dance all night (PG-13)
Disclaimer: George Lucas owns Star Wars. I am not making any profit from this work of fanfiction.
Author's note: he!au outtake!fic for estora , who wanted drinking!Rynobi. I'm not sure if this is what you had in mind, but here it is ... ^_~
Dance All Night
Ryn takes him off the beaten path -- or actually, since this is Coruscant, she takes him out of the skylanes and onto the beaten path, in form of a pedway that slogs its way through grime and death stick dealers and into a decrepit establishment that redefines Obi-Wan’s understanding of dive.
“I’m not sure why we’re here,” he says to her as they elbow their way through the door.
“To get a drink,” Ryn says, as though that should have been obvious.
“Yes, but why here?” he reiterates, weaving his way around a groping Twi’lek who for reasons mysterious to him has opted to wear body paint instead of clothing.
“Because here we are no more strangers than anyone else,” Ryn answers. “And because they make fantastic Tatooine sunrises here.”
A Tatooine sunrise ... “You cannot seriously be suggesting that Anakin took you here.”
“Of course not,” Ryn says. “Anakin took me in the alley out back.”
“Anakin wh --” Obi-Wan breaks off as he gets it. Oh. “That’s ... uh ... that’s really ... when was this?”
“Before we got married,” Ryn says. “We went a little crazy for a while.”
“I don’t ... what?” Obi-Wan says, baffled and betrayed and -- admit it, Kenobi -- a little turned on. “That was completely ... it would have ruined the negotiations if anyone had found out!”
“This would be why we didn’t tell you,” Ryn says, utterly unrepentant.
Obi-Wan watches the Bith swirling her lean body around the dance pole. “Was this your idea, or his?”
“Well ...” Ryn drawls the word out as she squeezes between two pairs of dancers who have suddenly decided to become a foursome. “He came to my room first. But I was the one who suggested the arboretum. And the Temple Archives. And the engine repair shop.”
“Ah ...” Obi-Wan isn’t sure what to say to this, especially as a lot of his concentration is currently at work elsewhere, trying to keep his eyes off another body-painted Twi’lek and Ryn’s ass, simultaneously. There’s just nowhere in this place that’s safe to look. “Do you have a fascination with sex in strange places?”
“No,” Ryn says, commandeering a barstool from a wavery-looking Weequay who takes one look at Ryn’s expression and decides it’s not worth the argument. “I just liked sex with Anakin. A lot.”
The barstool is bolted down, so instead of pulling out for him, she practically shoves him onto it and hops up at his elbow to lean over the counter and flash a hint of cleavage at the bartender, who suddenly develops a work ethic and heads their way. Ryn orders up two Tatooine sunrises and settles down, apparently content with the good work she’s done in acquiring service in this joint.
Obi-Wan can’t decide whether to watch the bartender, to make sure he’s not poisoning them, or Ryn, to try and figure out what the hell is going on with her mood tonight. In the end he watches the bartender and talks to his companion. “What happened?”
Ryn shrugs; he catches the motion out of the corner of his eye. “The contract.”
Oh. The Contract. If only he’d fought a little harder, argued a little more persuasively, none of them might be in this mess now.
He offers a wholly inadequate defense: “I really thought you and Anakin would find a way around that.”
Ryn looks away. “We might have, if speaking of it had not been forbidden. If I had not been too proud to go break my oath. If Anakin had had the sense to ask what was wrong, instead of following me around the house like a lost puppy.”
Obi-Wan cringes at the image her words conjure. “He was very unhappy?”
“He was very confused,” Ryn says slowly. “And I think he was hurt, at first, that I didn’t express desire any more. But I kept my word, and he ... I don’t think he ever really figured it out.”
The enormity of a single mistake is staggering. Obi-Wan has to say it: “I’m sorry, Ryn.”
Ryn shrugs. “At least he’s found someone to love.” She swallows hard. “I’m trying to be happy for him. It might take some time.”
“I don’t think you’re obligated to be happy for your husband when he starts sleeping with another woman,” Obi-Wan says.
