How Kenobi Got His Groove Back:Alchemy Dream
A/N: Okay, so a month later, my lazy ass updates this. No, for anyone actually reading this, it's not that I'm lazy, I just kinda forgot where I was going with it! That's a really scary place to be. Oh well, I'm tired of worrying about what everyone will think of it...I'm just gonna throw it out here.
So enjoy. Or not. Reviews are love.
Summary: All it took was a light-hearted quip from Mace Windu to send Obi-Wan Kenobi off the edge and into insecurity. Anakin is fed up with his ex-master's age-related blubbering and is determined to show him exactly how beautiful he is.
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Anakin is twenty years, two-hundred and fifteen days and fourteen hours old when he nearly wrecks a speeder while having naughty thoughts about its owner, and he is positive that Obi-Wan would never accept that as an excuse.
That is, of course, given Obi-Wan didn't suspect the fantasies were about him.
He pushes forward, guiding the vehicle away from the docked Corellian fruit vendor and past the orange striped speeder he knocked into it, making his way back into the stream of morning traffic.
Anakin loves piloting the speeder alone. He loves Obi-Wan's speeder in particular. Whenever Obi-Wan drives it around town, it travels at a normal, acceptable speed, and he never forgets to signal when he's turning. He never turns on the radio, drives while intoxicated, and Anakin is pretty sure he doesn't ever think about stopping traffic to masturbate. The yellow, open-cockpit air speeder is Obi-Wan as a vehicle.
This is why Anakin loves to drive it. He loves to get in Obi-Wan's speeder and go faster than acceptable, pushing its limits, its patience. Give it a work out. Anakin loves to turn the radio up and sing at the top of his lungs when something good comes on. Anakin has had many adventures in Obi-Wan's speeder. He had driven it naked one night, without permission, for shits and giggles, and been met in the hangar by a not-so stoked Obi-Wan. He had felt bad for stealing it, in the buff no less, but had felt worse when Obi-Wan chastised him not for his nudity and pranking tendencies, but for making him worry. It had taken a long time for Anakin to regain Obi-Wan's trust. Of course, he likes to think that Obi-Wan enjoyed that gratuitous view of his body, draped lithely over the black leather seat of his speeder.
Of course, he knows it will never be true.
Anakin docks the speeder at the sidewalk by the market, and jumps out, grabbing a large beige canvas sack from a hanging rack outside the window of the shop. A bell chimes lightly as he enters the grocery, a gust of air from the vents by the door blowing his robe up a little. Pulling out the crumpled list from his pants pocket, Anakin studies the list. Memorizing the products he has to buy, he tosses the paper away into a garbage bin, and makes his way down the network of aisles. He picks up the following items in this order: Fourteen packets of instant pudding mix, chocolate and citrus-vanilla, two medium sacks of wheat flour, six packets of chocolate and butterscotch chips (for pancakes, of course), four gallons of blue milk, a box of green medeis tea bags, two loaves of sweetberry bread, fudge ice pops, cooking spuds, two heads of mixed lettuce, cooking oil, and a small bag of mixed fruits (cherries, mangoes, and Alderaanian globe grapes). Anakin hoists the bag over his shoulder, and moves to the self serve station to pick up some coffee beans for Obi-Wan. He particularly likes raspberry coffee. After filling a small bag, and using the vacuum sealer to close it, he makes his way to the toiletries section, vaguely remembering that Obi-Wan had wanted some soap. He scans the hundreds of brands of identical soaps for the one single bar that Obi-Wan likes, being the brand name soap-whore he is. Looking over the names, searching for the kind Obi-Wan listed, he sees a particularly pink soap, called 'Youthful Beauty.' He snorts at this, almost buying it for the sheer look of rage on Obi-Wan's tortured face, imagining he would secretly use it in the refresher anyways.
After several impatient minutes scanning the personal items, Anakin becomes frustrated and walks away, convinced the bastard is making up products that don't exist just to drive him mad. He slams the bag in front of the clerk a little harder than he means to, and smiles curtly.
"Do you carry, oh, Sith, what is it called? Ah, yes. Seidoshi soap?"
The young woman smacks her gum and looks thoughtful for a moment, scanning the items and loading them into another canvas bag.
