Better Days
by ardavenport
"We haven't found him yet, Sir. We've locked down the place. He shouldn't get away." The stormtrooper corporal reported to an impatient male Imperial officer, who nodded, sending the trooper off to his next task.
"Blast it. Every time some drunk high roller loses his shirt these days, he starts accusing the winner of being a Jedi. And we get stuck investigating it," he complained to his young aide. The junior officer grumbled sympathetically.
Obi-Wan stayed in the shadows in an alcove of the gambling hall, hiding literally right next to where the officer was directing the raid.
How ironic. It seemed that his fellow player had only been angry at losing, not knowing that he really had lost the game to a Jedi. At least, he reflected, he had cashed in his markers before the stormtroopers had arrived, and Zeb Arack and his newly freed grandson, sold into slavery by his indebted father, were on their way back to Tatooine by now. Arack had signaled, thanking him, from orbit just before they made the jump to hyperspace.
There were only the two officers and neither they nor the stormtroopers blocking the doors and searching the patrons carried a midichlorine counter. It had been years since the Jedi purge. Had the Imperials really stopped looking?
Obi-Wan had to laugh at himself for feeling disappointed about that. After all, it did make things easier for him. He stepped away from his hiding place and innocently headed for the door. A stormtrooper immediately stopped him. Then the officer came, Lieutenant Needa, demanding his name, where he'd been and what he knew about M'Lot Circo's claim of him being a Jedi. Obi-Wan denied everything, claiming that he'd gone to the fresher and that Circo was a bad player who couldn't win a free meal from his own mother.
Circo came out of the crowd.
"That's him! That's him! Did his mind thing! Jinxed the game in his favor!" Circo pointed a bejeweled finger at him. Needa impatiently called for calm and then a statement from everyone about what had happened. Somewhere in the middle of all the yelling, it came out how much Obi-Wan had won.
"Eight hundred credits? This is all over eight hundred local credits?" Needa demanded angrily. It was enough to get one Jedi hermit back to Tatooine and buy supplies for old Ben Kenobi for two seasons with some left over. But most of the serious players in this gambling hall could lose that on a single game without noticing.
"And my new boy. Where'd you put him you thieving—" Circo took a threatening step forward. At a signal from Needa one of the stormtoopers stepped forward and shot him. Circo had one last moment of shock before he collapsed to the ground, dead. Needa addressed the crowd about the problem of wasting valuable Imperial time with false accusations. Nobody uttered a word as the troopers dragged the body away.
"Bring him," Needa told a trooper, pointing to Obi-Wan.
"Oh, you wouldn't want to take away my next beau, would you?"
A woman had come from behind Obi-Wan, her arms sliding under his robe, around his waist. She jingled with too much jewelry when she moved and her shimmering dress matched her purple hair. She wore quite a lot of floral perfume.
Needa and the troopers paused.
"I had a whole night planned with my little Obi," she said seductively.
"I thought you said your name was Ben?" Needa asked suspiciously.
"Oh, that's not what I call it," the woman said before he could react. Her hand slid down to his crotch and squeezed. To his own surprise, Obi-Wan yelped. Needa leered at the woman.
"I though you liked them younger than that, Foona."
She shrugged, her generous breasts pressed next to him. "I like a little variety, too." She pulled the hood of Obi-Wan's brown robe back, laid her head on its folds and caressed his chest. Her other hand went down below his waist and now fondled his buttocks. He didn't dare move. Needa looked at her with a little sympathy and him with disgust. He turned away and ordered the troopers and his aide out.
"Come on, lover." Her hands still all over him, she dragged him toward a curving staircase.
Obi-Wan didn't try to mask his shocked reaction to her groping; it perfectly covered his real concern.
She knew who he was.
In minutes the Imperials were gone, leaving unhappy gamblers and broken furniture behind. Already up on the walkway overlooking the gambling floor, Obi-Wan looked to either side for an exit. The woman, Foona, leaned over and breathed in his ear.
"You better stay with me for now. Needa or some of his friends might come back for some late night entertainment and they'll wonder where you are."
Obi-Wan thought that this was an excellent reason for leaving immediately, but he realized that he would have to at least make an appearance of going with her. He turned, really looking at her.
She was older, but well maintained, with attractive, painted curling eye lines and purple eyes that matched her hair and dress.
