,
heavy tempo of "The Small Hours."
I wait, giving him time and space
to put
rampant insanity into rational context.
It's not easy. Believe me,
I know.
To
grease the wheels maybe a little, I grab the as-yet unopened mini-tub of
ice
cream. Haagan Daas, the good shit man.
"Want
some of this man?" I ask.
"Yes
please," he replies, cracking the lid.
I
retrieve a spare spork (never leave home without 'em) from the traveling
office
(old ratty backpack containing everything but the kitchen sink) and
hand it
to him. He nods thanks and digs in.
I watch
him munch the strawberry goodness, thinking less than pure thoughts
about
the wonderful body. Curb your raging
libido honeybabe; if he wanted
ass, he
would've stayed with the rabid ones.
More attractive and more
experience,
every last one.
Speaking
of which, what if they come back this way and find me sheltering
and
succoring their chewtoy? My mind shies
away from the thought and I
thank
God that Obi-Wan can't be seen from the street where he's at.
He gets
through about a quarter of the pint-sized tub, sighs again. "My
Master
and I are in town on a vacation. I was
invited to a quote unquote
'little
get together' by that little blonde in dancing shoes. When I got
there .
. ." he pauses, thinking how to put it.
"They were all very
charming
for an hour or so, then all at once they started throwing
themselves
on me. I tried to say no but they
persisted. I finally ran."
Separating
truth from retelling . . .
My
guess is he got himself talked into a few kisses and some heavy petting
before
the antics of the Munchie Ladies offended his delicate sensibilities.
When he tried to beg off, they assumed he
was playing hard to get. Guy
that
goodlooking's gotta be a fucktoy, right?
Jesus,
and they say *men* think with the wrong organs.
The
sharp look he's giving me reminds me rather pointedly that among other
things,
he's a mindreader. "You don't
believe I'm being honest."
That
pisses me off. I have a right to my own
opinions. "How far did you
have
your hand up her dress when you chickened?
Or were you ogling her tits
perhaps?"
Pay
dirt. He blushes. He gets to his feet and tries to storm out,
until I
grab
one arm.
"You
go back out there again they might see you, and then where are we?" I
point
out.
He
glares knives at me. I glare right
back. Gee isn't *this* the beginning
of a
beautiful friendship?
Obi-Wan
rises considerably in my regard when he drops his gaze and sits back
down,
picking up and taking another bite of Haagan Daas.
"I'm
Jean, by the way," I introduce, offering my hand.
He
shakes it with a tired smile.
"Obi-Wan."
He
releases my hand, calluses catching on my skin. I slap yet another lid
on my
libido.
A look
of horror bursts across his face like a Forth of July firework. "Oh
Gods!"
"What's
the matter?" I ask.
"How
am I going to explain all *this*," he indicates the stains on his
clothes,
"to my Master?"
"We
could run them through the wash real quick," I offer.
"Would
you? I'd be indebted to you Jean."
Would I
do Obi-Wan Kenobi's laundry? Is this a
rhetorical question?
I
examine some of the more enthusiastic lip marks. "We should be able to
get
these out." Uh-oh. "These aren't dry-clean only are they?"
He
gives me a blank look. I rephrase;
"Can we wash these in water without
wrecking
them?"
"Oh! Yes of course."
"All
righty then." As I turn to my
baskets to retrieve the Spray-n-Wash, a
thought
makes my heart stop. "Do you have
anything to change into?"
"No,"
he says, giving me a don't-*even*-think-about-it look.
Well I
*wasn't* thinking about it, so there!
Not
seriously.
Really.
I
rummage through my already-clean clothes.
Hope it went through already .
. .
there! I pull out my brand new dryer
fresh black terrycloth bathrobe
and a
washcloth.
I hand
them both to the Jedi, not meeting his gaze.
"Clean yourself up as
best
you can and put this on." He
obediently trots into the bathroom and
closes
the door.
I
finish putting my wet stuff in the dryer, dump detergent in with the dirty
stuff,
cram in quarters where necessary, and start the machines.
Just as
I switch 'Garage Inc.' with 'Workshop of the Telescopes,' Obi-Wan
emerges
from the bathroom, dressed only in my black bathrobe.
I
gulp. Suddenly, clapping lids on my sex
drive becomes exponentially
harder.
Back to
the business at hand, love. I take the
armload of clothes he hands
me and
spread them out on the folding table, examining the damage. He looks
over my
shoulder, close enough for me to smell the fabric softener on my
robe
and the fresh soap on his skin. Damn he
must've taken a full-out
sponge
bath while he was at it.
Oh shit
. . .
"Oh
we can get these out, no problem," I say, reaching for the Spray-n-Wash.
"I
hope so," he says feverently. Damn
what sort of wrath was he facing if
the
Master discovered a lip print on his student's clothes?
More oh
shit. There are times when a filthy
mind can be a *severe* pain in
the
ass.
I
spritz the troubled areas with the Spray-n-Wash, taking care to examine
and
treat every inch. When I'm fairly sure
I've caught all the stains, I
take
the tunics (Great Christ, how many layers does a Jedi need?) and
trousers
and dump them in the nearest unoccupied washer.