"Nahsah, I thank we'a dun carry dat no mores. Ya mah trah the candle shop a few level uppa," she says in a thick accent. Anakin looks around at the stands by the register. He hates that they put all the good stuff up front to tempt him.
"Ah, thank you," he trails off, and grabs three expensive chocolate bars, placing them in front of her.
"No need to bag these, thanks," he smiles at her. She finishes sacking the items, and presses a few buttons.
"Repahblic credit?"
"Yes," Anakin says, pulling his and Obi-Wan's joint credit card from his pocket.
"Ninety credits," she says, holding it to a sensor until it beeps, confirming the card. "Sign hea."
Anakin signs the holopad in her hands with the pen, wincing at the price, and grabs the groceries from the woman.
"Thanks, Mista Skywalka." Anakin offers a wave as he walks away, unwrapping one chocolate bar with his free hand, and wonders what the hell he bought.
Obi-Wan's gonna kill me.
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Anakin steps in the outdoor elevator that transports him to the third floor above the market, wondering if Obi-Wan is a regular patron at what just may be Coruscant's most feminine shop.
Upon entering, the strong scent of several different strains of flower and woman attack his senses. Anakin wrinkles his nose a little in distaste, and prays to the Force that it will not adhere to his manly Jedi robes.
There are racks upon racks of different shaped candles, a product of yesteryear when everything wasn't powered by electricity. Now they are mostly novelty items, although Anakin hates the heady smell of them. He prefers the translucent scent of incense. In the corner, there is a large rack of personal care items.
"May I help you, sir?" a woman draped in a purple robe asks Anakin. Anakin winces. He had hoped he would not be noticed, that he would be able to get in and out discreetly.
"No, thank you," he says, making his way to the corner. She smiles knowingly, irking him further.
Anakin once again scans the hundreds of soaps, finally locating the soap, simply wrapped in brown paper with the word 'Seidoshi' stamped in elegant letters. It is wrapped in a gold ribbon. 'Lovely packaging,' Anakin thinks, fingering the ribbon, twining the loop of the bow with his hand.
"Lovely choice, sir. You have fine tastes," the woman says from behind him. Anakin jumps with surprise, instinctively hiding it in his hands.
"Oh, it isn't for me. It's for my friend," he says, blushing, and he doesn't know why. The woman smirks.
"Ah, your 'friend'. I see. Well, your 'friend' has fine tastes. Special occasion?"
Quite a nosy character we have here, Anakin snorts to himself.
"No, he just has expensive tastes," Anakin says, enjoying the intrigued look on her face.
"Quite a catch, then," she says, smirking, no doubt concocting a private narrative. Anakin smiles and leans closer, cocking his eyebrows suggestively, deciding to entertain both of their fantasies.
"Yes, my Master only wants the finest things touching his body. And of course, his pleasure is always my priority," Anakin says, running a hand through his hair and bringing the soap to his nose, inhaling deeply. The woman looks at him, her cheeks a deep red. She chuckles a little, shaking her head.
"Well, sir, might I suggest that you have a look atour other items," she says, waving a hand to the shelf next to them. Anakin smiles a little, oblivious.
"I might just do that," he says, amused at the idea of buying Obi-Wan a quaint little vanilla candle.
She walks away, entertaining her naughty thoughts about the two strangers, and Anakin barely stifles a laugh. Candle-selling must be a lonely job. He turns around to look at the items on the shelf next to him, and his breathing hitches in his throat.
In front of him stands an assortment of massage oils, lubricants, and mint stimulants. In every flavour and scent imaginable. He cranes his neck upwards, observing the more explicit adult materials, and upon blushing a fiery shade of red, turns his attentions back to the oils. They are all beautifully packaged, wrapped in ribbons, and there are samples sitting in front of each one. He stands for a moment, and looks around to see if anyone is watching.
Anakin picks out a small glass bottle labeled 'sandalwood spice,' and twists the cap open. His nose hovers over the opening, and he inhales deeply. The scent is musky and masculine, citrusy and alive, lustful and eager-intentioned. It evokes images in his mind, images of Obi-Wan sprawled in front of him, writhing in between the sheets as Anakin directs him and watches him. Anakin shudders a little, and caps the bottle.
