Eros, a multi-universe love story by Glacis. Rated NC17 for adult themes and sexuality. No copyright infringement intended (Star Trek : Voyager, Star Wars : The Phantom Menace, Highlander, Sentinel, Stargate : SG-1, the Pantheon of Greek Deities -- NOT the ones depicted in the HercXenaVerse, the Real ones).

It was absolutely ridiculous. Why, one would think that they were jealous, or insane, if one wasn't part of the same Continuum. He would have noticed if that was the case. No, they just had to be petty because he, Q, had thought of something none of the other Q could be creative and imaginative enough to consider.

Which led him to summary exile to a galaxy far, far away for an indefinite period.

Alright, he could admit it, yes. He had brought an inferior species into the middle of a Q disagreement. If one could call something as cataclysmic as civil war a 'disagreement'. But the Humans from Voyager, pathetic creatures that they were, had made the difference. Because of that, and only because of that, the exile was to another living galaxy instead of being bound in the middle of a lump of meteor somewhere in the back of beyond.

Q stared around the bustling planets, sighing silently, sending gusts of galactic wind out to wreak havoc with a few pitiful little warships. They bounced around and emitted tiny squeaks of outrage, then turned on one another and blasted each other out of existence.

It was a tiny moment of fun, but it just wasn't the same as being home. Q was bored. Surely there was someone here as interesting, or at least partially as interesting, as Jean-Luc or dear Kathy, bless her brass brassiere. The essence indefinable that was Q drifted toward a particularly busy little planet, encrusted all over with the epitome of civilization for this batch of sub-species, and floated around aimlessly, looking for any sort of diversion to lift his mood.

High in one of the towers scattered like holes in an anthill, he found it. A nicely developing malevolence with a dab hand at spatial manipulation, dressed in melodramatic black, croaking out orders through shady channels to his little minions of darkness. Q chortled, unheard by the lesser beings. This might be good for a small distraction.

Listening in, he heard definite delusions of Godhood from the little lump of ambition. Lord Sidious, indeed. Leader of the universe (ha!), soon to be grand emperor of the new empire built on the ashes of the Republic. Q yawned, and grew weary of the little man in the black robe with all the big ideas. But his hovering horned apprentice with the bad teeth and hissing voice was somewhat amusing.

Following on the heels of the brooding hound, ignoring the posturing of the hound's master for the moment, Q drifted alongside the warship on the way to another little rock in the middle of nowhere. Naboo. What sort of name was that, even for Humans? It sounded like a name for a stuffed bear, or some other ridiculous toy. Q dogged the heels of the hound through boring desert scenery to a boring rock outcropping to a boring plain, all set to float away again, when something ... interesting ... happened.

Oh. My. Q paused, arrested. Now, there was a pretty sight.

A tall Human, dressed in depressingly dull clothing but carrying it off well, with a nice craggy outline that reminded him of Jean Luc. Only taller. With much more hair. And more active, by far.

What lovely legs.

What lovely hands.

What lovely eyes.

The horned hound nearly caused a premature ending to the object of Q's fascination, and Q wrapped a tendril of energy around the horned one's ankle, tripping him up just enough for the lovely tall man to leap up into the belly of another craft and get away.

All of a sudden, Q wasn't bored anymore.

He tagged along with the tall Human, laughed at the frog-like creatures with the bad syntax and the big ears, ignored the pale girl child and the annoying little boy child, spared an appreciative glance for the shorter warrior with the silly haircut who might grow up into something toothsome in another thirty years or so. But most of his attention was firmly attached to the tall Human warrior with the great legs and the long hair and the soft voice.

Qui Gon Jinn, of the Jedi Knights. Odd name, but then most Humans had strange names. There was about him an air of calm underlain with volcanic strength that reminded Q more strongly of Jean Luc the longer Q watched him. He was also a spatial and emotive manipulator, but, while arrogant, this one had none of the delusions of the squatty little would-be emperor. This one, this Qui Gon, was worthy of the notice of Q.

Things escalated in the silly little war, as they always did when Humans were involved, and Q found himself watching over his warrior as he and his student challenged the hound again. This time, the hound was winning, and Q snorted with disgust. This would never do. He'd finally found something worth watching to keep his exile from boring him completely out of existence, and this little thug was trying to take it away. No.

At the pivotal moment in the battle, the hound sneered at Q's favorite, and struck at him as if to slice into his chest in a killing blow. Q waved a finger, and the power crystals in the hound's weapon reversed, extinguishing the energy blade extending toward Qui Gon and extending it out the other end of the handle. The hound effectively gutted himself. Q allowed himself a smug smile at the astonished look frozen on the hound's face as he fell, dead, to the floor, then materialized in front of the equally astonished Qui Gon.

"It simply wouldn't do, to lose you when I've only just found you," he murmured, running a finger along Qui Gon's cheek. Unlike Jean Luc, when Q took his human form with Qui Gon he had to look up to meet the crystalline blue eyes. Q liked the difference. He slid one hand under the slightly open jaw and closed it, gently.

"Master!" The student came skidding onto the scene, lightsaber up and slashing as he came, belatedly, to his master's rescue. Q ignored him.

"You're quite handsome, for one of your species," he praised Qui Gon. Qui Gon swallowed.

"Master?" the student asked this time. "Do you, er, need any help?" The boy's wide blue-green eyes were sweeping all along the scene, the body of the hound collapsed and bleeding around his own weapon, Q running his fingers along the trimmed beard of his master, and his master himself, standing stock still in total shock. Q couldn't hold back the chuckle.

"Not now," he answered both the student's immediate question and Qui Gon's need for explanation, unvoiced but obvious in his expression. "Perhaps later." With a last chuckle, Q dematerialized and resumed his passive role as watcher, as fighting broke through and swept the warriors up in its midst. Qui Gon and his student exchanged bemused glances, then turned to face their attackers together.

Q's attention was drawn from his Qui Gon by the tug from the Continuum. His attention turned, but it was only a fellow Q, checking on him, making sure he wasn't 'wreaking havoc amongst the lesser species again'. Q shrugged indignantly. He was being amazingly good. Now, go away and leave me alone, he projected at the other Q. I thought exile was supposed to be served solitarily, and I can't do that with you hanging about. Suspicion flowed through him, emanating from the rest of the Continuum, but he maintained his innocence of any and all interference. Because it was, on the whole, quite true this time, they eventually drew back and left him to his sentence.

Good, he thought, and wandered back, feeling the pull of the light that was the Human Qui Gon. Time flowed differently for the Q, of course, and a few years had passed in the Human's span of time. The annoying little brat from the planet was now Qui Gon's student. The original student, Obi Wan, his name was, had filled out a little. His hair had grown, Q noticed and approved. The balance of the situation had changed.

The little brat was around constantly. Obi Wan was trying his damnedest to seduce his ex-master, and even had Qui Gon been willing -- which, given Q's observances, he undoubtedly was -- they never had five minutes alone to do anything.

This wouldn't do at all. Q couldn't hope to have a free field to court Qui Gon with the teenager and the courtier hanging around all the time. It would definitely put a damper on his courtship. Waiting until the brat finally took a bathroom break, Q materialized in Qui Gon's quarters, all flash and crimson flowing draperies, and prepared to sweep the Human off his feet.

Before he had a chance, his rival bounced into the room.