And
give Obi-Wan a raised eyebrow when he dumps a wadded-up ball of socks
and
underwear in with them. Oh well, it's
none of my business if the man
leaves
a skidmark in his drawers.
He
takes a seat, finishing his now-runny ice cream, while I measure out a
cup of
detergent, pour it in, and add the requisite amount of quarters.
I
briskly fold up the current dryerload (jeans and towels), and the purely
mechanical
bullshit over, turn to the man wearing my bathrobe. Before
Christ,
how do you make chitchat with a Jedi anyway?
He
starts, going through the easy subjects of school and acquaintances while
he uses
a rag to clean his boots. Talking to
him's fairly easy. He must've
had
lessons in dealing with shitty conversationalists. Thank God.
After a
bit, the washers stop and I fish out my clothes, take the dry stuff
out of the dryers, and replace them with my last
load of wets. He gets up
and
gives me a hand, chatting amenably about his last mission, a diplomatic
excursion
to a planet called Nal Hutta.
"The
Hutt homeworld?" I ask, leaning into the dryer to hunt up that one last
sock.
"Yes,
how did you know that?" He stops
me from answering. "Never
mind."
The
washer with his clothes in it stops. We
open it up and look over his
wet
stuff carefully. So far so good. Looks like everything came out. Even
the
morbid black lipstick.
We toss
the stuff into the dryer (the little over-the-shoulder flourishing
toss he
uses makes me giggle.) A little more
comfortable with each other,
we
stand shoulder to shoulder, folding my clothes. (He insisted, although
the
sight of a Jedi folding my underthings scores about a 9 on the
su-fuckin-real
scale.)
A
description of the aghast look on his Master's face when he mispronounced
a word
in Huttese and inadvertently insulted Jemba the Hutt's mother (to be
exact,
he insulted her tastes in food, sex, and business, the three subjects
nearest
and dearest to most Hutt hearts) damn near puts me on the floor
laughing. I feel a little guilty (so does he, I can
see) about laughing at
Master
Jinn behind his back like this, but what the man don't know won't
hurt
him I guess.
Conversation
pauses. I stand still a moment, watching
Obi-Wan watch his
clothes
tumble in the dryer. Good God he's
beautiful.
He
turns his head and looks at me, and let me tell you baby, I throw myself
into
his eyes here and now and cheerfully sink.
If I'm not back in three
weeks
send a search party.
"Why?"
I come
up for air. "Why what?"
"Why
haven't you . . ." he searches for the word, "propositioned me?"
"Arrogant
little shit aren't you?" I snap, turning away and sitting.
Shit! From which end of the gene pool did I get my
smart mouth?
To my
shock, he doesn't take offense. He sits
next to me, his hip almost
touching
mine. "I suppose I am," and
he smiles, "and you're evading the
question."
"Oh
fine then," and heeding an impulse (at what point in my life will I ever
be
within kissing distance of Obi-Wan Kenobi ever again?), I give him a
little
kiss on the end of his nose.
"Happy now?"
"No,"
and he gives me a look so direct me spine rattles. "And you still
haven't
answered my question."
I sigh,
hoping, wishing, okay *praying* that he'll return my gesture. With
interest. "I try not to make a habit of throwing
myself on a complete
stranger. In your case, I might make an exception if
approached correctly."
He
takes my hand, caressing my soft palm with his callused one, brings it to
his
lips, kisses the little scar over the knuckle.
Again. And again.
"Like
that perhaps?"
"Exactly,"
I manage to croak. Great fuckin
seductress I am.
He
turns my hand over, pressing his soft lips against my palm. Then at the
heel of
my hand. Then at the bend of my wrist.
I shift
my weight so I'm sitting on my hip and use my tingling hand to turn
his
face into mine. Our lips meet, and let
me tell you friends and
neighbors,
if I die right now, I die happy. Not
content, no no, but happy.
The
dryers, natch, choose *that* moment to shrill their stop. Our kiss
breaks
and I curse feelingly, rising to rescue my clothes.
I open
the dryer door and dig out my warm shirts.
Obi-Wan walks up, nice
and slow,
and leans against the dryer's open door, watching me. Watching me
shake,
the sadistic motherfucker.
Geez,
it's easy to see how this man could be mistaken for a walking dildo.
All
he's done is kiss me and I'm ready to bear his children. Or at least
have a
lot of fun trying, y'know?
Just as
I finish digging, the dryer with Obi-Wan's clothes stops and
shrieks. My turn to watch the play of muscles and
movement as he ducks
inside
the huge dryer and goes prospecting for his socks. God, someone
should
bronze this man for posterity.
Suddenly
shy, I tend to my folding while he looks over his fresh clothes.
He
turns each tunic inside out, closely examining every square inch.
He
sighs in relief. "Everything came
out."
"Phew! Now can I have my robe back?"
I mean
it flippantly, but he doesn't. He puts
his hands on his hips. "Come
and
retrieve it then."
