Title: Comforting Confessions
Author: Emmy
Rating: PG-13, I guess (no smut, some suggestion)
Archive: Please
Disclaimer: George owns Obi-Wan, although I would hand over my...my...uh (looks around)....my Target parrot lamp to borrow the padawan for a while. Okay, I'd hand over much more if I had something to barter with.

Notes: Here he is. Confessions Obi once again. I'm almost embarrassed to post this. Well, I *am* embarrassed to post this. It is shamefully self-serving, far too personal, and FULL of angst. Take note, Nursie. But this week, as you may have guess, sucked. So blah! It's 3 a.m. I'm going to bed and forgetting I ever posted this.

"Well, I suppose I've been using your illness as an excuse for not pushing you harder. But health issues are just a fact of life, so we're not going to make excuses for them any longer. I know you can do more, so I'm going to push you to do more. And I'm going to force you to take on more responsibility by...."

You stare at your boss, trying not to let your mouth hang open, the rest of his words fading to barely discernable mush, just like Charlie Brown's teacher. You weren't exactly aware that you had health issues, aside from the toll that the stress caused by him has been taking on your body. And granted, that two-week cold from hell sure felt like a terminal illness at the time. But now suddenly you're being treated like a five year-old because you don't want to put in sixty hours a week at less than a third of the pay he's pulling down?

"Part of my job as your manager is to help you meet your career goals," he continues to blather on loud enough for everyone to hear him through the door.

Gee. You don't ever remember naming this your career. Had you known the real world and a real job would be like this when you were in college, you never would have left. Somehow you would have found a way to remain an eternal student. You just know it.

"So, I think this way you will be forced to become more involved in the projects...."

You never asked to become more involved, to take on the responsibilities that he's being paid a six-figure income for. It is a job. It pays the rent. It funds your life when you're not at work. You come to work. You go home. It should be that simple.

"I realize that some of the more menial aspects aren't that much fun. But we all have to do things we don't like to do."

You have never complained to him about these things. You complete the boring tasks and the complicated ones with equal thoroughness, without a public fuss, and twice as fast as anyone else who does your job. You help people when asked. You offer assistance when you sense the need, without jumping in to show off your expertise like many others seem to enjoy doing.

"And I want you to account for every piece of paper on that desk. If I walk up and point to something, you should be able to tell me immediately what it is."

Alright, who body snatched your formerly easy-going boss and replaced him with a drill sergeant? So your desk is a little messy. Since when did that become a crime in this office of Pig Pens?

"Okay?" he says.

"Sure." It's the only response you can think of.

"Alright," he says. "Thanks for coming in."

Like you had a choice. "Sure," you say again as you open his office door and walk the long halls to the other end of the building where your cubie is. You sit in your chair and stare at the pile of work he's placed there just since this morning. Normally, you'd dive right in. But right now, you just scribble on your notepad, one small act of passive defiance since you can't exactly throw things, scream, or give him the real open dialogue that he professes to want from you.

Having colored a slightly manic blue line between the printed red lines on the left margin of the piece of paper, you mull over your next task. You look at your phone and see the red light that tells you he is on his phone.

With a passively triumphant smile, you check your email.

Subject: Greetings from....someplace From: okenobi@jeditemple.org To: braidluvr@freezone.com

Good morning, beautiful.

At least, I think it is morning for you as I type this. To tell you the truth, I haven't the slightest idea where I am at the moment, aside from being on a ship finally headed for home. The mission was long, as you know, mostly sleepless, and quite arduous (has my heroic valor knocked you off your chair?). I fell asleep the minute I was permitted to lay down and only awoke a few moments ago.

All this to say that we will be home...wait, let me check...tomorrow afternoon if this computer is working properly. I look forward to seeing you more than I can say in this brief transmission. Be well, love.

Ever yours, Obi-Wan

You can't stop the smile that spreads across your face. This was exactly the news you needed to hear today. You bask in the happy glow for a moment until you hear your boss walking up behind you. You quickly close the email window and flip to a document that you haven't touched but that makes you look nice and busy as he proceeds to explain something else that you didn't do quite right.

~*~

It takes a few moments for the crunch of metal to register in your brain. It is not until you look down and see your stereo unit hanging by a bundle of wires from a hole in your dash that you realize what just happened. A quick check in your mirror confirms the reality that has now literally jolted you from an unusually happy morning mood as you mulled over Obi-Wan's homecoming.

"Shit," you say as cars and transports of all kind zoom quickly around you, making a slow merge out of the way even more perilous. You finally go for broke, your shaky legs and frazzled nerves just about ready to give out on you. You assert yourself a little more boldly until the passing cars finally allow you to pull off to the side.

You take a breath as your hands frantically fumble for the information that you need. You open the door and carefully step out, not sure if your legs will hold you or not.

"Are you okay? Are you alright? I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, I'm fine," you say convincingly, both to him and yourself as the man who hit you continues to barrage you with numerous apologies while he checks your car and makes sure the liquid on your bumper really is just water. You quickly glance at the damage, not really wanting to look at it for too long.