"Qui Gon, finally--" the boy began. It was too much. Q hadn't even had a chance to introduce himself. He swept Qui Gon up into his arms, surprising both warriors into immobility. Taking advantage of the moment of pure shock, Q wrapped tendrils of purest thought energy around Qui Gon, effectively stopping any possibility of struggle.

The boy took this as an attack, and ignited his energy weapon. Screaming, "Master!", an interesting exclamation given their current status, which distracted Q into wondering what, precisely, their past training had entailed, Obi Wan sliced at Q.

Burned his arm.

Pissed him off, instantly.

With a jerk of his head, Kenobi disappeared, still waving his irritating little weapon. The toilet flushed and the teenager appeared, all vacuous eyes and gaping mouth. Just for fun, Q imprinted an image of Lord Sidious in the brat's mind, all black robes and purple lightning flying from his fingertips. Before his seduction scene could devolve into anything any more ludicrous, Q concentrated.

They disappeared without a trace, Qui Gon's scream of Obi Wan's name echoing in the empty chamber.

Drifting in the intersection of reality and nothingness, Qui Gon's face buried against him, Q watched with interest as the brat ran to a tall, dark-skinned man and blathered something about darkness and Sith and the end of the galaxy. There was a search, of course, but both Q's favorite and the warrior who'd tried to take him from Q were long gone. The Jedi swarmed like insects, put their little heads together, had a manhunt, had a Darkness hunt. Q laughed aloud as several of them converged in a fighting formation against the self-styled emperor, and the toad-like man's dreams went up in ashes along with his life force.

Served him right. Godhood, indeed. Saved Q the trouble of having to do it himself.

Metaphorically turning his back to the madhouse, irresistibly reminded of Earth ants pouring from a crushed anthill, he whisked his new play-toy away to somewhere a little more comfortable. It was time that Qui Gon Jinn was introduced to the glory that was Q.

Duncan MacLeod was in trouble. He was an excellent fighter -- couldn't have survived almost five hundred years without being able to take care of himself. But he followed the rules, and if he didn't exactly expect others to do so, he did try to avoid situations where they wouldn't.

Sometimes, such situations were unavoidable.

Seven immortals, hunting in a pack. Methos had dropped by a few weeks previously and mentioned their leader, one Stavros Palas, and Duncan had called on Joe for a little background. What he'd found hadn't impressed him. Cowardly type, liked to prey on young Immortals, not for their Quickenings, but to get them to do his hunting for him, weaken the prey for him before he stepped in and struck the killing blow. Then, once they got strong enough to challenge him, he'd take their heads. Unpleasant, but not too cocky, and not stupid. He wouldn't come after MacLeod.

Mac was calling himself many things, including both cocky and stupid, for making that assumption.

Three of the Immortals, led by Stavros, had him cornered in an abandoned warehouse, one of many too many such buildings along the docks in Seacouver. The other four were ranged at all points of the compass, to cut him off should he manage to scramble away from the main attack. Cursing to himself in a dialect of Gaelic long since extinct, he swung his katana in a whirling, crossing, dazzling pattern. He was holding all three of them off, but not for long.

As the pattern was at the point of breaking under the combined attack, there was a strange rippling in the air around them. All eight Immortals shuddered, then a body tumbled into the melee from out of nowhere.

A body wielding an impressive if utterly alien sword.

Two of the flanking Immortals attacked the newcomer, as the lead three returned to their attack on MacLeod. With a strange buzzing noise, the newcomer sliced literally all the way through both Immortals attacking him. Mac shouted, a hoarse, wordless cry for help as Stavros broke through his defense, his sycophants stabbing at him, weakening him.

The stranger reacted instinctively, with an incredible acrobatic leap over the cluster of fighting Immortals that placed him back to back with MacLeod. Mac didn't have the breath to thank or welcome him, just swung right into battle as if they'd been shield-mates for centuries. A lucky swing took the strange energy blade directly through Stavros' neck, separating his head from his shoulders, at the same time Mac slid his katana through the spine of one of the other attackers. The third attacker fell back, joined by the two surviving members of the pack, as the Quickenings sped around the interior of the warehouse.

Lights exploded. Wood spontaneously combusted. Windows shattered. Mac felt like the top of his head was exploding along with the light bulbs, like his eyes were melting and his tongue was fried and his ears were molten flesh as the power of both Quickenings struck him, harsh and overwhelming, snakebites both draining and filling him with the charge of Life.

Even through the agony of the Quickenings tearing along his nerves and wrenching skin from flesh and flesh from bones, he saw the stranger, standing guard over him. The man's eyes were wide, his face was pale, and his hands were shaking, but he was defending MacLeod as he convulsed and spun, helpless in the wake of the Quickenings. It was a good thing, too.

The three surviving pack members were circling, trying to find an angle of attack. The stranger was everywhere, moving faster than the eye could see, leaping, spinning, deflecting blows from all three swords. Mac had never seen such consummate swordsmanship. If only his eyes didn't feel like they were dripping down his cheekbones, he'd really be enjoying the show. As it was, he could only lay in a crumpled, twitching heap as the stranger saved his life, over and over.

Eventually, the pack gave up, unable to get close to him while he was still vulnerable, as long as his preternaturally efficient defender kept guard. One of them screamed defiantly, "You'll die for this!" as they ran. MacLeod believed it, or believed they'd try, at least.

After the last of them had disappeared, the young man turned, powered down his odd energy sword, and leaned over Mac. Close enough to be heard, but not close enough to be grabbed. Cautious. Mac appreciated that in a warrior.

"Are you alright?" Soft, low voice, educated, sounded like an Englishman. Mac smiled at old prejudices, then winced as he tried to move. Single Quickenings were tough. Doubles ... doubles were a right bitch.

"Yeah, I think so," he managed to croak. The stranger didn't look reassured. "Just gimme a moment, and let me catch m' breath."

The stranger took him literally, crouching, watching him intently, until Mac could breathe again. Then he asked, "Where are we? Who are you? What happened? What planet is this?"

Mac stared up at him, then smothered a grin and hoisted himself, painfully, to his feet. Halfway through the process, the stranger reached out and steadied him. His hands were strong and warm.

"What planet?" Mac asked, stalling for time. Aye, the man could be a maniac, but he was a maniac with a startlingly useful sword and a real facility for putting it to use.

"Yes," the stranger replied impatiently. "Just a moment ago, I was on Coruscant. In my master's chambers. Then we were attacked, I was flung into some sort of tunnel, and ended up here. Where is here?"

Mac stared, vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open. "You're from another planet?" he asked, but internally he kept repeating, his master? His master? Oh, god, he has a master. Oh, yes.

The stranger cocked his head and looked at him as if Mac was the one who needed help. "Yes," he answered very slowly. "I take it ... this is unusual."

"Ye could say that," Mac forced out. The stranger opened his mouth again, and Mac raised his hand. "First things first. What say we introduce ourselves, get away from here before those bastards come back, go home, get cleaned up and share a good bottle of Scotch while you tell me all about it. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, at your service."

The stranger smiled. It was a beautiful smile, and it distracted Mac. "Obi Wan Kenobi, Jedi Knight, in the service of the Light." The words brought Mac back to earth with a vengeance.

Knight?

Kenobi?

... master??

Okay, so someone hadn't been taking their medication. But the lad could still fight, and was comely to look upon, and had, after all, saved Mac's arse. It was worth the risk to take him home.

