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Analyzing A Good Thing

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"Why are you always so silent?" Obi-Wan asked once, after a round of frenzied, furtive sex in a seedy Coruscant motel room.

His companion opened one lazy yellow eye and glared. He had the pinpoint pupils of a spice addict, but Obi-Wan knew that whatever the man had done in the past, he wasn't a spicer now. "What," he growled, "you expect me to fall at your feet, whining like a Jedi?" He sat up, sneering. "Fuck me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you're my only hope?"

"No," Obi-Wan said, reaching out to stroke the man's jagged horns in a placating gesture. "It's just--you know who I am--a Jedi padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You know I risk being thrown out of the Temple for this." Obi-Wan's gesture encompassed the dingy room, the sweat- and semen-stained sheets, the tattoed, horned near-human in the bed with him. "I do it anyway. But I know nothing about you. I don't even know your name."

"This is why Jedi are weak," the man said. "You always analyze a good thing to death."

"I can't help it."

The man sighed. "Very well. I will give you this: I have said more to you in the last hour than I say to everyone else in a month."

Obi-Wan was silent.

The man rolled over and cupped Obi-Wan's face in one strong hand, fixing him with his uncanny yellow gaze. Then he leaned in and kissed Obi-Wan, very gently, drew back, and whispered, "Well, then. Fuck me, Obi-Wan Kenobi? You're my only hope."

Only a hint of a smirk betrayed him.