"Oh, this is awful," he says. He had introduced himself, shook your hand...but it went in one ear and out the other. "I feel terrible."

"Don't worry about it," you say, for some odd reason wanting to make sure he doesn't suffer any guilt. "It happens. No one is hurt. Let's just have a better day, okay?" you say lightly after exchanging information. And then you turn, get back in your car, which, thankfully due to that spacious trunk, seems to be driveable, and pull back into traffic, resuming your commute as if not much just happened.

~*~

"Well, I just got rear ended," you say with thinly veiled annoyance as your cubie mate arrives a few minutes after you.

"What?" she says, her eyes growing big. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, seem fine," you say.

"Wow," she says. "Why the hell are you here? You should have turned around and went back home."

"Ah well," you say as you shrug. "Lots of work to do." You sit down at your desk and review your work for the day, shifting the piles of priorities around as you check your "real" work email.

And as you sit there, your pulse slowing, your body resuming it's normal routine, the muscles in your shoulders slowly begin to tighten, the tendons coiling in your neck. Several minutes later, your wrists begin to throb and your fingers start to tingle. You sigh, rubbing your temples as the pain rises to your head, the adrenaline that had kept your injuries at bay finally fading and leaving you feeling...well, leaving you feeling like you've been hit by a truck.

"Great," you sigh, standing up carefully and slowly walking to your boss' office, not very keen on having to tell him you may not be able to work the entire day.

~*~

"I got rear ended on my way in this morning," you tell him as he is hunched over his desk.

"Oh?" he says, looking up with a somewhat blank expression.

You proceed to tell him what happened, the non-plussed look on his face telling you all you need to know.

"Sorry to hear that," he says, cutting you off before you can finish.

You know that is your cue to leave, feeling like the child being squelched by an impatient parent. You turn to walk out and add, "My hands are kinda numb, so I dunno if--"

"Hmm, that's odd," he says flatly, turning his attention back to whatever he was doing before you entered.

~*~

So you spend the rest of the day pretending that all is well, knowing that whining about how truly awful you feel will only score you the kind of loser points that you work so hard to avoid.

While others are kind enough to check on you throughout the day, your boss continues to do nothing but deliver more work, calling you incessantly to ask when everything will be finished. And so you suck it up, as his unspoken signals dictate you must.

You look at the clock and see there is technically only an hour left in your workday since you have worked through lunch yet again. You decide that even he cannot begrudge your leaving early today, and you wrap up one more task and prepare to let him know that you are on your way out.

But then he appears behind you and says, "I want to see more wood before you leave today," referring to the clear desk surface he always likes to see.

"Yeah," you say as you rub your eyes, not caring how much annoyance or frustration is revealed by your actions. You sit like that for several moments, not even giving him a glance as he walks away. And you continue to sit like that until the phone rings. You sigh and answer it after the third ring.

"Hello, beautiful."

Your hand covers your mouth at the sound of that voice, as you fight back all the stress that threatens to come flowing out of you. "Hi," you finally manage to eek out.

"What's wrong?" he says, his voice suddenly filled with concern.

"I got into an accident this morning, and--"

"What?? Are you hurt?"

"A bit," you say. "It wasn't that serious."

"You need to go home. Right now," he says.

"I can't," you say. "I have to finish what I'm working on. He made it clear that I can't leave until--"

"He? Who's he? Your boss?" he asks with a challenge in his voice.

"It won't take too much longer, and--"

"Shall I come down, and take you out of there myself?"

"Obi-Wan."

"Is he going to try to tell *me* that you have to stay at work while you are injured?"

"Obi-Wan, you are being ridiculous."

"I don't think that I'm the one being ridiculous, love. If you are hurt, he cannot demand that you stay. I will--"

"You will do nothing," you say, probably a little too loud for the small confines of your workspace.

"But--"

"Please don't make this more difficult for me than it already is. I've had all kinds of crap happening here over the past few days," you say as quietly, but as urgently, as you can.

He is quiet for a moment. And then he sighs. "Alright. I'm free for the rest of the day. I'll just come to pick you up."

"No, don't do that. I can drive. Just meet me at my place in a couple hours."

Another sigh. Some more silence. "I don't like the idea of--"

"Please. Just let me finish this day and get the hell away from this place."

"Alright," he finally concedes. "Be careful. I want you to leave there on time, not a minute later, or I *will* come down there."

~*~

You breathe a sigh of relief once you finally pull into your parking space and shut off your battered vehicle. You turn slowly to collect your things from the passenger seat, and then you are startled by your door suddenly opening.

"Oh, you scared me," you say, as he reaches in and helps you out. "Careful," you say as he lifts your arm a little too quickly.

"Sorry," he says as you step out next to him.

Despite the fact that you haven't seen him for almost two weeks, you are still possessed by an odd reserve, even now as he takes great care to assist you.