Might even have some unlooked-for rewards.

In fact, with the energy currently twisting his guts in knots, he could bank on it.

Obi Wan stared around the neatly appointed rooms of the small barge and wondered, not for the first time, what in the seventh circle of Sith hells was going on. The Sith had certainly changed both their sphere of influence and their tactics over the thousand years of their supposed extinction. One moment he was fighting the forces of Darkness and the next ...

A memory hit him. The Sith fighting his Master, sure to kill him, a few short years before. A being in a strange black unitard standing between his Master and the dead body of the Sith, touching Qui Gon's face in a disturbingly intimate manner.

The way he'd touched Qui Gon as he abducted the Jedi Master from his own quarters, without any significant difficulty.

Although if he wasn't Sith, what was he?

The stranger he'd helped, Duncan MacLeod Of The Clan MacLeod -- such an odd name -- was moving restlessly about, bristling with excess energy. Obi Wan felt his skin tingle. There was something unusual about this Duncan. Obi Wan drew deeply within himself and concentrated all his attention on the Light, delving into the Force to better read his host.

Sheer unadulterated lust very nearly knocked him off his feet.

Energy danced in the Force aura around the man, an aura deep enough that regardless of his apparent age it was obvious this man was ancient. Not as ancient as Master Yoda, but much older than standard lifespan expectancy for most humans. Not infirm, in the least ... rather tempting, in fact.

Very tempting.

Sweat shone on his skin, lightly, from the exertion of the fight. In addition, tiny whorls of lightning crackled along the surface of his body, knitting small cuts in his skin, the electricity only visible through the Force. This one, whomever he was, while no Jedi, was extremely strong in the Light. He was also extremely aroused.

And focused on Obi Wan.

Pulled into the whirlpool of Force currents around Duncan, helpless as a child in the face of a hurricane, Obi Wan was subsumed by the lust radiating out from Duncan. It pulsed through them both in waves, crashing with the distant rhythm of primal storms. In an instant, their heartbeats were synchronized, running hard and fast, urging them on. Instinctively, Obi Wan did as he had been trained since childhood, and gave himself to the will of the Force.

Which, at the moment, translated to giving himself to Duncan MacLeod.

Not that Obi Wan was complaining.

The alien was beautiful, after all. Tawny skin stretched over compact, bunched muscles, a fighter's body honed to its best use as a weapon of his trade. Obi Wan sensed no malice or manipulation as he went into the man's arms, as that full mouth fastened on his throat, as strong, square hands tore at his robes. He retained enough sense of self and place to levitate his lightsaber out of harm's way before Duncan tangled one hand in his hair, the other under his buttocks, and lifted him bodily from the floor, controlling their fall as they sank onto the cushions of the couch below.

Duncan's weight was somehow comforting and exciting at the same time. Obi Wan felt Duncan's advances on two levels at once -- the purely physical, as a determined knee parted his thighs and a hungry mouth descended to map his body, and through the Force, where the lightning danced from Duncan's skin to his own, a frenzied, hungry swarming of energy between their bodies.

His first climax caught him by surprise. Arching against Duncan's hands, screaming into the mouth clamped over his own, he could actually feel the lightning dispersing through the fluid of his semen, following the trail of liquid back to the source, sending an electrical charge along the length of his penis and throughout his testicles from the inside out. Obi Wan was so distracted by the unique sensation he missed the action further down, and Duncan was entering him before he quite realized it.

The electricity was also dancing along the fluid coating Duncan's erection, and Obi Wan convulsed again as the charges spread inside him from the rear as well. His entire pelvis was awash in Force charges, and he could no more control his reaction to them than he could stop the planet from rotating on its axis. He was climaxing in a continual, low-level surge, dribbling more semen with every thrust Duncan gave. Every nerve and muscle in his body was twitching, much as Duncan had twitched after the lightning had struck him at the scene of the battle earlier in the day.

Duncan was appreciating the continuous rippling convulsions clamping around his cock, judging by the growl coming from his throat. He was bucking harder and harder against Obi Wan, grinding him into the soft cushions, trapping Obi Wan's spitting penis between them, adding physical pressure and rhythm to the Force to bathe Obi Wan in a series of sensations that threatened to render him unconscious, if not dead, from sheer sensual overload.

When Duncan finally came, he did so nearly silently. Obi Wan made up for it with a howl that nearly shattered the windows. Utterly spent, in every way, they lay on the couch, barely breathing, completely unable to move.

"I'd ask if I were interrupting anything," a very dry tenor commented from the vicinity of the doorway, "but I hate being obvious. You know, MacLeod, if you're going to be rutting like alley cats, you really might consider closing the door. Locking it would be better, but at least closing it would be nice."

A long, lanky figure, hatchet face crowned by a mop of dark hair and sporting a glacial expression in eyes the color of wet leaves, perched on the arm of the sofa. Obi Wan peered up at him, blinking through the sweat stinging his eyes, and did the best Force reading he could, given the fact that his energy had been depleted to near zero. The lightning still singing through his body, centering in his groin and up his fundament, was a distraction as well.

He blinked again.

Judging by the depth and layers of the Force aura around this one, he was at least ten times older than the man who'd just finished nearly sending him into a coma with his lovemaking. Obi Wan spared a prayer of thanks to whomever the local deities might be that the newcomer hadn't been the one to fuck him. He didn't think he'd've survived the experience.

"Obi Wan Kenobi," he offered by way of introduction. It wasn't easy retaining one's dignity when lying half stripped under another man, with that man's slowly softening penis slipping out of one's ass, but the Jedi were nothing if not composed under even the most trying circumstances. The ancient man raised an eyebrow at him. The ice in his eyes thawed a fraction.

"Adam Pierson," he offered in return. "I'm presuming you know MacLeod."

Obi Wan glanced down at Duncan, currently burying his face in Obi Wan's neck. A blush had risen over his entire body, up to and including his back and arms. Obi Wan looked back over at Pierson. "We've been introduced. In battle. There were several men with swords attempting to kill him when I, er, showed up."

Pierson slumped even further, if that was possible. "MacLeod? Anything you want to tell me?"

Muffled by being pressed against Obi Wan's skin, the reply was still clear enough for both listeners to understand. "Go AWAY, Methos!"

Pierson's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Obi Wan was reminded of nothing so much as a hunting bird about to snap the neck of its unfortunate prey. Then Adam Pierson Methos -- another strange name -- relaxed.

His eyes didn't.

"Well, I'll be off then," he said with studied nonchalance. Duncan finally unburied his face and spoke over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on Obi Wan's face. "No. Don't. Stay." Since Pierson hadn't actually moved, it was an effective plea.

Trying to ease the situation, diplomacy ingrained in him, Obi Wan wriggled and twisted, helping Duncan ease out of him. Since neither had completely undressed, it was the work of a moment for Obi Wan to pull his robes together, ignoring the fluid staining his leggings, and for Duncan to fasten his trousers. He left his shirt open. Not that he had much choice in the matter, given that sometime in their grappling Obi Wan had ripped most of the buttons off. Obi Wan sat up, easing gently onto the cushions, grateful for their softness on his bruised and well-stretched hindquarters.

Pierson watched him like a hawk. Obi Wan offered him a serene look. Peripherally, he noticed that not only was Duncan looking much less embarrassed, but the severity of the agitation in his Force signature was vastly decreased.

