A voice pierces through the pain-induced fog of confusion encircling him like a welcome shaft of sunlight…
"Hey, Obi…"
Bant's dear face is hovering over his like a salmon-coloured harvest moon, her concern and platonic love washing over him like ripples over the surface of a breeze-kissed pond.
Heavy lids shift and flutter softly before a pair of bloodshot eyes open to a world that is (thankfully) no longer blinding –
Obi-Wan fights, blinking lethargically, to bring it into limited focus. Now that the painkillers have finally started to kick in, a semblance of lucency has returned – but while the previously all-consuming agony has been beaten back to a localized ache (how wonderfully delicious it is not to be submerged in that ocean of acid!), the medication appears to work through dulling the senses – all the senses, even those not immediately connected to the pain… Indeed, it is nearly all he can do to simply concentrate on her gently lilting voice…
"Feeling a little better, now?"
A barely-perceptible nod is all he can muster by way of an answer. But –
'Where…?'
"The Temple's 'sick bay' – again." It could be his imagination, but dry humor seems to edge the Mon Calamarian's words.
Ah. Yes. That would explain the pungent, sterile smell of bleached-white walls and bacta assaulting his nose… With some effort, he takes stock of himself, noting the numerous contraptions sprouting from every square inch of his body – and shoots them a look of undisguised disgust. The sore red marks around his wrists and ankles prove similarly disconcerting – had he been bound? Still…
The Temple. Home… Relief floats and swirls giddily like an eddy on the currents of the Force.
Then a frown mars the smooth plains of his forehead.
"T-terrible d-dreams…" His parched, cracked lips feel made of lead, and it takes all his strength to move them in forming words.
"So we gathered. You've been giving me and the healers quite a bit of trouble on their account. All this fuss…we'd hardly expect it from you, being a Jedi Master – and such a distinguished one, at that…"
There comes a weak and quavering murmur from the patient in reply –
"N-not…so…d-distinguished…"
Bant's shoulders quake with muffled laughter. "No. Only very – rumor has it there's an appointment to a Council seat in your none-too-distant future."
Obi-Wan struggles briefly to school his ashen, pain-creased face into a pathetic imitation of legendary Jedi sternness, and intones in a Masterly whisper,
"Future…al-always…in m-motion…Bantling. B-besides…not-not w-worthy…"
Her face coloring to a high burnt-orange at the use of her crèche nickname, Bant nevertheless offers Obi-Wan a sweet, knowing, smile.
"I know, I know – the Grand Master is so fond of that particular maxim. But as to being 'not worthy'…wouldn't Yoda also say, 'Our own council we will keep on who is worthy'?"
The Mon Cal's perpetually damp, scale-roughened hand feels blessedly cool after the burning acid and oh so good as it soothingly strokes his fiery fever-blushed cheek, monitoring changes to his temperature, before moving up to smooth down wayward strands of thick sweat-slicked ginger hair…
That's nice… Don't stop…
Eerin smiles again and Obi-Wan's flush deepens with embarrassment. All those meds pumped into him are dulling more than just his senses – and must be affecting his mental shields more than he'd thought (or liked to admit)…
Wait… Mental shields…the bond - the bond!
Obi-Wan fumbles for a grasp on the Force, clumsily searching for the luminous flare that is Anakin's presence.
"Ana-Anakin… Where-where is h-he? W-where - "
"I'm right here, Master." And the sometimes wayward, but ever loyal, apprentice now materializes by his teacher's side to take up his limp hand and give it a firm squeeze - one of reassurance, as if Obi-Wan must be sure that what he sees before him is truly corporeal…not just a vision.
Obi-Wan eyes the boy critically (or tries to - though for the Jedi, there is no try). Though physically healthy, he looks almost worse off than Obi-Wan himself - if that is even possible. At the very least, it makes for an interesting paradox… The Padawan's eyes, which usually fairly sparkle with mischief, are darkened and haggard. Quick, though blunt, probing through the Force proves that his characteristically-bright signature is now tainted - reeking of fear.
"H-hello, Ani…" His tongue feels like it's been wrapped in several layers of cotton gauze – and it sounds in his hoarse, scratchy voice. He sucks in a scraggly breath, lungs hitching with the effort, and tries again.
"N-needn't b-be al-larmed…not-not t-too b-bad…"
Anakin could laugh at the irony, if one look at Obi-Wan right now wasn't enough to make him cry – he should be providing his ailing Master with whatever consolation he can…and yet Obi-Wan – ever-selfless Obi-Wan (who never could stand admitting to his own vulnerability if it meant drawing others' attention and worry to himself) – has deftly turned the tables on him!
'Got it rather backwards, haven't you, Master?'
Instead, the Padawan offers his best smile under the circumstances, which comes across as half-hearted and less-than-convincing, at most, and falteringly lies, "I know. You're going to be fine in no time. Don't worry about me, Master…just get yourself well."
A derisive snort from the doorway heralds the arrival of Ben To Li.
"Since when is the patient – or his Padawan – the acknowledged authority on health?"
Entering, the head healer adeptly unclips the datapad serving as Obi-Wan's chart from the foot of the cot and scans through it as he inspects the monitoring probes' colorful readouts on the still-blinking comp screen. "'I'm fine.' You'd say that if you'd been flattened into flimsy by a speeding land-cruiser… Mind you, I'd believe that'd been exactly what'd happened to you just based on your chart…"
Fixing the younger Jedi with a pointed glare, Li adds, "Kark, but you're a pretty piece of work this time, Kenobi – what in the sweet Force have you done to yourself?"
Unabashed, Obi-Wan levelly returns his stare through heavy, half-lidded eyes. "Th-thought that w-was for-for y-you to d-determ-mine…"
A slipped snigger from Anakin at Ben To's expense earns him a silencing scowl.
Secretly, though, Li is pleased. Humor has always been Obi-Wan's fallback coping mechanism, and his employment of it indicates high spirits, as well as a relaxed state of mind – key aids in the healing process…
Eyes flashing with amusement carefully concealed as irritation, the healer snaps, "Impertinence…I simply cannot tolerate. For that little remark, Kenobi, I shall permit Bant to sedate you for the next procedure."
What?! Hadn't he just returned to the land of lucidity? Already they wanted to send him back to unintelligible oblivion… Completely irrational – even by the Temple medical community's dubious standards…
"It's for your own good, Obi," Bant cuts in before Obi-Wan can formulate a biting response. "We must use restraints to keep you absolutely still – and the machine can be rather…confining…after you've been in it awhile…"
What can he do? Obi-Wan sighs as the Mon Cal removes the soft pillow to ease his head down upon the mattress, wincing and hiding a grimace in the crook of his shoulder as her arranging of his limbs – legs out straight and separated slightly, arms flat, palms down, along his sides - pulls on his tender abdomen.
"Besides, Obi," she says as he flinches at the cold prick of the needle, "you're so much better behaved when you're asleep. Now…rest."
The Jedi Master glowers at her sleepily. Was that a veiled Force-suggestion? Closing his eyes as the world grays and fades around him, his last thought before unconsciousness pulls him under is,
'Healers… Sadists, all…'