Ryn gives him a rueful grin that shoots straight past his defenses and blooms in his heart. “He’s my best friend, Obi-Wan.”
Not for the first time, it strikes Obi-Wan that the great tragedy of his life is that he has to sit on the sidelines and watch a once-in-a-thousand years love story play out in front of his face and be powerless to help the two people he cares for most in the galaxy. Ryn’s love for Anakin is the kind of thing fairy tales are made of: desperate, transcendent, heartbreaking. And Anakin, for all his faults, does truly love Ryn. Not even Padmé can change that. And yet as far as he can tell, they are never going to be happy together, and at least a part of it is his fault. If he hadn’t let Mace and Ki-Adi-Mundi have their way about that damn contract ...
“Hey,” Ryn says, breaking into his dismal reverie. “I know what you’re thinking, Obi-Wan. Stop it. This is not your fault, okay? It’s not anybody’s fault. It just happened this way.” She downs the rest of her drink and waves the bartender over for more. “Some things you just can’t change.”
Obi-Wan looks at her. “I remember a time when you wouldn’t have said that.”
“I was young,” Ryn says cheekily, because of course she still is: painfully young, even if her eyes are too tired for that smooth face.
Obi-Wan glances up, baffled, when the bartender gives him another drink -- has he really finished his first already?
No, he’s finished his first and second.
Ryn lifts an eyebrow. “Easy on the drink, Master Kenobi,” she warns him. “I don’t want to carry you back to the Temple in an unbecoming state.”
He smiles affectionately. “But you would if you had to.”
“I’d do a lot of things if I had to,” Ryn says. “Try not to make me.”
Obi-Wan puts away the rest of that one too and stands up, not quite steadily. “Dance with me.”
Ryn belts out a startled laugh. “Dance?” she says. “Here?”
“There’s a dance floor, isn’t there?” Obi-Wan says. “Come on.” He grabs her graceful, calloused hand and tugs her to her feet. “Work off some tension.”
“What tension?” Ryn says, but she follows him onto the floor anyway. And she doesn’t say anything snarky about his moves.
He remembers that dance for years.
Author's note: he!au outtake!fic for estora , who wanted drinking!Rynobi. I'm not sure if this is what you had in mind, but here it is ... ^_~
Dance All Night
Ryn takes him off the beaten path -- or actually, since this is Coruscant, she takes him out of the skylanes and onto the beaten path, in form of a pedway that slogs its way through grime and death stick dealers and into a decrepit establishment that redefines Obi-Wan’s understanding of dive.
“I’m not sure why we’re here,” he says to her as they elbow their way through the door.
“To get a drink,” Ryn says, as though that should have been obvious.
“Yes, but why here?” he reiterates, weaving his way around a groping Twi’lek who for reasons mysterious to him has opted to wear body paint instead of clothing.
“Because here we are no more strangers than anyone else,” Ryn answers. “And because they make fantastic Tatooine sunrises here.”
A Tatooine sunrise ... “You cannot seriously be suggesting that Anakin took you here.”
“Of course not,” Ryn says. “Anakin took me in the alley out back.”
“Anakin wh --” Obi-Wan breaks off as he gets it. Oh. “That’s ... uh ... that’s really ... when was this?”
“Before we got married,” Ryn says. “We went a little crazy for a while.”
“I don’t ... what?” Obi-Wan says, baffled and betrayed and -- admit it, Kenobi -- a little turned on. “That was completely ... it would have ruined the negotiations if anyone had found out!”
“This would be why we didn’t tell you,” Ryn says, utterly unrepentant.
Obi-Wan watches the Bith swirling her lean body around the dance pole. “Was this your idea, or his?”
“Well ...” Ryn drawls the word out as she squeezes between two pairs of dancers who have suddenly decided to become a foursome. “He came to my room first. But I was the one who suggested the arboretum. And the Temple Archives. And the engine repair shop.”
“Ah ...” Obi-Wan isn’t sure what to say to this, especially as a lot of his concentration is currently at work elsewhere, trying to keep his eyes off another body-painted Twi’lek and Ryn’s ass, simultaneously. There’s just nowhere in this place that’s safe to look. “Do you have a fascination with sex in strange places?”