"You require coitus to calm the Force turmoil after a battle then?" he asked Duncan. Both men looked at him as if he was speaking Huttese. He thought about it a moment, and rephrased the question. "You have to fuck after fighting to get it out of your system?"

Oddly enough, Duncan looked embarrassed again, but Pierson looked much more at ease, almost as if he was about to laugh. When it became obvious that Duncan either couldn't or wouldn't answer the question, Pierson did.

"Usually helps," he admitted. "The ... results of battle can make us ... prickly."

"The lightning." It wasn't a question, but Pierson nodded affirmation anyway. Obi Wan continued, "And taking in the lightning from two foes would cause extreme ... prickliness?"

Pierson straightened up, staring at Duncan. "Another double Quickening?" he asked, voice agitated.

Duncan nodded mutely.

All the remaining distance in Pierson's eyes disappeared. "Bloody hell."

"Aye," Duncan finally found his voice.

"Tell me." There was an undercurrent of steel in Pierson's soft voice. Duncan glanced over at Obi Wan. "He's in it too," Pierson prodded, impatiently.

Duncan did. Obi Wan sat there, shifting away the twinges in his muscles, as Duncan said something about hunters and breaking rules, packs and vengeance. Sworn equally against Obi Wan as against Duncan. By the time he wound down, Pierson had joined them on the couch, thigh to thigh with Duncan, and had his head down, listening intently. When Duncan finished, the silence stretched for long moments.

"Well, we have some unfinished business, then," Pierson finally said. Duncan started to say something, and Pierson cut him off with an upraised hand. "Don't start, Boy Scout. Yes, I'm in it, so deal with it and get over it."

Duncan snorted, disgustedly, and Obi Wan grinned. These two were old friends, and knew one another well, it would seem. A pang of homesickness hit him, missing Qui Gon, wondering and worrying about him. He came back to the conversation to hear Pierson say, "He can't stay. He's a target, and he's not one of us. He's at a disadvantage."

Obi Wan thought to mention that he'd done quite well so far, but kept his mouth shut. If there was one thing he'd learned from fifteen years of fieldwork as a Jedi peacekeeper, it was to wait and watch while the natives made up their minds.

"Where can he go?" Duncan asked reasonably.

"I just want to go home," Obi Wan said quietly. Duncan and Pierson looked at him. After a moment's thought, Pierson spoke up again.

"How about Cascade? I have some friends there, not ... like us, but unusual in their own right. They know how to keep secrets, and they can keep him safe and under wraps until he can find his way home."

"Can they help me find a way home?" Obi Wan asked.

"Blair is one of the most creative and imaginative mortals I know, with contacts everywhere," Pierson responded, "and his mate is both dependable and persistent. If anyone can help you, they can."

Obi Wan's attention was caught by the strange use of the word 'mortal' but he was distracted by the hope the rest of Pierson's words offered. "Then let us go to him, by all means."

Duncan looked over at him, then smiled, a wicked light in his eyes. "A shower before mightn't go amiss."

Obi Wan grinned back at him, charmed by the expression on Duncan's face, if not the chilly reaction from Pierson. "No doubt," he agreed, and followed Duncan's lead to the facilities, ignoring both his own stiff muscles and the grumbling issuing from the slouched figure of Pierson behind them. He made out "so much for straight," and "all sorts of little secrets," and something about "see about that" before he closed the door between himself and Duncan.

Hot water was bliss. He stood under the steaming spray and tactfully ignored the verbal battle taking place out in the living room. It seemed as if there had been a few surprises today, and his displacement was the least of them.

It simply wasn't working. Nothing was working. He'd offered the man wealth. Power beyond mere mortal imagining. Fame spread across galaxies. Wars to be fought and victories in battle to make any warrior's heart beat faster.

Qui Gon simply sat there, stared serenely at him, and said, "No. Thank you."

Every time Q asked what the frustrating Human wanted, Qui Gon responded with the same request. "To go home." That wasn't what Q wanted to hear.

So Q started in on the sensual pleasures. The music of the spheres. Tastes and scents so rich and subtle they would render any Human drunk with pleasure. Finest textures of clothing and bedding, sumptuous feasts, warming oils for his skin, a smorgasbord of temptations of the flesh.

Qui Gon looked vaguely uncomfortable and drank water. While standing to the side of all the soft, inviting furniture, staring at the draperies suspiciously, completely ignoring the feast. And Q knew he had to be hungry.

Q stared at him. A lesser being would have thrown up his hands, or thrown one of those exquisite platters directly at Qui Gon's head. Q simply studied him.

Of course. He was an Stoic, in the classical sense of the word. How does one tempt a Stoic? It wasn't a question Q had ever asked himself. If anything, it intrigued him even further.

What to give a being who believed, sincerely, that he lived for duty? When such a being was still, in base form, merely flesh and blood? For an instant, Q toyed with the thought of breaking Qui Gon, finding the one temptation that Qui Gon would be unable to deny. Then he shook the thought away. While it would be fun, he had a sinking feeling he knew what that one thing might be. And he hadn't gone to all this trouble just to give Obi Wan to Qui Gon. It rather defeated the purpose, given that Q had brought the Human here specifically to get him away from Obi Wan and give him to Q.

So. If he wasn't going to break him, and didn't want to break him, how could he seduce him? A puzzle worthy of the attention of Q. It was a nice change of pace from the boredom he'd been expecting in this exile.

The next period of time, subjectively forever to Qui Gon and the blink of an eye to Q, was enlightening to the would-be omnipotent being. Philosophy, while it engendered some interest in Qui Gon, led only to endless, calm debates. Logic was even worse. Simple gifts of the most perfect natural crystals and rare ancient texts full of knowledge were met with equal interest, but no passion.

Q wanted passion.

Qui Gon just wanted to go home.

He was worried about Anakin, and nearly frantic about Obi Wan, although he thought he hid it from Q. Q knew better, but wasn't about to give up the object of his fascination without a damned good effort.

Not that it did him much good.

The drive to Cascade was a silent one. Methos watched MacLeod drive, sitting sideways in his seat so he could keep an eye on the uninvited guest along the way. The boy was easy enough on the eyes, of course. All ginger hair waving about his face, cleft chin and bright eyes, broad shoulders, long legs, strong arms, creamy skin mottled red with passion, nail and bite marks on his ... Methos derailed that train of thought immediately. MacLeod hadn't been too forthcoming when he'd tackled him about this heretofore unknown appreciation for male charms.

MacLeod had spread his hands in a 'what can I say?' gesture, shrugged, widened his eyes and looked innocent. Tough to do with the boy's come splattered all over him and a freshly fucked air about him. Not to mention the eyeful Methos had gotten springing into the barge, sword drawn, ready to join the battle in progress.

Well, it had sounded like a battle. The boy could wail better than most banshees Methos had met, and very long ago and far away he had met them. Made them wail, too. The sight that had greeted him on the couch in the barge had stopped him dead in his tracks, frozen in the doorway. For the longest time there had been nothing in the world but two bodies twined together, pushing against one another, broad dusky back and sturdy legs bisected by long pale legs crossed over those thrusting buttocks. Methos had gotten light-headed just on the smell of sex hanging in the air. Not to mention the visuals.