A
*strong* snap of irritation makes me table my lust for the time being.
"Get
dressed and gimme my clothes back, you hypocritical fuck."
He has
me in his arms just as the words leave my mouth, propelling me to the
wall. My back hits the plaster with a soft thud.
So, oh
my sibs, reality check; I'm trapped, pinned between a rock and a hard
place
(Aw Christ, that's the shittiest pun I've ever heard). For a good
fifteen
seconds, Obi-Wan presses his body against mine, letting me
appreciate
just how tall he is, how powerful his body is.
My hands are
pressed
against his chest, and even through the thick terrycloth, I can feel
how
hard the musculature is.
And
underneath, I can feel his heart, beating fast as a hummingbird's wings.
Almost
as fast as mine.
That
lust I tabled? It leaped up and
possessed me, sparking every nerve in
my body
to life. I exhale hard as logic and
reason bid my mind a civil
adieu.
"Look
at me," he orders, his voice a raw twist of lust.
I
can't.
Up
until now, I've been operating on the idea that I could treat this as a
sort of
superreal encounter, neither believing nor disbelieving; that I
could
wait to decide whether or not any of it's real until later, when I'm
somewhere
dark and peaceful with a teddy bear in my arms. (And maybe a
stiff
drink by my side.)
Huh,
that ain't gonna happen. An utterly
fictitious character, the figment
of the
imagination of a man I don't care for very much anyway is denying me
the
luxury, grinding his body against mine, demanding I acknowledge him as
real in
the most intimate sense.
I *am*
losing my mind.
One
warm finger hooks under my chin, elevating my eyes and his gaze hits me
like a
load of napalm. Every part of me starts
to burn, body and soul,
stoked
higher by the flex of his muscles through our clothes. He's real,
God
help me, he's real.
His
mouth comes down on mine, seizing, possessing, exploring, dancing,
leading. My hands slide up his chest and to the
column of his throat,
noting
the texture of skin and hair, the weight and shape of his skull, the
motion
of the muscles in his jaw.
Christ,
I haven't had a kiss like that since fucking *grade* school.
"Ahem."
I did
not hear that. Please God, if you're
listening and taking requests, I
did not
hear that. Please God, please?
If the
sudden retreat of anything resembling color in Obi-Wan's face is any
indication,
then yes, I heard that. And so did he.
The
realization of just *whom* that 'Ahem' belongs to slams into my mind,
acting
like a shot of icewater. Check that;
liquid nitrogen.
I gulp
as Obi-Wan takes his body away from me, turns, and we see the
interloper.
Who is
it?
You
guess.
"Master!"
Obi-Wan croaks as I peel myself off the wall.
"I can explain . .
."
"I
look forward to hearing it Padawan. Get
dressed," Qui-Gon Jinn grits
out,
looking as morally angry as I've ever seen anyone.
Obi-Wan
grabs his clothes from where he dropped them on the folding table
and
flees into the bathroom, leaving me flushed and horny, spiked on the
Master's
outraged gaze.
I sigh,
reigning in my raging hormones.
"And
just what did you think *you* were doing?" he demands, somehow managing
to loom
over me even from three paces away.
What
the hell's he angry at me for?
"Checking for his tonsils," I snap
back,
letting my mouth run away with itself . . . again. Yet another
beautiful
friendship commences. Great.
While
he fumes, I check him out. Qui-Gon's
tall, immense, and damned
intimidating,
impeccably dressed, creases and droops in the correct places.
He,
like his student, is a study in how to make the female of the species
turn
into protoplasmic goo.
And
he's apparently had firsthand experience, I realize. I can't help it; I
burst
out laughing.
"Pray
tell what amuses you so, my lady?" he asks, his tone a masterpiece of
absolute
venom.
I fix
my eyes to an odd smudge just on the fold of his inner tunic. I'm too
much of
an addict not to know fudge stains when I see them.
He
looks down at himself and sees where my eyes rest. Oh what a treat it is
to see
this man blush! I grin cruelly. "Missed a spot."
Obi-Wan
emerges, dressed and looking much neater.
"Master . . ."
"We
will discuss this later." He
flashes me a look I can't interpret, turns
on one
heel, and strides out.
Looking
like a little boy on his way to the woodshed, Obi-Wan follows. Or
starts
to; he stops by me, hands me my bathrobe, and we share a look of
profoundest
regret.
"It
was nice meeting you Jean," he finally tells me softly.
"Same
here. Listen, if you're ever in town
again, look me up. Maybe we can
have a
drink together sometime?" Listen
to me, I've known this man all of
one
evening, and the thought of never seeing him again makes my heart cry.
"Of
course," he promises, and leaves.
I watch
the night swallow them, my body whimpering for his touch, my mind a
mess.
I
finally press my face into my robe, scenting his skin. Standing in the
middle
of an empty laundromat in the middle of the night, I try to put the
whole
encounter, about ninety minutes of absolute insanity, into something I
can
express and rationalize.
"Did
that just fucking *happen*?!?"
---
I know
it's smutless, but did you like it anyway?
(begs)
-BJ