“No,” Ryn says, commandeering a barstool from a wavery-looking Weequay who takes one look at Ryn’s expression and decides it’s not worth the argument. “I just liked sex with Anakin. A lot.”
The barstool is bolted down, so instead of pulling out for him, she practically shoves him onto it and hops up at his elbow to lean over the counter and flash a hint of cleavage at the bartender, who suddenly develops a work ethic and heads their way. Ryn orders up two Tatooine sunrises and settles down, apparently content with the good work she’s done in acquiring service in this joint.
Obi-Wan can’t decide whether to watch the bartender, to make sure he’s not poisoning them, or Ryn, to try and figure out what the hell is going on with her mood tonight. In the end he watches the bartender and talks to his companion. “What happened?”
Ryn shrugs; he catches the motion out of the corner of his eye. “The contract.”
Oh. The Contract. If only he’d fought a little harder, argued a little more persuasively, none of them might be in this mess now.
He offers a wholly inadequate defense: “I really thought you and Anakin would find a way around that.”
Ryn looks away. “We might have, if speaking of it had not been forbidden. If I had not been too proud to go break my oath. If Anakin had had the sense to ask what was wrong, instead of following me around the house like a lost puppy.”
Obi-Wan cringes at the image her words conjure. “He was very unhappy?”
“He was very confused,” Ryn says slowly. “And I think he was hurt, at first, that I didn’t express desire any more. But I kept my word, and he ... I don’t think he ever really figured it out.”
The enormity of a single mistake is staggering. Obi-Wan has to say it: “I’m sorry, Ryn.”
Ryn shrugs. “At least he’s found someone to love.” She swallows hard. “I’m trying to be happy for him. It might take some time.”
“I don’t think you’re obligated to be happy for your husband when he starts sleeping with another woman,” Obi-Wan says.
Ryn gives him a rueful grin that shoots straight past his defenses and blooms in his heart. “He’s my best friend, Obi-Wan.”
Not for the first time, it strikes Obi-Wan that the great tragedy of his life is that he has to sit on the sidelines and watch a once-in-a-thousand years love story play out in front of his face and be powerless to help the two people he cares for most in the galaxy. Ryn’s love for Anakin is the kind of thing fairy tales are made of: desperate, transcendent, heartbreaking. And Anakin, for all his faults, does truly love Ryn. Not even Padmé can change that. And yet as far as he can tell, they are never going to be happy together, and at least a part of it is his fault. If he hadn’t let Mace and Ki-Adi-Mundi have their way about that damn contract ...
“Hey,” Ryn says, breaking into his dismal reverie. “I know what you’re thinking, Obi-Wan. Stop it. This is not your fault, okay? It’s not anybody’s fault. It just happened this way.” She downs the rest of her drink and waves the bartender over for more. “Some things you just can’t change.”
Obi-Wan looks at her. “I remember a time when you wouldn’t have said that.”
“I was young,” Ryn says cheekily, because of course she still is: painfully young, even if her eyes are too tired for that smooth face.
Obi-Wan glances up, baffled, when the bartender gives him another drink -- has he really finished his first already?
No, he’s finished his first and second.
Ryn lifts an eyebrow. “Easy on the drink, Master Kenobi,” she warns him. “I don’t want to carry you back to the Temple in an unbecoming state.”
He smiles affectionately. “But you would if you had to.”
“I’d do a lot of things if I had to,” Ryn says. “Try not to make me.”
Obi-Wan puts away the rest of that one too and stands up, not quite steadily. “Dance with me.”
Ryn belts out a startled laugh. “Dance?” she says. “Here?”
“There’s a dance floor, isn’t there?” Obi-Wan says. “Come on.” He grabs her graceful, calloused hand and tugs her to her feet. “Work off some tension.”
“What tension?” Ryn says, but she follows him onto the floor anyway. And she doesn’t say anything snarky about his moves.
He remembers that dance for years.