Of course, given that MacLeod had taken another double Quickening, it was a wonder he hadn't pounded the boy into a pulp fucking it off. One Quickening unleashed a pretty powerful hunger. Two ... ouch. And this time he hadn't even had Methos to bleed some of it off. Last time, Methos had gone on a tear, well hidden, that had left half a dozen lovers exhausted in his wake. He didn't know what -- or whom -- MacLeod had done, hadn't even brought it up, because Methos' taste for lovers of all types was one thing Straight Arrow Boy Scout wouldn't understand.

Or so he'd thought.

When they dumped the boy off on Blair, he and MacLeod were going to continue the little talk they'd begun at the barge. Preferably behind a locked door. Naked.

Their arrival in Cascade interrupted the series of pleasant mental images this resolution provoked. He snapped out of his reverie and directed them to the loft Blair shared with his Sentinel. It was after eight in the evening, so unless Ellison had dragged them out on a stake-out, they should be home.

Luck held, and the trio tromped up the stairs to the third floor. Methos hid a smile at the boy's barely concealed fascination with everything they passed. He didn't know what planet the kid had been living on, but wherever it was, it was nothing like Earth. Methos throttled a laugh before it could make its escape and rapped on the door.

A large, built brick wall of a man opened the door, bright blue eyes sweeping over them like a laser. Methos cleared his throat. This must be Ellison. "Hi," he began in a friendly voice, 'grad student persona' firmly in place. "I'm Adam, a friend of Blair's. Is he in?"

"Adam!" an enthusiastic cry from behind the door prompted Ellison to open it in invitation. A blur of curls and flannel whirled up to them, caught Adam up in a bear hug, and pulled all three of them into the loft in the wake of the energy wave left in his passing. Methos couldn't contain the grin. Sandburg never changed. Thank any god who would listen. "Hey, man, welcome! How long you been in town? Can you stay for long? Shut the door, Jim, the neighbors are eyeballing us. Who's this?"

Wide, unblinking cerulean eyes bounced from Methos to MacLeod to Kenobi, standing by the door looking slightly bemused. Nice warrior instincts, Methos thought, hovering by the exit 'til he knows if he has to run or fight. He gestured at his friend and their orphan. "Blair Sandburg, meet Duncan MacLeod, an old friend of mine. And Obi Wan Kenobi, a new friend." He wasn't stretching it. MacLeod had made it clear that Obi Wan wasn't just a convenient receptacle for a cleansing romp -- he'd saved MacLeod's life. That made him a friend, in the 'probationary' category Methos put any stranger who wasn't actively trying to kill him. Too much time with MacLeod was rubbing off on him. "MacLeod, Obi Wan, this is Blair, anthropologist and student of life in all its forms."

Blair grinned at him. "Hey, guys, nice to meet you. This is Jim. Ellison. My ... partner."

Ellison looked at him strangely, then asked the room at large, "Beer?"

Methos led the enthusiastic acceptance. Kenobi, he noticed, didn't say anything. They got their cans, settled into various seats around the room, and chatted about nothing much in particular for a little while. MacLeod was charming, as always, Blair was a chatterbox, also the norm, and Methos kept the conversation moving. Kenobi maintained his silence, but there was nothing overtly unfriendly about it. Ellison split his time between staring at Kenobi and staring at Methos.

By the third beer, Blair's curiosity was running too rampantly for him to let it lie any longer. "So, give, man. What's up?" Bright eyes stared at, and through, him. Methos took a deep breath.

"It's going to sound insane." Blair gave him a look that said, quite clearly, what else is new? Methos grinned, and explained. Appeared out of nowhere, all indications are alien in origin, helped MacLeod out of a tight spot, target as long as he stayed in Seacouver, wants to go home, no idea how to get him there. MacLeod filled in some of the bare spots. Kenobi sat there, looking calm, as if all this made perfect sense. Of course, to him, it would. "Any suggestions?" Methos wrapped up the scant explanation.

Ellison was looking at him as if he'd like to frisk him for hallucinogens. Blair simply looked thoughtful. "Maybe. Won't know until tomorrow. I have to call some friends..." His voice trailed off and his eyes unfocused. Now Ellison was staring at Blair like he'd like to frisk him for illegal narcotics.

"Chief?" he asked. Blair shook himself back to attention and smiled sweetly at Ellison. The big guy visibly melted.

"S'okay, Jim," Blair reassured him. "We've heard weirder, right?" The words were laden with hidden meaning only three men in the room understood. Ellison looked as if he wanted to argue the point, but he didn't get the chance. "I gotta go call Daniel. Back in a bit."

"Blair," Methos put in swiftly before the other man could disappear. "We really need to be getting back. Can we leave Obi Wan with you?"

A strange expression crossed Kenobi's face, part exasperation, part understanding, part disgust, as if he felt like the orphan Methos had mentally christened him -- or a puppy left on the doorstep. Blair was hugging Methos goodbye before anyone else could say anything, happily forestalling MacLeod's expected protest.

MacLeod was not in a big hurry to be alone with Methos, and Methos knew it. This merely added urgency to Methos' need to dump the boy and get back to Seacouver. A darkling glance from Duncan informed Methos that he knew precisely why Methos was in such a rush. Methos ignored him, returning Blair's hug, shaking Ellison's hand, clapping Kenobi on the shoulder, with the requisite affection, politesse and gratitude each deserved before hustling his Scot back down the stairs and into the car.

The drive back to Seacouver was as silent as the drive up had been. When they arrived at the barge, Methos didn't ask, he just followed MacLeod in. All the way back he could practically hear MacLeod thinking, coming up with all the arguments, all the claims of spur of the moment passion and expediency that Methos had heard before from so many supposedly straight men.

He didn't get the chance.

They settled on the couch. MacLeod offered him a beer. Methos slid across the length of the couch, tipped MacLeod over on his back and climbed on top of him, faster than the speed of thought. MacLeod stared up at him, open-mouthed, wide-eyed.

"Rather have you," Methos stated forcefully, ignoring the trite phrasing in acknowledgement of the sheer unvarnished truth. Then he dove into that open mouth and did what he'd been fantasizing about for the last six years, at the very least.

He ravished the Highlander.

MacLeod didn't put up even a token fight. If anything, he was more demanding than Methos, and Methos wondered for a second if MacLeod really would do anything rather than talk. Then he shrugged, tossed clothes off with wild abandon, and proceeded to show Duncan MacLeod what five thousand years of experience translated to in down and dirty terms.

Sometime between the second and third bout, Methos panted, "Why didn't you tell me you liked men, too?

MacLeod grinned at him, a wicked slash of white across the dark face, defining 'piratical' and causing Methos to grab for him all over again. As MacLeod was disappearing under Methos' body, he gasped out, "You never asked!"

Methos remedied the omission. Repeatedly.

By the fifth orgasm, praising Immortal regeneration and stamina heartily, Methos was pretty sure MacLeod had gotten the message.

Finally.

Blair had been on the phone nearly an hour. Seemed his anthropologist buddy and he hadn't had the chance to catch up for quite awhile, and Blair wanted to make sure everything was up to date and all right before he asked for any favors. Not that Jim knew what favors another anthropologist could do for the man deposited on their doorstep.

A psychologist, maybe.

Preferably one who came equipped with a rubber room and one of those designer jackets with the extra-long sleeves, complete with buckles.

