DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the sole property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
You have just returned from seeing Episode I -- again! Your best friend asked you why, why, why you're obsessed with this movie. You tried to explain, but you just couldn't. You know it isn't a Major Work of Art; you know it isn't an Important Film. You either get it, or you don't. Such is life.
Your mind is still on the movie, as a matter of fact, when you get home. You still can't believe the Master is dead. You decide you'll log on to your e-mail, and start yet another round of CoD discussion. When you unlock the door, it opens very slowly, as if the rug has bunched up. You push a little harder, it finishes opening, and you dismiss the question from your mind.
You kick off your shoes, dump your coat and purse on the couch, click on the light, and go into the kitchen for a pop. You pause there, and decide maybe you'll just wind down for the entire night. A nice, hot shower, and maybe tea, instead of soda [although the caffeine count's about the same], and a bit of online goofing-off. Yeah, that'll work.
As you shower, you think of the various things you would have changed in the movie. The Duel of the Fates is the most major, of course, but you wouldn't have objected to seeing a little more of Jinn-sama....
Climbing out of the shower, you dry yourself, then pull on your battered old flannel robe. 'A little more time spent on the master/padawan relationship would have rocked,' you think as you walk back into your bedroom, rubbing your hair dry with the towel. You stop in mid-step, mid-thought, and, in fact, mid-breath, as you come face-to-face with Qui-Gon Jinn.
He stands there, in the middle of your bedroom, perfectly poised. Your first thought is that someone's playing an extremely elaborate joke. Your second thought is that you're going to find that someone, and gently reprimand them, possibly utilising a baseball bat. Your third thought is that, for a cardboard cut-out, he's awfully three-dimensional.
"I apologise for disturbing you," he says, hands folded into the sleeves of his robes, "but there is... was... a disturbance in the Force. Can you tell me, please, where this place is?"
And, as you face this man-- this symbol of calm, this emblem of self-control, this model of courtesy-- the only thing you can think of is the "Neeson's Lightsaber" thread. You have the sudden, horrifying urge to laugh hysterically.
Somehow, you choke it back, and say, "Uh."
He waits.
You shut your eyes, take a deep breath, and begin again. "A long way from home, sir," you manage. "Would you care for tea?"
He bows, slightly. "Yes, please."
You are sitting in your living room, trying very, very hard not to stare. Qui-Gon Jinn is sitting on your couch. He is drinking tea from one of your mugs-- which looks absurdly small in his well-shaped, capable-looking hands. He is...
...he is looking at the Episode 1 poster on your wall. He is looking at the Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan action figures on the shelf. He is looking at you with one eyebrow very, very slightly raised in enquiry.
You're incredibly relieved that you haven't got around to displaying your 12" Qui-Gon doll. The "lightsaber" thread flashes through your brain, and you choke on your own tea. You really, really hope that Jedi mind stuff doesn't extend to actually reading minds.
"It's a series of movies," you say, finally, apologetically. "I guess our realities overlap... a little of your world leaked over here."
"A... movie?"
"Entertainment-- moving pictures," you reply, awkwardly.
He nods, and stands to examine the poster. "Excellent likenesses," he remarks, brushing the images of Obi-Wan and Anakin with the tip of one finger. "This one, too," he adds, frowning.
You realise he's talking about Darth Maul, and your eyes widen in sudden dismay. He must sense something; he turns to look at you.
"You're distressed," he says, moving to kneel beside you. One warm hand rests lightly on the arm of your chair. "Do you know him? Have you seen him?"
"Well, no-- not really-- I mean, the guy who plays him-- Darth Maul isn't real here, sir. He's just an actor."
"Of course," Qui-Gon nods. "That doesn't explain why you're so upset. If it's any comfort," he adds, casually, "in *my* world, he's dead."
Your jaw drops. "But you're not!"
He blinks. "Not so far as I'm aware," he says, with a faint smile.
"I mean, in the movie... you die. He kills you," you explain.
"And that upset you? You don't even know me." He is clearly confused. His quiet, blue eyes watch you intently.
You start to explain. "Well, it's because-- you were so-- the character you, not you, of course-- you were doing what was right, fighting the dark side, even though you were in danger. And all through the movie, you took care of everyone-- Obi-Wan, and Anakin, and the Queen, and everyone... and then..." You pause for a sip of tea; your eyes are beginning to tear up a little bit. "It just wasn't fair, is all," you conclude, a little lamely, avoiding looking at him.
"Life isn't fair," he points out, with gentle humour. He rests his hand on your arm, fingers just under the sleeve of your robe. "But thank you, nonetheless."
"What for?"
"Caring," he replies, simply. "When things go badly, it's often because nobody cared at all. Even if what you care about isn't real... at least you care for something."
". . . . " Your brain has shut down for the present. He is very close to you, kneeling at your feet, and gazing into your eyes with tender sincerity, and it's wreaking havoc on your nervous system. "We have to figure out a way to get you home," you say, a little weakly.
He nods, and stands, returning to the couch. Your pulse returns to normal. "Actually," he says, casually, lifting his mug again, "all we have to do is wait. I suspect that the phenomenon which brought me here, will take me home again."
"You know that through the Force?" you ask, eyes wide.
His lips curve again in that slight smile. "Very clever."
"So, uh... what do you want to do in the meantime? Did you need to rest? Or, uh..." You suddenly think of about three things you'd like to do, and make a mental note to track down and kill all the regular posters on Jedihunks.
He doesn't seem to have noticed your agitation. He has moved to the window, and is peering out through your blinds. "Actually, I should like to see a little of this world," he says.
"Lemme get dressed," you say, and run back to the bedroom.
It's a little more involved than that, of course. You can't just let him wander out into the street dressed as he is.
"Why not?" he asks, when you tell him this.
You point to the movie poster, and he nods in understanding.
You hand him a baseball cap, and a pair of old sunglasses. "Try this."
A little dubiously, he puts them on. The effect is very Unabomber.
"Maybe not," you decide.
"Is it a popular movie?" he asks.
"Yes, very."
"Is it not possible that people will think I'm very fond of it, and dressing in a costume from it?"
You consider this. He's right, of course. Most people will figure he's some kind of nutcase fan. However, the effect on people who have seen the movie-- especially any femmefen... well.
He is looking at you, with an expression of disbelief. "There are women who...?" he lets the sentence fade out, and you redden. Apparently you weren't protecting your thoughts as well as you'd hoped.
You nod. "...who think you're a hottie."
He struggles for a moment with the term, but apparently works out what it means. Then, he chuckles, slightly. "Vanity is not becoming to a Jedi... but I admit, it's flattering to an old man to hear."
You grin, relieved that he isn't offended-- and even more relieved that he hasn't asked you about what you might think.
"You're not old... but you are right. Let's go," you say, scooping up your purse and keys, and opening the door. He follows you out into the twentieth century.