You know, occasionally you might be struggling with a particular scene, trying to figure out how to get over that bump, and then A Certain Someone drops seven DELIGHTFULLY LENGTHY COMMENTS on back then, i was dauntless and you manage to hammer out 300 words over your lunch break and then that same person hits you with AN EIGHTH LOVELY AND THOUGHTFUL COMMENT on the same fic and suddenly the way through the thicket of a scene becomes visible-
Anyway, have a section of that scene, spoiler alert for a plot point in the next chapter- I'd appreciate any feedback!
Eventually, Quinlan’s shoulders steady and still. He pulls back just enough to make eye contact.
He does not let go.
“Obi-Wan,” he says. “Focus on me, please. Okay?”
Fear is not helpful here, present though it may be. Obi-Wan breathes in, breathes out, and listens. He drops his hand, squeezes Quinlan’s, feels the tendons stretch and flex as Quinlan mirrors his grip. He notes the tickle of hair on the back of his neck, the ever-present ache in his chest, the way his boots scuff against the pockmarked concrete. The acrid smell of fuel is a constant companion in this district, and not even the pollutant disposal system is enough to completely disperse the settled smog that casts a yellow pall over the surrounding structures.
“Okay,” he says, and then again, firmer this time– “Okay. Tell me?”
Quinlan closes his eyes. Leans forward. Presses their foreheads together.
And does.
Footage.
The footage.
Discovered in Palpatine’s– the Sith’s– files.
They’d called Mace to deal with it. As soon as he’d realized what it was.
Copies of the footage may have been saved– elsewhere.
They’re searching, now. Poring over lines and lines of code.
For a dead man’s switch. Release onto the holonet.
Irretrievable. Inescapable.
Obi-Wan sets the words aside. A safe distance away. Picks them up, one by one. Studying them.
They.
“Who else saw?”
“Just me.”
“Tell me.”
“I was the only one looking at the screen. I was the only one who saw it. No one went further, after I realized–”
“Tell me who else was there.”
Yaddle, as it turns out. Tholme. Names Obi-Wan doesn’t recognize.
Too many.
“As soon as. You said. How long did– how much did you–”
“Four seconds.”
Too much. Too long.
“I didn’t– recognize you. At first.”
“No.”
Metal in his mouth. Prying open. Jaw popping, dislocating– no breath left–
(The pain had ceased to matter, after a bit. Meaningless next to the supreme and unmatched agony of being bent out of shape.)
“I don’t think I would have, either.”
Yellow sky. Sour bile. Warm hands.
Shaking. Disbelieving. Fingers at his pulse point.
Bare hands.
Psychometry is a powerful tool. Furniture. Flimsiwork.
Data chips.
“What did it feel like?”
A breath. Two breaths. The two of them, matching.
“Bloated,” Quinlan whispers. “Like an infection. Septic joy.”
Obi-Wan nods.
Yes.
That tracks.
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