Summary: A midnight rendezvous of a different sort.
Comments: g Just for fun. Do review—I'll be your best friend. : )
It was almost time.
The long, teenaged body in the bed tensed in wait, while yellow Coruscant midnight flashed at the crack of the window-blinds. His Master, Thame Cerulian, had always been terribly predictable, and the secret excursion was timed with all the inane, complex precision of an addict. Soft boots down the hall, the whisper of a door closing, five minutes of waiting, and hoping, desperately hoping, and then it was go—
Out of the room, out of the quarters, and into the empty hallways he snuck, utterly soundless in step.
Dooku knew he was the best ghost in the whole Temple, even if by the time he neared the training room, he couldn't help but run; the book clutched tightly against his chest.
She was always waiting there, exactly as he had left her. And she was perfect.
It was as if she had been made just for him; the way she stretched out his long limbs, and turned his awkwardly tall form into such a graceful, intensely elegant thing. He loved her curves and spins, her intricacies, her mystery. Very often, in the middle of it, he would have to drop to his knees over the book and desperately read for clues to the next plot of the form. Panting, he would sketch the possible movements described in the text, until finally he discovered which one worked in practicality.
Then their passion would fill the room like a lightstorm, until everything was humming, rushing and entirely scalding. It together frightened and exhilarated him, the way the Force took his body, the way every cell seemed to be singing a song he'd never learned, but knew.
It always startled him to find that the night had run out. He barely had time to dash through a shower and fly back to his quarters before Thame got up for another sleepy day of teaching him history, politics and starmaps.
Because his Master never appreciated the Makashi lightsaber form like he did.