WHO: Miles Edgeworth, Obi-Wan Kenobi.
WHERE: Hell if they know anymore.
WHEN: Wednesday night.
WARNINGS: Booze, pain, bad decisions, guilt, and Desire getting its little hand in things.
SUMMARY: Actually, the warnings work quite well as the summary, too. XD
FORMAT: ...Why is this ever even a question, still?
(
Measure time by throbs of pain and the record of bitter moments. )
Long years of discipline had taught him to yield his emotions to the Force and let it leave him empty and clean, but once the undead police had been taken care of, there seemed to be no relief at all. Telling Luke the truth about how much he'd wanted to be a real father to him had helped somewhat, but the moment he'd found himself wondering if Sarah could reshape her face and body into one he hadn't seen in years...
Even thinking about asking her made something inside him recoil in shame.
Most of the time he was not a lonely man by any stretch of the imagination, but lately that dark corner of his heart that missed and loved and craved like any other man had been stirring and stretching. Meditation was no comfort, and he knew he shouldn't be around his shapeshifter friends, no matter how dear.
So he wandered until he found himself in an unfamiliar part of town, and sought out a place where the alcohol was likely to be strong enough to burn the edges off of his emotions.
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No, he took to things like gin and vodka and wine. It didn't really matter which he had in front of him at the moment; it all served the same purpose in the end. He rarely--if ever--allowed himself to get to the point of drunkenness, valuing his self-control above nearly everything else... but he could go through a good deal of drink before getting to that point, and was nowhere near that limit just yet.
The grey-haired man stared blankly at the door to the small bar, watching patrons come in and generally not go out again. The only people who did leave together were, to his eyes, obviously intent on one course of events--especially since most of them did not happen to arrive together.
Somehow, that only made his mood even worse.
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There is no passion, he reminded himself halfheartedly, turning his attention to the bartender.
"Guinness, please."
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The odds of such things happening were, as far as he could figure, slim to none. Just as being injured had been, and just as the zombies were.
He was, truth be told, particularly sick and tired of having impossible situations abruptly become possible.
Edgeworth took another sip of his own drink and continued to watch Kenobi, curious as to the Jedi's purpose in having come there at all. From what he could gather, this sort of thing was against their rules--no fraternizing of that nature, at the very least; he guessed that intoxicants were likely also off the list of acceptable things, if their order was anything like most others.
Impossible though it may have been, it was certainly intriguing. He decided to watch Kenobi, wondering if this 'Force' thing of his was as much of a cover sham as Edgeworth had found many other religious things to be. A small smirk crept into his expression, and he finished the rest of his glass.
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Someone watching.
The Force whispered it to him several heartbeats before he reacted, the hair on the back of his neck prickling under the high collar of his shirt. Slowly, as casually as he could manage, he turned around to scan the room.
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Perhaps he would even get decent company out of this, if he were noticed. It would be a hell of a lot more welcome than the rest, and might keep others from approaching.
Besides... he rarely got to speak to anyone his own age outside of the workplace. This could prove interesting.
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Well. At least it wasn't anyone remotely like a Sith Lord, this time.
Glass in hand, he made his way over to Edgeworth's table, one eyebrow raised in something like dry good humor.
"This is an interesting coincidence."
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He continued to observe Kenobi as he walked over, looking him over. How was it that he continued to attract friends who had bizarre styles of dress? Still. It could have been worse: he could have been the acquaintance of a habitual nudist.
Thankfully, he had yet to meet a metahuman in person that had fit that particular bill.
"There are no such things as coincidences," Edgeworth replied, calmly. "You are here because you specifically chose this place, as did I; therefore, we are currently here together."
It was with an almost lazy hand gesture that he motioned to the seat on the other side.
"Do sit down."
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"Thank you. I do apologize if I interrupted a moment of personal meditation."
A soft ripple through the Force in the bartender's general direction made the man suddenly feel that it was a very good idea to get them both another round of what they'd been drinking.
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Perhaps he could find a way to get the man to dispense with such idle remnants of social diplomacy. It bore thinking about, in any case.
"No; I would prefer not to 'meditate', as it were. I have done rather enough brooding for the moment."
The unexpected appearance of another drink gave him pause; he glanced suspiciously at the bartender, wondering what the man in the apron was playing at. He had no intention of paying for--or drinking--something he had not explicitly ordered.
Taking the glass, he set it down on the table and slid it to one side, keeping a wary eye on it.
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"Old Jedi mind trick," he managed, once he found the composure to swallow. "To cut corners. Don't worry, he'll remember to bring me the bill."
He paused for a moment, studying his companion a little more contemplatively. The man had such broad shoulders--how had he failed to notice before?
"I owe you a word of thanks for the book recommendations," he went on, trying to force his mind off of that particular path.
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