By MissChris.
“What’s this?” enquired Padmé as she walked into the room.
Obi-Wan froze when he saw what was in her hands.
“Drawings,” he said simply.
“Did you do these?” she asked, the hint of excitement evident in her tone.
He drew his hands across his arms, close to his body. He wanted to evade this conversation altogether but he knew that she would persist till her curiosity was satisfied.
“I meditate of course, like any trained Jedi. But sometimes...there are things that meditation can’t resolve and we need other outlets. Anakin tinkered with machines. I draw.”
She raised her eyebrow. She waited for him to continue.
“Visions mostly. I was plagued with them, especially as a Padawan. Over time they grew less. Then the war happened.”
Padmé nodded. To think of all the trauma that he went through was horrific. She saw the images on the flimsi - death, destruction, pain, suffering. Cody - betrayal. Ahsoka - regret. Anakin - fire. The horror of Anakin’s hate on the shores of Mustafar as Obi-Wan left him now burned in her mind. It was the one that came up again and again. Other scenes were scattered among there too - Qui-Gon and Satine slain at the feet of the monstrous Maul. Other Jedi - a pale and ghostly quality to them.
But the last one - it was of her, with him and the twins. On Polis Mass. The expression on her face was...of joy. Maybe it was a different experience for him but she remembered that day very differently. The day she almost gave up on life, so full of heartache, physically abused by the man she called her husband.
She held up that particular drawing.
“Is this how you remember that day?” she asked curiously.
He let out an irritated sigh. “Padmé, these are all from my recent dreams. I used to do them all on my data pad but obviously that’s been destroyed.”
“Recent dreams? You mean nightmares.”
He raised an eyebrow at her.
“I hear you sometimes. You thrash around, call out names, sometimes cry out in anguish.”
“I apologise milady for disturbing your sleep.”
“Don’t be sorry. We all have nightmares,” she said softly, placing her hand on his forearm in a gesture of comfort. She felt him stiffen slightly, but made no move to remove her hand.
She looked at the last drawing again, finding that she liked the way she looked in it.
“Obi-Wan, have you ever drawn someone in real life?” she wondered out loud.
“Padmé, this is a very private thing I do. Hardly anyone knew about this - Bant because she suggested it to me, and Qui-Gon because he was my master. Perhaps Yoda because the old troll had a way of knowing nearly everything that went on. But Anakin did not know.”
He paused. “And now you know.”
She took a moment to absorb the significance of his statement - he trusted her with a side of himself that even Anakin, close as they were, never knew about.
“Obi-Wan...I’d like you...I would like it if you drew me.”
Obi-Wan looked incredulously at her.
“Why?”
“Because I think it would be healing for both of us. Or at least a distraction.” She paused. “You are very talented you know.”
He snorted. “Flattery might work on politicians but won’t get very far with me Senator.”
They stood in silence, waiting to see who would back down. Eventually he drew a deep breath and acquiesced.
He indicated to the couch. “Very well. Please make yourself comfortable. We will try this experiment.”
As she sat down and made herself comfortable, he went to get his equipment, coming back into the room with a fresh new page of flimsi. Unfurling a cloth, he took out several charcoal sticks and sharpened them with a knife. She watched as he methodically placed each implement in a neat arrangement.
He started sketching her outline. The grace of her posture. Her leg protruding from the flare of her dress. The cascade of dark curls loosely upon her shoulders. Soft curves of her womanly figure. Although he didn’t show it, he felt unnerved by her gaze upon him. She was studying him, as he was studying her features. What she was looking for, he did not know.
She suddenly felt awkward as he began. She was used to people staring at her - with looks of respect from her fellow Nubian citizens, dismissal from her political opponents, anger from her enemies, admiration her suitors and lust from her husband. But her friend sitting across from her...he looked at her with a mixture of concentration, honour and reverence.
The way his hair fell down on his eyes, his hand absentmindedly brushing it back - a gesture she had seen him do many times. And - could she detect a blush upon his face? The glances as their eyes met, before darting away and meeting again.
He started smudging the charcoal. The slight roundness of her midriff that showed she recently became a mother. The shadow cast under the curve of her jaw. The contours of her lips. More shading, adding depth to their fullness. The blush of her cheek. Lightly - just a hint. The light in her eyes, slowly returning. Details captured, features he had never noticed before, glimpses now became knowledge.
She watched him sink deeper and deeper into a trance. As if this too was a kind of meditation in itself. She found it fascinating to partake in such a ritual.
“It’s finished,” he said simply.
“Really? Can I see please?” she said eagerly.
She crossed the room and sat down beside him. Too close, he thought.
Because now he saw those details at an even greater inspection. His picture was two dimensional. She was living, breathing. What would be like to smudge the charcoal upon those actual lips, finger feeling texture, not just the illusion of it. Other details, not captured on flimsi - the soft sound of her breathing, the scent entwined upon the coils of her hair. He could just reach out, and touch.
Capture.
Explore.
“I need to go. Excuse me,” he said, jumping up in a startling manner.
She was taken aback by his abruptness, suddenly feeling bereft of his soothing presence. She stared at the drawing, contemplating the way he saw her through his eyes.