And then his eyes glance over to the damage to your vehicle. He looks back at you, his eyes a bit wider and his mouth slightly open. "He was going fast," he says softly.

"Well, I don't know. I was stopped. I'm not really sure."

His expression changes again, turning very serious with a slight hint of anxiety. And then his fingers gently slide up the curve of your jawline and cheeks, and he kisses you.

You gasp as the emotion of his kiss finally breaks down the wall that you had secured in order to hold yourself together, not just today, but for the past several days of seemingly unrelenting demands on your time and energy.

"It's alright," he whispers soothingly, winding his fingers through your hair and kissing your forehead as tears slip down your cheeks.

"I've had a really bad week," you quietly sob against his chest as his arms encircle you and hold you close.

"I'm sorry," he says, his fingers stroking your hair.

"I just can't take anymore hits. Literally or figuratively. And the week isn't even over yet," you say through your tears.

"Well, anymore hits with your name on them are going to have to get past me first," he says. "And I'm a hero, remember?"

You finally smile, his words and his embrace momentarily assuaging the fear that you are slipping down into a place you won't be able to pull yourself out of anytime soon. "I really suck at this happy homecoming thing," you say, your words muffled against him.

"Well," he says, gently guiding you toward the building as his arm remains around your shoulder, "let's go lock ourselves in your apartment and work on changing that, shall we?"

~*~

"Ow."

"Sorry."

"Ow!"

Obi-Wan sighs. "I really think I should take you to a healer."

"No. I'll be fine," you say as you lay on your stomach while he tries to gently rub away the strain angrily embedded in your neck and shoulders.

"You always say you'll be fine," he says, leaning forward slightly, the end of his braid tickling your bare back.

"I always am."

"No, you are not," he says quite definitively. "You may be able to fool others into believing that you are tough and unfazed by the wrecking ball, but--"

"Well, that's a little melodramatic, don't you think?"

"But," he says a little louder over your interruption as he stretches out alongside you and rolls you on your side to face him, "I can see everyplace on you and in you where it hurts, love." His fingers lightly skate down your arm and to your wrist. "Like here. And here," he says, raising his hand to trace the curve of your shoulder and neck. "And here," he says, his fingers gently touching your temple and forehead as your eyelids flutter shut, and your breath catches in your throat. "And here," he says so softly as his fingers come to rest over your heart.

"Stop," you whisper as you roll onto your back, the physical pain in your body now suddenly seeming a manifestation of what has been growing inside you, every insult, every burden, every chastisement, every good intention gone bad, every effort unappreciated or misconstrued, gathering and fusing together with no avenue for release.

"Why does it always come to this?" he asks, crawling up to hover over you, bringing his weight down gently as he lays on his side, wrapping his leg around you as he props himself up on his elbows to watch over you.

You reach up to wipe away a tear that slides down your temple. "Well, why does all the bad stuff happen at once?"

He shakes his head slightly as he brushes the hair back from your face. "I don't know." He lowers his head to rest his forehead against yours, his eyelashes tickling your eyelids. "But tell me what I can do to help take this sadness away, and I will do it."

"Just stay here with me," you say. "For as long as you can."

"I'd never be elsewhere," he says. His lips brush against yours before sliding into a tender kiss.

You whimper in the back of your throat as the kiss deepens, slowly and sweetly your every sense is filled with the precious glow of his caring and devotion.

"And you can also tell me how wonderful I am," you say with amusement against his lips.

He kisses you again, and then the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile. "On one condition."

You raise your eyebrows. "What?"

"This was your third traffic accident since I've met you. Two shuttle crunches and now this. You must promise to stop this alarming trend."

You laugh. "I thought my troubles were over when I was able to give up shuttle transportation. And now I find it only gets worse with my own--"

"NO," he says emphatically, placing his hand over your mouth. "It will *only* get better from this day on."

"Well, as they say, when you're laid out flat on your back, there's nowhere to go but up."

A positively naughty smile spreads across his face. "I could probably arrange that," he purrs as he lowers his head and gently nips at your earlobe. "How high up do you wish to go?"

You chuckle somewhat deviously and take hold of his ponytail, pulling his head up so you can see his face. "How high can you take me?"

"Well, if you have to ask, you probably can't handle it," he teases.

"Try me."

"Mmmm, I'd love to," he drawls, the light suddenly switching off.

And as day gives way to night, the passionate embraces and pleasured moans elicited from the ardent joining of your bodies dispels your fears and your pain, the fulfillment of your need for love, tenderness, and pleasure far surpassing any possible lack, harassment, or aggravation caused by the intention or accident of others who could never matter as much to you in a lifetime as your lover - your love - means to you, and you to him, at this moment, or any other moment when he gives himself so completely to you and when you are brave enough to let him see you for who you really are. An infrequently strong, sometimes scared, very often confused, and not easily understood woman.

And as you lay quietly, his body pressed against yours as he snuggles into you while he sleeps, you know there is not a thing in the entire galaxy you would trade this in for.

And that, in the end, is all that really matters.