"Foona...?" Obi-Wan finally recognized the name. She grinned back, showing flawless, pale lavender teeth. A gold, gilt door slid aside and she pulled him into a spacious suite. The room had blue and purple velvet curtained walls trimmed with gold, except for the large floor-to-ceiling mirrors. All the furniture along the walls was gilt with blue and purple cushions on the sofas and chairs. A central pillar of blue curtains dominated the suite. It was wide enough for a very comfortable and private area for sleeping, or other activities, for more than one person.
As soon as the door closed behind them she let go of him. Her shoes clicked on the gold-flecked, polished floor.
"You don't have to worry," she said without looking his way. "I wouldn't give a Hutt over to the Imperials."
She took two slender goblets from a sleek gold side table and brought them back. He accepted one, but didn't drink any. She didn't either. She sized him up, clearly displeased with the coarse, long tunic, the worn robe. Obi-Wan could not disagree with her. The paunchy, shabby, aging man he'd become was a far cry from the athletic young Jedi apprentice that she had...made a man out of so long ago.
"I guess we've both seen better days," she said before turning and walking away again.
Obi-Wan strolled after her. They both seemed to have fallen on hard times. This ambitious, vivacious singer had once only thought of her art, her voice with it's magnificent range and clarity and her passion to perform. His Master, Qui-Gon Jinn, had been bored with her antics in front of the crowds and Obi-Wan had dutifully mimicked his Master's disdain. But later, when he'd been caught alone with her, she'd sung for him...
Obi-Wan set his goblet down on another golden side table and noticed the large selection of toys and pleasure implements openly displayed on it.
"Do you still sing?" Obi-Wan asked as he looked over the exotic oils, rollers, handles, ropes, ticklers and long, narrow implements. Her performances had been as much about seducing her audience as they had been about music. Now, only the seduction seemed to be left. This gambling hall had no stage or venue for live performers, at least, not downstairs.
He looked up. She stood rigid, her painted eyes glaring contempt.
"I'm sorry," he apologized, bowing his head. "That was an insensitive thing to ask."
Her anger seemed to lessen, a little, now coupling with sadness. She slowly walked toward him, her shimmering purple dress swirling about her still fit and shapely body.
"Last night, I dreamed of The Yarbo. The nights so warm, we ran so fast..."
Her voice was still clear and beautiful, pitched low, just as it had been years ago, as if the song was only for him to hear. She drew close; her fingers touched his lips. He closed his eyes, trying to restrain where this was leading, but his body had it's own memory. He hadn't had any need to control that particular urge in a very long time...
He opened his eyes and she looked right into his. He felt her warm breath on his beard, then his neck. Her perfume was sweet.
"There's a fresher over there. You can get yourself cleaned up," she said, her voice low. She suddenly pulled back, stepping out of arm's reach.
"There's food on the buffet over there." She waved her hand at the other side of the room, then turned away, going to the curtains in the center of the room. She looked back at him scornfully, half in, half out of them.
"Then I think you can let yourself out."
Obi-Wan stood for a long moment in the opulent room. He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robe and hugged himself, a parody of the stance of a Jedi Knight, but a perfect gesture of an aging hermit.
He glanced at the buffet. Then he walked to the fresher; he circled far away from the central curtains, keeping close to the wall.
The fresher itself was...unique. The floor was mirrored. He bent forward a bit to look down at his lined, aging face between his scuffed boots. A slender, gilt droid with spidery limbs and large expressive eye sensors detached itself from it's wall socket and began a list of extra services that it could provide in a soft, melodic voice. Obi-Wan shut it off before using the facilities. His gold tinged reflection stared back at him from their surfaces.
He took full advantage of everything, even the quick clothes-fresher in the corner, and he cleaned his boots. Years of privation on Tatooine had made him very opportunistic. He knew it made him look pathetic, but he couldn't deny that it was practical. He washed his hair with water, a fabulous luxury on Tatooine, but something taken for granted here. His cool, blue eyes stared back at him from the mirror as he trimmed his ragged beard; the beard was nearly white and his hair looked grayer than he remembered.
Obi-Wan left the fresher, crossing the room to the buffet. He stopped just past the heavy blue curtains in the center of the room. A sense of grief touched him through the Force, and the curtains weren't quite thick enough to completely mask the sound of crying.
He turned and stopped, looked down at the floor, then back up at the curtains. He imagined himself going to the curtains to apologize again, and being cursed, screamed at, possibly attacked. He remembered Foona being quite volatile. He exhaled slowly and moved on to the buffet. He could do nothing for her, for what she was, for what they both were.