He picks up another one.
This one says 'fresh laundry'. Anakin gives his olfactory senses a moment to recover and inhales the smell, smiling as it resonates in his brain. It smells like laundry day at the Temple. Anakin imagines Obi-Wan propped up against the wall in the communal laundry room, the two of them wrapped nude in a warm, fragrant, fresh-from-the-dryer bed linen, enjoying warm, lazy afternoon kisses and the thrill of the possibility of being caught.
Anakin feels a twitching in his lower regions and thinks that maybe it's time to leave.
But he can't.
Anakin samples the scents of sixteen massage oils, and two lubricants, each bringing to his imagination a new scenario, the sound of Obi-Wan moaning in the shower earlier that morning fueling the realism of the dream.
Anakin buys three bottles of massage oil, one small, discreet bottle of lubricant, and a package of glow in the dark adhesive stars. Oh, and a bar of fancy-pants soap.
"Will that be Republic credits?"
"Yes," Anakin says, blushing furiously, and pulls out the joint credit card, immediately regretting it. He is sure he will never have the chance to use the items with Obi-Wan, and now he will see the items on the monthly credit statement. He will end up a heavily scrutinized, lonely Jedi Knight who cries, eats fattening ice cream, and sniffs sex oils whimsically before bed. Anakin scowls with discontent, wishing his mind to stop resigning him to such a humiliating fate.
"One-hundred credits," she states, scanning the card and smiling. "Jedi, huh..?" Anakin feels his cheeks tingling.
"That's none of your business," he says callously, and grabs the black sack from the clerk, and signs the holopad.
"Enjoy," the lady says, giggling a little at the flustered Jedi.
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Obi-Wan Kenobi is thirty-five years, three-hundred and sixty-two days and twelve hours old when he's pretty sure that Anakin is hiding something. He isn't quite sure just what it is, but the boy seems considerably fidgety and jumpy lately. For the past twenty-four hours, he has kept his bedroom highly guarded, sliding from inside, and immediately pulling the door shut. Obi-Wan doesn't think there's a good reason to be concerned, but his curiosity is immobilizing. Usually, Anakin is the kind to leave his dirty clothes sitting around on the floor, his door wide open with the holovision blaring loudly. Obi-Wan writes this off as Anakin going through a phase.
"Obi-Wan? Are you listening?"
Obi-Wan blinks a little, looking across the table at Mace, who has a relatively bemused look on his face as he steeples his fingers together.
"Ah, I'm sorry," he smiles, lifting the mug to his lips, sipping the fresh tea he had Anakin boil. Mace arcs an eyebrow, and likewise, takes a sip of his tea.
"So, are we all set for Tuesday?" Mace says. Obi-Wan looks at him thoughtfully, and hastily directs his gaze back to Anakin's bedroom door. Mace follows his gaze, looking from door to Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan to door. "Obi-Wan, what is so interesting about that door?"
"It's nothing, Mace. Tuesday...I don't know. I'm beginning to think I'm too old for this sort of thing," Obi-Wan says.
"You have to be kidding, old friend! We have done this for nearly eighteen years! You cannot go breaking tradition now, Obi-Wan. Come on, drinks on me," Mace coaxes, and getting no reaction adds, "You can bring Skywalker, of course. Please, Obi-Wan?" Obi-Wan sighs a little, smiling.
"Okay."
Mace claps his hands lightly, pleased with his diplomatic negotiations.
"So, where will the festivities take place? How about Trœs? Sound good?" Mace smiles, "They are famous for their death-by-chocolate rum. You can even mix in flavours. Like raspberry," Mace says in a sing-song voice. Obi-Wan laughs a little.
For as long as Obi-Wan has known him, the very idea of getting hammered fills Mace Windu with joy. He loves any excuse to drink, and because he knows Obi-Wan's birth date, he annually exploits it. Obi-Wan figures that otherwise, he would have never gotten to meet Mace.
Obi-Wan is sold.
"Trœs it is, Mace," he says, standing to escort his friend out of the apartment. Mace bows and smiles, swishing elegantly down the hall. He turns suddenly and grins.
"You won't regret this."
And for some reason, Obi-Wan has a feeling he will.
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Edited 12.26.05