Title: Ka Faraq Gatri
Author: nostalgia
Rated: PG-13
Category: Angst. Slashy, but with heterosexuality.
Summary: Obi-Wan's night out.
Disclaim: George Lucas owns the Jedi.
Etc: Companion piece to 'Bringer of Darkness'. Hopefully works as a stand-alone
though.
Biscuits to anyone who gets the title.
Homepage: http://www.angelfire.com/scifi/monkeychild/nostalgia/index.htm
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Ka Faraq Gatri was a nightmare of mirrors and pink neon. Legend had it
that the original architect - a man of awards and esteem - had thrown himself
from the highest window upon discovering that the interior of the club had been
aligned west-to-east rather than east-to-west. His replacement, paid over the
odds to compensate for the prevalent belief that the building was now cursed,
had been expelled from the Architect's Guild for bringing the profession into
ill-repute. Ka Faraq Gatri had history.
It contrived to be exclusive, in that strange, Lower Levels meaning of the word.
The management used words like 'clienetele' and 'corporate image', but then most
people did, these days. 'Sleazy' was the word others used to describe "That Place".
The bar - a thick, blue, thermoset monstrosity - was an 'o' in the centre of the
room. With eight hundred and thirty-seven forms of alcohol (most of them legal)
available, Ka Faraq Gatri could rival the very best. Obi-Wan Kenobi was
determined to get drunk as quickly and as cheaply as possible. Tonight he dressed
in civilian clothing and paid in unmarked currency. A Jedi walked into a bar
and... he tensed a little at the joke in case it was a warning, but no one
said anything to him, and he felt himself begin to relax. The smoke in the air
burned the back of his throat when he breathed, and the music was too loud, but
he could cope with these. He needed distractions.
After the second drink he had stopped worrying about what would happen if Anakin
woke up and realised he was missing.
Halfway through the third he started to admire the decor. It wasn't that bad really,
he mused, once you got used to it. He slid his fingers back and forth along the
edge of the bar, spun a little on the barstool, which shook as his weight shifted
on it.
He remembered coming here with Qui-Gon on his nineteenth birthday and and throwing
up outside as the alcohol churned in his bloodstream. He remembered screaming
and swearing and crying and wishing he was dead. That wasn't going to happen to
Anakin. Obi-Wan wasn't going to be lectured about giving his Padawan alcohol poisoning.
He was going to be responsible and trustworthy. He was going to be a role-model.
Just not tonight.
He remembered sitting at one of the tables in the corner, a semi-expensive prostitute
draping herself over him because Qui-Gon thought that was a good way to teach
his Apprentice about sex. He remembered the perfume and the warmth and the blushes.
He wasn't going to do something like that to Anakin. Anakin wasn't supposed to
be cheapened like that. You couldn't just leave the Chosen One at the mercy of
some whore in Ka Faraq Gatri. Anakin was too good for that. He was delicate
and vulnerable and beautiful and... Drink. Now. He reached for the nearest distraction.
She was cheaper than the last one, a little younger. She was laughing and she
had nice eyes and she didn't look too much like Anakin. A Jedi walked into
a bar and... Obi-Wan laughed and let her lead him to a back room, stumbling
a little as he tried not to bump into too many people. He leaned against the wall
as she unlocked the door, trying to tell her a joke about a priest and an astromech
droid. He got lost halfway to the punchline, but she giggled anyway and pulled
him through the doorway and onto the bed.
It was still dark when he felt distracted enough leave. He stepped around the
puddles that had formed outside the bar while he had been inside and out of the
rain. He looked down at his own reflection in one of them, saw the bright pink
letters glowing above and behind him. The sign fizzed over his head and another
one of the vowels went dark. They should fix that, he thought absently, and headed
home.