The kid, couldn't have been much older than Blair if he was even that old, wasn't making a nuisance of himself. He just sat there. Completely relaxed looking, but Jim's sentinel senses told him another story. His heart was beating rapidly, his temperature was spiking, and he was throwing off enough pheromones to give a dead man a lift. He tripped every one of Jim's territorial trip-wires. And he was staring at Jim. Not blinking. Just staring, and leaking fuck-me signals.

After a silence that felt much longer than it probably was, the kid spoke, abruptly, startling Jim. "Why are you upset?"

Without thought, Jim told the truth in response to the quiet question. "You're in my space."

"And?" Clear blue-green eyes stared at him, demanding answers he wasn't sure he wanted to give.

"I'm in love with Blair." Jim nearly bit the end of his tongue off. Where had that come from? Well, yeah, he knew where it came from, but why had it come out? Don't ask, don't tell, don't screw up your life. But the kid had asked. And for God only knew what reason, Jim had told.

"Why am I a threat?" The kid just wouldn't quit. Jim opened his mouth to blast him and surprised both of them by answering the question, instead.

"He finds you attractive." Jim could tell. Blair'd been practically salivating as soon as the kid walked in the door. Not that Jim could blame Blair. The kid was sexy, in a tough little farm boy way, overlaid with a veneer of calm. But it was a thin veneer. Jim could see right through it.

"He's attractive as well," the kid admitted, revving Jim's desire to kill him and hide the body up several notches. "You're more so," the kid continued, to Jim's complete shock.

As he was still trying to close his dropped jaw, the kid moved, faster than Jim expected. A solid weight hit him mid-chest and dropped him neatly on his ass on the floor, his lap full of hot, ten-armed, suction-mouthed horny pheromone-streaming farm boy. He was erect, unzipped, palmed and jacked before he knew what hit him.

Obi Wan wasn't quite sure what was happening, but then, that had been the case since the Sith -- or whatever he was -- had appeared and blasted him into another dimension, in the course of stealing his Master. So he followed the tenets of the Jedi, and flowed with the Force.

The Force seemed to be exceptionally affectionate. Sex-starved, one might say.

This man, this Jim, had affected physically him in much the same way Duncan had, and his Master. All were big men, solid, quiet warriors whose true worth shone through the Force. Jim's Force aura was the most intense he'd ever seen, the colors running the gamut of the spectrum, of a depth and clarity unlike anything he'd ever experienced. They were echoed by Blair's, the two appearing symbiotic, and some instinct told him that the two were mated at the soul level. But the symbiosis was incomplete.

It required a catalyst.

Acting on the unremitting urging of the Force, knowing without understanding how that he was the catalyst these two matched souls needed, he translated Force into physical action. Launching himself at the larger man, he brought him down, cushioning their fall with the Force, then tore into him with all the intensity of passion Jim's unique Force signature dictated.

The storm shook them both.

Tendrils of Force wove about them, binding them together in passion and need. Obi Wan took Jim's erection into his hand, palming and pulling it as he rocked his groin into Jim's thighs. After the first few moments of paralysis, Jim responded equally as instinctively, stripping Obi Wan of his robes. Finding himself at the mercy of the Force for the second time that day, Obi Wan gave a mental shrug and lay back, pulling Jim over him.

His leggings were trapped around his ankles, and he solved that problem by arching his back, putting his knees over Jim's shoulders and using the leggings as a brace behind Jim's neck to pull him closer. He reached below himself, drew Jim's hips into alignment, then impaled himself on Jim's erection. Still somewhat stretched from the earlier pounding Duncan had given him, he took Jim's bulk easily. Jim rested his weight on his stiffened arms, slamming his pelvis into Obi Wan's flanks as he thrust. Their eyes locked.

Jim looked like he was in agony, so much pleasure strained his features. Mid-thrust, they both heard a noise from the doorway at the same time. Jim tore his eyes away and looked toward the bedroom. Obi Wan followed his horrified gaze.

Blair stood there, eyes wide, color high, flush staining his cheeks. He didn't look horrified, as Jim did. Quite the opposite. He was looking at Jim as if he'd never seen him before, and was liking the new view.

Obi Wan watched, Jim still frozen in place deep within him, as Blair unbuttoned his jeans. Reached inside. Pushed his boxers to the side, and drew his penis out. Walked the few short feet to stand at Obi Wan's head.

Fed his cock to Jim. Inch at a time.

Jim moaned around the bulk feeding into his throat, a sound echoed by both Blair and Obi Wan. Convulsively, Obi Wan kicked free of his leggings and brought his knees up to his chest, tucking his feet back out of the way along Jim's sides.

For endless seconds they stayed there, Blair's hand on Jim's head, his feet planted to either side of Obi Wan's head. Then Blair's hips began to thrust, and after a few moments, Jim's hips copied the movement. Obi Wan gasped, eyes glued to the sight directly above him, the heavy bulk of Blair's sac swaying against Jim's chin, the muscles of Jim's throat swallowing rhythmically, that rhythm resounding in his own body, jolting him from his ankles to his shoulder blades.

Soon, the rhythm sped up, gaining momentum as they drove into one another. Blair came first, throwing back his head and howling like a wolf at the winter moon. Jim swallowed as quickly as he could, but semen overflowed his greedy mouth, dripping onto Obi Wan's face. He licked at it, the creamy saltiness flavorful on his tongue.

Blair's climax triggered Jim's, who whipped hard into Obi Wan, thrusting so deeply Obi Wan thought he'd never lose the imprint. That final spasm tore his own orgasm from him, and he arched against Jim, who held his hips in a vise grip, all the time licking and nuzzling at Blair's spent genitals.

Blair's knees gave, and Obi Wan had just enough strength left to help Jim's efforts to catch the falling man with a judicious cushioning from the Force. They curled up in a knot on the floor, Jim cradled between him and Blair. Obi Wan had no idea why the Force was leading him this direction, but as he saw the silent communication between the two mated souls and watched their Force signatures meld into a single blazing spectrum of colors, he knew it had been the right thing to do. These two were joined in the Light, and all was as it should be.

For them, at least.

Had he been a lesser being, Q would have been at his wit's end. Qui Gon didn't whine. Didn't plead. Didn't do anything but sit there, stare at him, and worry about Obi Wan.

It was enough to make even an omnipotent being toss in the towel.

But he wasn't about to quit. Not yet. Q didn't quit, not when there was something he wanted. He cast out a tendril of inquiry, and smiled, rather nastily, to himself.

"Your little loverboy is perfectly fine, and so is your whiny brat of a student," he sniped, patience at an end. Qui Gon looked ridiculously hopeful. Q drew a sphere in the air, and a picture formed.

The interior of the Jedi temple on Coruscant blinked into being. Seated cross-legged, a happy-looking Anakin was playing a logic game with, of all beings, Master Yoda, who appeared to have gotten over any reservations he might have had about training the boy in the first place.

The scene winked out of existence, and a new one emerged. This showed a cavernous, cold room with an oval viewport awash with stars, a sole occupant in a light-eating black robe sitting on a throne under the port. A cadre of masters and knights burst into the room, light overpowering the shadows. They surrounded the lone figure, who threw vivid pulses of lightning at them, but was soon overpowered and killed. The black robe fluttered to the floor, empty, and the darkness dissipated completely.

Q waved a third time, and the picture changed again.

Obi Wan, being penetrated by a large, muscular, naked man who was suckling at a smaller, furrier man. All three were clearly having a wonderful time, a Gordian knot of steaming, sweating, pulsating carnality. Q felt vaguely envious.

