Title: ABH: The Pit (1/1)
Darth Diebin firstname.lastname@example.org
PG/PG-13 I dunno really. No smut. Clean, pure, fluff.
Summery: Spawned from
the same plot bunny as BJ's 'Study Breaks' . . . only
she was a lot more
timely in completing hers. I just kinda never got around
Need not apply. There is really no point to this--but hey. It's here,
someone will get a laugh out of it.
Disclaimer: You may OWN him George, but I
haven't seen you do anything
worthy with him yet. Sheesh. Oh well, I'll
fight you for him someday, but
Dedicated: To anyone who has
EVER sat up late trying to translate funky
"Do you need anything else?"
your boss calls out as she climbs up the stairs
towards the door. You spare
a moment to lift your face from your book,
squinting at the clock on the far
"Midnight already?" you respond, tilting your head to one side to
release the tension building up in your neck. The bones give a loud
and satisfying pop, and you repeat the gesture on the other side,
for your boss to respond.
"You've been buried in that book
for the last two hours straight." Your boss
is at the top of the stairs now,
fiddling with the lock on the door. "Have
you got your keys?"
check at your hip reveals your keyring, proof of the two long years
in working your way up the library hierarchy. You're now a trusted
worker, as opposed to a regular student worker, with access to the
at any hour.
"Yep. Close 'er on up, Captain." You give your boss a wave
and return you
nose to your book, reaching back absently to twist your hair
into a simple
knot that keeps it out of your face.
"Don't stay here
all night now." You look up to see your boss staring down
at you, her face
worried. "You've been studying too hard lately. You need a
You give a false smile as you lift your fifty pound book,
waving it in the
air. "That's because I have to translate half of this from
ancient Greek to
English, French, and Arabic. I've got the English, and am
half done with
French . . ."
"Just make sure you get some sleep."
Your boss is standing outside the door
now. "Get out a little. Meet some
boys. Do something fun!" You smile again
and wave, watching her as she sighs
and swings the door shut, leaving you
locked up in the Pit.
Pit. By day, it's an ordinary enough part of the library, the
of all of the books too big to fit on shelves or too old to be
Since it's in the basement of the library, most students never
be surprised if half of them even knew about it. By night,
however, the Pit
is your home. Your boss is the only other person with a
key, making it the
ideal place for your late night study sessions.
Rolling your tense
shoulder slightly you settle back to your work. It would
be so much easier
to translate the entire thing to English, and then
translate it to French
and Arabic from the English--but that would be
cheating and your teacher
would catch it. The point of this whole damn
exercise was to capture the
nuance of all of the different languages,
watching how words translated into
French took on a different meaning from
those in Arabic and
You heave a tortured sigh, turning the page and shoving your
glasses back up
your nose with an absent gesture. It had seemed like a good
idea to study
six different languages back when you were eighteen and
convinced you could
do anything--but at the time no one had told you how
much time you'd spend
stuck in a book doing boring, dry
As you struggle through a particuarly nasty sentence--trying
to convert a
verb never seen in French to a tense only used in Greek--you
feel the pain
start in your lower back, the small ball of tension uncurling
to stretch up along your spine. Hours spent either bent over a
or hunched over a keyboard typing have done their evil work on
now suffer from chronic back pains. The pain can build up to be
if not headed off within the first few moments it starts, and
dully that you're in for a long, long, /long/, night.
close your eyes for a moment, swearing softly under your breath. A long
ago you learned the trick for ignoring the pain, so you invoke it now.
deep breaths, changing your focus, and the pain recedes to a dull
still very much a part of you but subtle enough to ignore.
you're okay for now--but knowing you'll pay double later--you
over your book and dive headlong back into the world of grammar.
yanked rather abruptly out when a hand lands on your lower back,
splayed out almost possessivly. Knowing that you're the only person
should be in the Pit, you go dead still for a few moments, fear coursing
through your body.
A few moments later, however, adrenaline catches
up. You fling yourself
sideways, cursing the fact that you decided studies
were more important than
keeping up with your martial arts training. The
chair comes down with you,
tangling your feet for a few precious moments,
but you kick it in the
general direction of your attacker before flinging
yourself to your feet,
grabbing the first thing your hands fall on (your
water bottle) and wielding
it like a weapon.
The man's eyes are wide
with startlement, the aqua-gray pools taking up so
much of his face that he
looks like a surprised child. He's got one hand
resting on his hip, the
other one still extended out in the air. He's
dressed rather oddly, a
strange brown cloak and something that looks like an
off-color gi rounding
off the outfit. And the haircut--
It's the hair that makes you blink.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me,"
you exclaim loudly, rolling your
eyes. "I'm sorry, I don't believe in divine
visitations, no matter /how/
many ABH's a write."
"ABH?" the man responds. "What is that
"No!" you exclaim, cutting him off. You level a finger at him,
menacingly. "I deny that you are here."
"You can if it
makes you feel better . . ." The Padawan shrugs, the gesture
eyes to his strong shoulders. "However, if I could do what I
came here to
do, I'd be rather grateful."
"And what exactly did you come here to do?"
you ask condescendingly. The man
is obviously a hallucination, and therefore
no danger, so you approach him
slowly, determined to vanquish this obvious
sign of your own insanity.
"This," Obi-Wan responds, reaching out a hand
to brush against your lower
back. Suddenly the pain you'd been holding at
bay comes flooding back,
overwhelming you all at once. Unprepared, your
knees cave and you find
yourself bent over your desk, Obi-Wan's hand still
touching your back. Your
breathing is shallow and harsh as you try to
squeeze back the tears--but the
pain is gone. Completely and totally
"What did you--" No, that's a foolish question. It's obvious /what/
did--the question is /why/ did he do it?
