For all the sickies out there: Brynne, CS, TM, Vee, and everybody else who doesn't complain like we do. A little Sick!Obi fic from a Sick!Xtiney for your perusal and pleasure, with heaps of e-chicken soup for your recovery!

Xtine

February 9, 2006

Anakin knew something was wrong the moment he woke up. The apartments he shared with Obi-Wan were completely silent. There was no smell of breakfast wafting tantalizingly under Anakin's bedroom door; no sound of the fresher running or Obi-Wan's tuneless humming. Nothing but silence.

Quickly rolling out of bed, pausing only to tug a loose pair of black sleep pants over his hips, Anakin rushed out the door and into the hallway. All the lights in the small complex were off, the rooms unnaturally gloomy in the sullen silvery light of a Coruscanti dawn.

Where in the Sith was Obi-Wan?

Much to Anakin's chagrin, his Master was every inch a morning person. Obi-Wan could get up easily before the break of dawn, cook breakfast – a meal that would not exist, at a time of day that would be made illegal if Anakin were in control of the universe – and have the audacity to sing while doing so. Anakin, on the other hand, would gladly stay buried under his blankets until dinner. It was a severe conflict of interests that frequently lead to arguments when team Kenobi-Skywalker had down time in the Temple.

Today was a day off, which meant that on an ordinary day, Anakin would still be blissfully and comfortably ensconced in his small bed, and Obi-Wan would be bustling around the kitchen. Something was definitely wrong.

Biting at the inside of his lip in anxiety, Anakin palmed the opening mechanism on Obi-Wan's door and peered into the room. It was completely black, the tinting on the windows fully activated. Anakin made an idle gesture in their direction, reducing the light-filter to normal levels. Watery yellow light instantly flooded the room, followed immediately by a faint groaning whimper.

Anakin turned to the bed, seeing his Master – or rather a lump of blankets topped by a tuft of mussed auburn hair – curl up tightly, drawing the blankets up higher. The action precipitated a small shower of balled tissues tumbling to the floor.

"Master…?" Anakin said softly, gingerly picking his way across the minefield of used tissues to the bed, gently placing one hand on Obi-Wan's blanketed shoulder. At least Anakin thought it was his shoulder – completely enshrouded by blankets as the older Jedi was, it was nearly impossible to tell.

"Nnnghhh..." was the mumbled reply.

"Master. Obi-Wan. It's already 0500," Anakin continued, giving his Master a slight shake.

The blanket was pulled down sharply, revealing Obi-Wan's wide blue eyes above a brilliantly red nose. "0500? Fucking Sith! I have to make breakfast, I –" he was cut off by a sudden fit of coughing that shook his frame violently.

Concerned, Anakin brushed his hand over Obi-Wan's forehead, pushing back sweat-dampened strands of hair. Instantly, Anakin snatched his hand back, shocked by the heat radiating from Obi-Wan's skin. He was burning up.

Anakin felt his heart begin to speed up with the onset of panic. What should he do? Obi-Wan would be furious if Anakin called Master Luminara to aid him with anything less than life-threatening injury, but Anakin wasn't sure what to do to take care of a sick Jedi. He couldn't remember a day when Obi-Wan had ever been ill before, as though it was a luxury that he wouldn't permit himself to indulge in. Being sick was something that happened to other people, not the superhuman Negotiator.

Obi-Wan's aversion to being coddled wasn't going to help Anakin much either.

Still muttering curses between fits of coughing, Obi-Wan shoved his mountain of blankets aside to sit up. And instantly swayed backwards, moaning softly. Anakin caught the Jedi Knight instinctively, steadying Obi-Wan and rubbing his back through the sweat-soaked sleep shirt that he wore.

"…nakin…"

"Hmm?" Anakin replied absently, running his hand up higher to toy with the fine hairs at the nape of Obi-Wan's neck.

Feebly, Obi-Wan tried to push Anakin away. "I… I have to get up, I have… I have a Council meeting to go to… I… I can't be late… my stupid alarm didn't go off and I didn't wake up and…" Obi-Wan trailed off, sniffling loudly and blindly reaching out for the box of tissues. Anakin force-called it to his hand, passing it over to his Master.

"You're not going anywhere. This is supposed to be our day off, remember? The Council can go fuck itself."

"Unh…language, Padawan…. And a little cold is… is not an excuse to skip a Council meeting. Master Qui-Gon would have my head for being so…so weak…."

"Master Qui-Gon would have your head for not taking care of yourself," Anakin replied firmly, mind running furiously though all the times that he had been ill as a child. What had his mom done to make him feel better? She had made him stay in bed, certainly… and… and Anakin had a vague memory of being rubbed off with a blanket and put into new pyjamas…and what else…? Soup?

Anakin groaned. That would mean venturing into Obi-Wan's sacred territory: the kitchen. That was almost as bad as ordering chicken soup from the commissary and outing the fact that Obi-Wan was sick.

But first things first. "Come on…" he murmured to the limp Jedi lying dozily in his arms, gently tugging at the hem of Obi-Wan's sleep shirt, pulling the garment up over his Master's head. Released from the support of Anakin's arms, Obi-Wan flopped back bonelessly onto the mattress, closing his eyes tightly and turning over onto his side.

Pushing the heap of blankets aside, Anakin hooked his fingers in the waistband of Obi-Wan's pants, feeling himself flush brilliant red. Sith, what was he embarrassed about? He and Obi-Wan had been partners for years now, on a variety of campaigns and missions; this certainly wouldn't be the first time they'd seen each other naked. So why was he blushing like a green Padawan now? Stars' end, his Master was sick and helpless; Anakin was hardly going to take advantage of him in this state.

He could catch whatever Obi-Wan had if he did.

Unfortunately, Obi-Wan chose that moment to return to lucidity. "Haja, Anakin, I'm… I'm not an invalid…." Once again, he struggled to sit up, but groaned faintly and fell back.

"I know that Master…" Anakin murmured, swiftly tugging the pants down over his Master's hips and working the legs over Obi-Wan's feet. "But you're also not well." Wrinkling his nose slightly, Anakin tossed the discarded sleep-clothes towards the hamper, and pulled the blankets back over his Master's naked form.

"I'm sorry, Anakin…." Obi-Wan muttered, eyes looking impossibly blue against his pale face.

"Shh… just sleep now. I'll make you some soup, Master." Anakin assured him, running his fingers lightly though Obi-Wan's hair.

Obi-Wan's eyes opened wider, and gripped Anakin's arm with painful tightness. Apparently being sick didn't completely deaden his Jedi reflexes, Anakin noted caustically. "You… you're going to cook, Anakin? In my kitchen?"

Anakin fought down the urge to roll his eyes at Obi-Wan's desperate tone. "Yes Master. I promise I'll be careful –"

"But you… you'll break the good dishes… or… or you'll leave the elements lit and scorch the counter, or you'll boil the soup over…." Obi-Wan continued, getting more and more irate, trying to push himself up on his elbows.

Anakin quickly hit him with a sleep-compulsion. The man was obviously delirious; after all, Anakin had only burned down the kitchen once.

All the same…Anakin knew that Obi-Wan would never desecrate his kitchen with something so base and vulgar as instant soup, preferring to make it from scratch. And having Obi-Wan recover only to go into cardiac arrest at the state of his precious kitchen would defeat the entire purpose….

Sighing, Anakin called the comm into his hand and pressed the quick-dial.

"Hello, Dex? Yeah, this is Anakin. Listen… do you have any chicken-noodle soup?"

End.

Reviews are like chicken noodle soup, chocolate, and Dayquil to Xtine. Please review and let her feel better!