If Qui Gon would just cooperate a little, some of that rampant carnality could be happening right there and then.

"As you can plainly see, your pupil, your ex-pupil, and your universe are perfectly safe," Q hissed at Qui Gon, making an admirable if futile attempt to rein in his temper. "NOW will you kiss me?"

Qui Gon smiled at him, finally. "Thank you." Q preened, then deflated as he continued. "May I go home now?"

Perhaps a little brute force wouldn't be amiss, after all.

Blair lay in a heap against Jim's warm bulk, trying to recover his shattered composure after the single most intense orgasm of his young and varied sex life. He didn't know what wild instinct had moved him to join the party, but then he didn't know what wild spark had started it, either. At the moment it didn't seem to matter.

From the far side of Jim's chest, a small voice asked, "Bed?" It wavered.

Sympathy for Obi Wan washed through Blair. From what he'd heard, then what he'd experienced, Blair could well understand Obi Wan being totally wiped. He raised one hand and pointed. "There. Be my guest. Sleep well."

"My thanks," Obi Wan mumbled as he half-staggered, half-crawled around Jim's legs toward Blair's bedroom. Blair heard the creak of springs as Obi Wan collapsed onto the bed and, very shortly thereafter, soft snores rumbling from the room. "My pleasure," he whispered. Jim heard him, as he'd meant him to, of course.

"Was it?" Jim asked softly, staring straight up at the ceiling. Blair wasn't about to let him get away with that crap. Rolling over and on top of him, Blair propped himself up on Jim's chest. Ignoring the wince as his sharp elbows dug into firm pectorals, he shot right back, "Wasn't it?

Jim finally gave in and looked up at him. Hope, a heavy dose of fear, and residual lust all mingled in the crystal eyes. Blair beamed at him.

"I love you, you idiot." Okay, so it wasn't the most romantic declaration he could have made, but this was Jim. He would understand.

The fear disappeared completely, beaten out by the hope and a blossoming joy. "You, too, Chief," he whispered, his hands coming up to cup Blair's skull, fingers twining in his hair. "So shut up and kiss me."

Unable to protest that he hadn't been talking, due to the tongue excavating his tonsils, Blair gave up the fight. Happily. Wound his arms around his Sentinel, and finally, finally came home.

Several centuries worth of kisses later, Jim tore his mouth away to pant, "Bed?"

"God, yes," Blair answered, and they kissed all the way across the loft, up the stairs, and into bed. Blair was quite impressed that they managed to even get to bed without falling and killing themselves. They certainly weren't watching where they were going.

Halfway up the stairs, he paused, holding on to Jim with both hands and nodding his head in the general direction of his room downstairs. "Think we should invite him up?" Jim looked at him like he'd lost his last marble. "I mean, in a way, he brought us together. You know, like this." A glance down at their bodies, plastered against one another and writhing gently, made his meaning clear. "Sort of like Eros."

Jim gave him another speaking look. "Arrows?" he asked, tone making it clear he thought the lack of oxygen had shut Blair's brain down completely, because he was babbling pure nonsense. Used to this reaction, Blair ignored it.

"Eros. Like Cupid, Jim."

Jim started nibbling along the side of his jaw, distracting him. "Can't see him in wings and a loincloth, Chief," he mumbled.

Blair shivered, and picked up the pace with the pelvic action. After a moment of silence, he asked, "Seen Dogma yet, Jim? I can see it."

Jim groaned against his skin, making him shiver. "Rather have you all to myself."

That ended that discussion. Blair took the steps two at a time, dragging a laughing Jim behind him. They hit the bed mid-stride, and by the second bounce of the mattress, the laughter had been replaced by moans, as they figured out whole new ways to define the Sentinel-Guide connection.

Daniel Jackson had spent most of the night flat on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking.

Vortexes.

Passageways in the space/time continuum.

Alternate realities.

The first was a new one on him, the second was too Roddenberry to seriously contemplate, and personal experience had made him leery of the third. The only other explanations he could come up with for his friend Blair's unexpected houseguest were that he was a Gate traveler with a case of amnesia or a reporter looking for a story.

If he was the first, then Stargate Command could try to get him home. If he was the second, Daniel would have to head him off at the pass before anything important ended up plastered across the front page of the National Enquirer.

By the time dawn broke, he'd made up his mind to bring Kenobi as far as Colorado Springs, do his best to ferret the truth out of him, and only bring in the rest of the team if he turned out to be legitimate. Daniel knew, intellectually, that he was an integral part of the Stargate team, but his gut reminded him on a regular basis that he was the duck in a flight full of geese. He still felt too much the outsider to be sanguine about the possibility of accidentally blowing their secret.

Hell, even Teal'c was more naturally an SG member than he was. After all, Teal'c was a soldier, even if he was an alien. Thoughts of Teal'c brought him close to things he didn't want to think about, a complex wash of emotion tied up with the Goa'uld and Sha're and desires for revenge and love he couldn't balance against one another. So he got out of bed, updated his journals until it was a decent hour to make a phone call to the West coast, and determinedly didn't think about all the things he couldn't have. And all the reasons why he shouldn't want them.

By seven, he was happy to escape his thoughts. Dialing through to Cascade, he was relieved when Blair picked up the phone on the first ring. Since he'd been hanging out with the police, Sandburg worked some truly bizarre hours. Not that Daniel was much better.

"H'lo!" He sounded like a frog who'd fallen off the lily pad and inhaled a quart of mud. Blair wasn't much of a morning person. Although if Daniel remembered correctly, the mud might not be far off the mark. Some of those algae shakes Blair had favored for breakfast had smelled alot like a swamp.

"Hi, Blair, it's me. I've been thinking, can you bring Kenobi up here to stay with me? I think I might have a way to get him home." If he's not lying through his teeth about who he is and why he's here.

"That's great, man! I had a feeling you might. Never do to ignore vibes. They're nature's way of pushing people in the right direction."

Daniel grinned into the phone. "You've always had good instincts. And strange friends."

Blair's laugh went on a little longer than Daniel expected, and he chuckled in response to his friend's happiness. "What's going on, Blair? You sound excited. Is Kenobi really that much fun?"

There was a pause, then another gurgle of laughter. "Yeah, in more ways than one. But that's not it." A deep breath echoed over the line. "Just ... really happy this morning, Danny. I'll tell you later, okay? It's still pretty new."

"No problem," Daniel assured him, understanding the concept of necessary secrets even when they were kept from him rather than by him. "When you can, okay? It's just nice to hear you sound so good."

"I'm great, man." Noise drew Blair from the phone for a moment, his cop roommate from the sound of it. Blair answered, and they talked for a short moment. "Damn," Blair returned to the conversation. "Simon just called. Jim has to go in, and he needs me with him. Look, can I put Obi Wan on a plane to you, and have you pick him up on that end? It's not that I don't trust him on his own," that gurgling laugh again, "just he's not really from around here, and I'd hate for him to get lost."

"I can do that." He had two days off anyway. Might as well spend it interrogating the supposed alien. "Call me with the flight number when you drop him off, okay?"

The call ended in a flurry of promises to 'tell him all about it' and details on the delivery of one lost stranger from Cascade International to the Municipal airport there in Colorado Springs. Daniel poured a cup of coffee and settled on the couch, relaxing while he had the chance. He had a feeling it was going to be a busy day.