"Believe it or not, I did
it out of self defense," Obi-Wan responds to your
thought, pulling you
gently back into your chair and arranging your limp
arms so that they are
pillowing your head. "You were throwing your pain out
into the Force, and
giving me such an amazing back-ache that I could hardly
"Uhh." For a woman who speaks five modern and four dead
you're remarkably unelequoent sometimes. "Thanks, I
"It took no effort on my part," Obi-Wan responds, his fingers
suddenly into your shoulder as he attacks one of the nasty little
muscles have tied themselves into.
You squeak in pain,
wincing away, and feel the hands recede. "Sorry," the
voice says from behind
you. "I could work those knots out, but I'm afraid
that they're bad enough
that there is really no way to do it painlessly."
Great. You've dreamed
Obi-Wan Kenobi up, and all he wants to do is give you
a painful backrub. No
ripping off of clothing, no throwing you to the floor
and making passionate
love to you--he wants to cause you physical agony for
::Oh, hell,:: you think, sinking back to the desk and relaxing. ::I
I might as well get some use out of this hallucination. I guess
was a little too much to ask for.::
"You know, some days I
just want to pinch you fools," Obi-Wan says
conversationally, and you spin
in your chair to glare up at him.
"Excuse me?" you demand
"Isn't that what you do here to prove that you're not dreaming?"
rolls his eyes, reaching out to give your arm a vicious little
Hurts, doesn't it? I'm real. Deal with it."
You swear at
him in French, he thanks you in the same language, even if it
accented. You the proceed to tell him exactly what you think of
German--he counters in Austrian slang, informing you that he's quite
his parents weren't really related. You dig into the darkest depths
Arabic, pulling out insults that would get you kicked out of the
department--he calmly corrects your grammar before proceeding to mock you in
what sounds like Hutteese.
You throw your book at him. He deflects it
calmly without lifting a god
"Are you quite done?" he
asks you as you fume, out of languages and
you respond. Curiosity gets the better of you. "Where did you
"As the Padawan to one of the order's top negotiators,
I was trained in
languages extensively--more so when it was found that I had
for them." Obi-Wan shrugs modestly, a slight smile on his
face. "I've had to
learn a lot of them."
"How many do you speak?" you
ask, anger forgotten in a wave of awe for
someone who has mastered the
profession you dream of excelling in.
"Oh, I'm not sure. Thirty or so."
Ignoring your shocked expression, Obi-Wan
moves towards you and turns you
around in your chair again, urging your
forward so that your head rests on
arms. "Do you mind if I at least fix the
muscles that are doing your body
damage? You're still throwing pain into the
Force somehow, and I'm getting a
headache from it."
"So much for selflessness," you mutter, relaxing
obediently. "I knew that
whole concept was too good to be true."
tried to do it for your own good the first time," Obi-Wan retorts, "but
I got was a barrage of insults that would shock a bounty hunter, and a
tossed at my head."
"It's good for you eg-aaaiieeee!" Your sentence cuts
of in a squeal of pain
and a string of curses as his fingers ruthlessly pull
at the tense muscles
in your shoulder. Tears form in your eyes against your
will, and the hands
"Why didn't you seek help
before?" Obi-Wan asks softly, one hand beginning
to rub soothingly along the
back and side of your neck as the other hand
continues the torture. Teeth
clenched, you have to try three times before
you can get a response out
around the lump in your throat.
"I just got use--ahh! Used to . . . to
liv--arrrh--living with it." The pain
is only getting worse, and you're
afraid you're about to disgrace yourself
by bursting into
"Just a few more moments, and I'll be able to use the Force,"
murmurs, his free hand still caressing the side of your neck. You
you feel the muscle in your right shoulder spasm, and suddenly the
gone. Obi-Wan's hand stills on your shoulder, and you feel a strange
tingling creep out from his hand down your arm and back.
you," you say softly, reveling in the feeling of muscles that
for the first time in weeks.
"I've still got to do the other side,"
Obi-Wan says wryly. "Don't thank me
You grit your teeth as he
begins again, and somehow manage to endure the
agony until he once again
rests his hand on your shoulder, sending some kind
of energy flowing through
His hands return to your shoulder, massaging gently this time
as the tense
muscles in your neck slowly relax.
"Thank you," you
murmur appreciatively, letting the warmth from his hands
spread out to your
body, calming the aching nerves.
"You're welcome," he responds softly,
fingers creeping up to massage your
temples. You feel a great weight lifting
off of your shoulder as if all the
problems in the world have suddenly been
solved. Your eyes slip shut, and
you barely notice that you've fallen asleep
. . .
You awake the next morning when your boss slams the door open,
she sees you sprawled out over the desk. "I told you to go
home and have
some fun!" she exclaims, shaking her head and going back to
"Fun," you repeat dully, rubbing the side of your face and
trying to figure
out what happened. You were studying--and then--
stretch your shoulders, the absence of pain something like physical
Eyes wide you stare down at the table in front of you, blinking when
that your translation was finished in a neat, orderly hand. Lying on
your book is a scrap of paper reading only, 'Briston Hotel. Room
Blinking you pocket the piece of paper, gathering your books
up and heading
towards the door. "Of all the fucking . . ."
a mental note to visit the Briston Hotel. Maybe