Author: Aelan Greenleaf
Summary: Obi-Wan Kenobi wants sin. She can help. (Post-ROTS; possible AU for his exile on Tatooine)
Disclaimer: One line belongs to Aldous Huxley, the rest belongs to George Lucas.
Dim lights penetrated the smoky haze that was customary in establishments of the same nature. Small tables occupied by both borderline and full criminals were scattered along the outer edge of the bar, while most others stood and minded their own business. Several brave, possibly foolish, Twi'lek women danced near an outdated holo-music player, their twin tentacles swinging gracefully behind their artfully coloured backs.
Cerulean eyes half-watched them, vision entranced by the soothing motion of the swaying appendages. He remembered, with a half-smile, how years ago, he and Anakin had...
The smile retreated, and despondency crept back onto his handsome features. Not drunk enough yet, he remarked, before downing another glass of a murky violet beverage. Cringing only slightly from the sting of the alcohol, he rubbed his clean-shaven chin absently. No beard to ponder upon, no symbol of the life he had left behind. His eyes burned slightly; whether from the numerous drinks he had consumed or the acrid smoke hanging in the air, he didn't know. All he knew was that this was his night to forget.
Out of the corner of his expertly trained eye, he saw without seeing the shapely form of a human female start to make her way over to him. As she approached, he could see her mid-length blonde hair, her delicate stature, her azure eyes...
Siri! his mind screamed to him. But even mostly drunk as he was, he remembered that Siri was long dead, a forgotten casualty of a pointless war. Ivory skin made red with blood, he saw her in his mind, dying from a blaster wound in his arms.
A sudden pressure on his lap woke him from his nightmarish reverie. Looking up, he met the seducing gaze of a beautiful woman. Gently stroking his jaw line with one hand, she ran the other one through his thick auburn hair, that was now lined with traces of silver.
"Having fun?" she whispered, warm air tickling his outer ear. An involuntary shiver trickled down his spine as he closed his eyes. Shaking his head slowly, he opened them to see her smiling down to him, her hands trailing down from his face, across his back and to the apex of his spine. "Do you want to get out of here?"
Logic and discipline and the Code and rules and honour and vows ran through his mind in the split second that followed her suggestion, and time seemed to slow for him. The part of him that was still in the past, that was the Master and the General and the Knight, screamed at him to say no, to walk away, to not to disobey the Code. But in that moment, in that place on that night, where depression and desperation had led him to the lowest of lows, Obi-Wan Kenobi simply didn't care anymore. When all was said and done, he was no hero, no brave soldier doing his duty for the greater good. He was still a man, human, though there was a time when doing one's duty was the sole force that drove him. That Obi-Wan Kenobi, that part of him, had died on Mustafar, on Coruscant, when the Republic fell. This Obi-Wan Kenobi, the one that sat being caressed by a skimpily dressed prostitute, wanted more than just the platonic beliefs of a dead Order. On this night, he wanted possession, attachment, passion. He wanted sin.
Time resumed its course, and the woman's hands slowly crawled down his back, trailing down his spinal cord. The touch, though nothing extraordinary, seemed electric to him. He answered her question by kissing her strongly, wrapping his hands around her back. A moment later, they stood, his arm draped around her waist, and headed for the exit of the bar, finally leaving the stagnant atmosphere of the seedy establishment behind.
A clear cool night met him as he stepped outside. Stars gleamed in the blackness above him, as he gazed up into the heavens above. They kept moving as he looked skyward, as she directed him towards a small, decrepit building in the scums of Mos Eisley. A voice came to him over the wind (or from his mind?), still screaming and raw as the moment he had heard it:
I hate you!
She unlocked the door that they had reached, and gently pulled him inside. A filthy, grimy apartment spanned before him, barely bigger than the hovel that he lived in. But it served its purpose, he remarked wryly, as he removed his boots and sat upon the bed. She left, for a moment, him barely noticing as he remembered his quiet responded to his Padawan a lifetime ago.
I loved you.
Once, he had loved Anakin. His friend, his apprentice, his son, his brother. His other half. Skywalker and Kenobi. Kenobi and Skywalker. But power and lust and sin had wormed its way between them, and now they were no more. Apart, incomplete, he was just Kenobi. An exiled relic from a dead time.
His heart ached with an incurable pain.
She re-entered the room, and moments later, Obi-Wan Kenobi realized sin.