Obi-Wan sniffed the various bottles before pouring himself something non-intoxicating. He debated whether he should simply take his meal with him and leave, if he should take extra for later. She certainly wouldn't miss it. He selected small pastries, cheeses, cubed vegetables and fruits, and he spread savory paste onto sliced hard-bread, putting everything on a golden plate. He took his cup and plate to another table by the wall and sat down in the chair next to it. He was tired of being the vagabond. He would eat in a civilized fashion and leave without filling his pockets.
It was all good, flavors and smells he hadn't tasted in a long time. He munched the bread and paste and then followed that with the fruit and vegetables. He stared down at one juicy pink cube before scooping it up. It was muja fruit, fresh; he hadn't tasted one in years. He solemnly ate it.
He looked toward the heavy center curtains in the room. The sorrow and grief had peaked and lessened. He barely heard a few very soft, muffled sounds of movement, but nothing else.
As he finished his meal, Obi-Wan decided that he would at least announce when he was leaving to her. Just sneaking away was simply too pathetic, even for him. The emotions wound up inside him. His intense desire to counteract what he'd already said conflicted with the certainty that any more words would only pour more acid on the wound. He closed his eyes and breathed, letting the pain of uselessness flow out of him. He'd gotten very good at banishing that particular weight, but it always seemed to come back anyway.
The soft sound of fabric on fabric caught his attention. Obi-Wan opened his eyes. Foona emerged from the curtains, slowly walking toward him, her gold and jeweled necklaces and bracelets, the chains that hung about her waist, clinked softly with each step.
"What happened?"
He stared back at her, waiting for her to go on. She reached his table, looking down at him, accusation in her eyes.
"What happened to you...people? You Jedi? You were supposed to defend the galaxy. Save us from people like...that," she said, obviously meaning the Imperials.
"We failed." He looked down at the remains of his meal. A few muja cubes remained, but he was done eating.
"Everything was going so well. Jedi were heroes all over the vids in the Clone Wars. Winning every battle, defending the Republic. Next thing you know, they're enemies of the Empire. Overnight. They're just gone." She put a hand on her hip. "Now you walk in. Looking like...that." She gestured at his worn clothes. Even after cleaning himself up, he still looked like a vagrant.
"I know, I was there. I saw it." He refrained from mentioning the wrecked Temple, the bodies. He pushed his chair away from the table and stood. "And the war was a mistake. A catastrophe. Palpatine was behind everything; it was all done so he could seize power. And destroy us." Obi-Wan straightened.
Foona's eyes narrowed. "You weren't the only ones who were destroyed. I supported the Separatists. It's pretty hard to keep a singing career going in the Core when you were on the wrong side of an Empire that holds a grudge." Obi-Wan seriously doubted that the loss of a singing career could match the wars he had fought or the Jedi purge, or the bitter betrayal of his former student, but he felt sick at even the notion of ranking his own tragedy against another's. He had failed; that was enough.
"It didn't matter what side you were on during the wars. Palpatine was behind both sides."
"Now you tell me," she answered sarcastically. He straightened his robe and nodded to her.
"Thank you for your hospitality. And your timely rescue. I am in your debt." He turned to go.
"Wait."
Obi-Wan turned back to her. She stepped forward, so close that he could see down into her purple-draped cleavage, if he wished. She lifted her manicured hand, her fingers lightly tracing the lines around his eyes. He gazed down at her lavender eyes, the lines around them perfectly drawn, the skin smooth. Her touch was intimate, but he sensed no trace of attraction. She was trying to read him, measure his losses against her own. He remembered that she was very good with sizing up people, but he doubted she could guess the scope of his downfall.
Foona took her hand away, her bracelets jingling. She went to a gilt side table, opened a panel and took something out before returning to him.
She handed him a short, padded tube. It was her favorite shade of purple. Attached to it were black, silken cords with shiny rings attached to the ends and a small battery pack.
Obi-Wan looked down at the pleasure implement with some alarm. This was either Foona's idea of sympathy, or a grave insult. He warily looked up at her.
She smiled enigmatically back at him, her mouth briefly forming a kiss.
Obi-Wan sighed and tucked the tube into the side of his belt, where it would be hidden by his robe. He left her in her lavish suite, the golden door sliding closed behind him.
— END —
(This story was originally posted on tf.n -- 16-Apr-2006)
(The character, Foona, also appears in my story, 'Sing it Again, Obi-Wan'.)
Disclaimer: All characters and situations belong to George and Lucasfilm; I'm just playing in their sandbox.