Three hours later he revised his expectations. His first sight of Obi Wan Kenobi took him aback. He looked like a mid-west farm boy in Chinese peasant homespun. Suspicious turquoise eyes peered around him as if he was behind enemy lines and expecting an attack at any moment, but his facial expression maintained an unnatural calm. It was an unsettling dissonance that wasn't helped by his polite disinclination to respond to any of Daniel's questions with more than monosyllables. Back on the couch, all offers of refreshment graciously declined, Daniel stared in outright frustration at Kenobi, who was currently pacing the length of his living room like a caged tiger.

"I can't help you if you won't talk to me," he finally blurted out. Kenobi paused, gathered himself with a visible effort, and took a deep breath.

"I apologize for my apparent lack of cooperation," he said formally. "I fear I'm distracted by worry for ... another. I appreciate your willingness to help me find my way home."

"Then help me help you!" Daniel exclaimed. Kenobi looked at him, puzzled. Daniel took a deep breath of his own, and tried again.

"Where are you from?"

"Coruscant."

Never heard of it. "What sector of the galaxy is that?" He didn't look like a reporter, more like a gymnast or a kickboxer, but one couldn't be too careful. Especially when one worked on an above top secret government project. Even more especially when there had been leaks in the past.

Kenobi spouted something that sounded like units of measurement, but they were completely foreign to Daniel. He wondered if he was going to have to bring in Sam, at least, to suss the guy out. His own instincts were telling him to trust Kenobi, but Sam was the astrophysicist, and if they talked to one another in mathematics maybe Sam could get some useful information out of him. Before he could mentally admit defeat, Kenobi startled him.

"Can we get out of here? Go somewhere ... outside?" He gestured toward the window. Daniel looked at him, suspicious all over again. "I feel the call of the Living Force, but it's muted by the interference of so many unnatural structures."

Daniel rewound that, translated it based on previous incomprehensible things the man had said, and decided Kenobi wanted to take a walk. "Get some fresh air?" he hazarded a guess.

Kenobi nodded vigorously. "Trees. Grass. Animals."

An hour of pacing just as restlessly through the park down the street from Daniel's apartment convinced him that this wasn't exactly what the agitated man had in mind. Giving in to impulse, he stopped the pacing with a hand to Kenobi's arm.

"C'mon." Wide, miserable eyes looked up at him. Daniel was struck with a protective feeling as he looked down at the smaller man. He had a feeling Kenobi could break him into composite parts without working up a sweat, but there was something so ... homesick about him. Plus, he was, well, cute. Daniel shook off the thought before it could take root. "I know a place, better than this for ... feeling the Force? Lots of trees. Lots of animals. You'll like it."

Kenobi did.

"The Garden of the Gods?" he asked, breathing deeply before hiking off the trail and making a beeline into the trees. Daniel had to work to keep up. "Lives up to the name."

For the first time since Daniel had met him that morning, Kenobi looked at peace. The mask of calm he wore relaxed, and the serenity became real, not deliberate. Daniel smiled at the broad shoulders as Kenobi pushed further back into the shadows of the trees. He found himself relaxing in reaction to Kenobi's calm. Almost as if the guy was radiating peace-waves.

Giving up on his admittedly fumbling attempts to cross-examine the man, Daniel saved his breath for trying to keep pace as Kenobi strode through the windswept red rock formations and reached to brush his fingers against the more unusual plants. Daniel could practically see him drawing strength from the wilderness around them.

They hiked, or rather Kenobi hiked and Daniel scrambled after him, for over an hour before Daniel stopped to breathe and ventured a warning. "It's going to be dark in a couple hours." Kenobi raised a brow at him as if asking why this might be a problem, and Daniel shrugged. "I'm not good in the dark, and you've never been here before. I'd like to get back to the car before we can't find it again."

Kenobi stood perfectly still, staring at him, then smiled, a blazing grin that lit up his entire face and shook Daniel down to the soles of his hiking boots. "I'll take care of you," he said, a surprisingly sultry note in his voice. Daniel found himself unable to tear his eyes away from that radiant face. Kenobi took a step toward him.

Another.

Abruptly, the paralysis broke, as Kenobi's hand reached up to trace along his jaw. "I can't," Daniel whispered shakily.

"What's troubling you?" Kenobi asked. His voice was liquid silver, mesmerizing Daniel, and he answered before he could edit himself.

"There's someone else. A couple someones, actually."

Kenobi's other hand came up, and he was cupping Daniel's face between his palms, staring into his eyes as if he could see clear through to Daniel's soul. "You're unhappy."

"She's gone." A flash of understanding in those clear sharp eyes, and Daniel knew, somehow, that Kenobi knew all about Sha're without Daniel having to explain. "He's ... a friend. Hosting an enemy. I can't hate the enemy he hosts. But I can't balance my desire for him with my loathing for what he carries." He knew that nothing he was saying could possibly make any sense whatsoever to Kenobi, but there was a strange, piercing light in those blue-green eyes, and Daniel had the weirdest feeling that even without knowing why, Kenobi knew precisely what he felt.

That bone-deep understanding was the only reason he could give for opening his mouth when Kenobi reached up, pulled his head down, and kissed him. Nothing else made sense. But for the first time since he'd initially landed at Abydos, Daniel felt completely accepted. Completely understood.

Completely safe.

A dam broke deep inside him, and his arms wrapped around Kenobi with a ferocity of need he didn't even try to contain. Kenobi met the rush, strength to strength. Daniel gave up the control he'd held so tightly for the last four years and let himself be carried away by sensation. Kenobi was more than up to the challenge.

Lips on his, mouth moving over his skin. Hands tangling as buttons were slipped and zips were lowered. Laces caught, then slithered apart, and fabric was tugged away until he found himself naked, lying on the bed made of their clothing, with an equally naked Kenobi straddling his waist.

Those homespun clothes made a great bed.

Strong square hands ghosted over his face, followed by whisper-soft kisses to his temple, his eyelids, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth. His face turned blindly to follow, needing more of the gentle touch, but Kenobi had other things in mind. The busy hands and soft mouth swept down his chest, dawdling at his nipples, then over his ribs and down to his hips.

Heavy thighs sidled down his legs until Kenobi was barely resting on Daniel's ankles, giving him free range over the front of Daniel's body. He took full advantage. Daniel was twisting under the knowing hands, keening softly deep in his throat, needing more of that touch, always a heartbeat away from where he needed it most. When every inch of skin was sensitized and he was certain his brain had boiled away to oblivion, Kenobi finally took pity on Daniel and took his erection into that too-talented mouth.

At that point, any brain cells that hadn't boiled imploded. Daniel thought he might have screamed, but he wasn't hearing very well, so he couldn't be sure. He wasn't seeing anything but lights flashing behind his eyelids. Everything except his cock was offline, and the suction at his groin was the center of the known universe. He felt his orgasm gather from the back of his knees and the base of his spine, felt his fingers and toes tingle, all a background to the impending explosion of his personal universe.

When the sky finally stopped spinning, he realized that the earth was still moving. Daniel gathered the remnants of his mind and forced himself to open his eyes. Several things became apparent at once.

The trees were also moving.

He could see his knees. They were pressed against the hollows of Kenobi's shoulders, and they were moving, too.

His feet were locked behind Kenobi's back.

His hands were gouging up the dirt to either side of him.

Kenobi was balls-deep in him and ... oh, so that's why