#The joke is that Quinlan Vos will never get laid

[glare-gryphon]

Horizon Light - Part 4

~2500 Words

Chapter Tags: Strong Language, References to Substance Abuse/Alcoholism

I modeled Obi-Wan’s quarters kind of after what we see Raleigh & Yanesy sharing in their introductory sequence at the Anchorage Shatterdone. Raleigh & Mako have quarters with a different layout in Hong Kong, but I like the apartment-style layout better.

By the time Obi-Wan is released back to his quarters, having been forced through another medical and psychological evaluation following his and Skywalker’s successful drift, he is not altogether surprised to find Quinlan Vos already waiting. The other ranger leans casually against the cool, metal door to Obi-Wan’s quarters, a pile of empty cardboard boxes at his feet and a bottle of something in his hands. Whatever Quinlan has brought in offering is probably alcoholic and definitely prohibited on base, which is the only reason Obi-Wan doesn’t immediately turn him away and lick his wounds in peace. He has a feeling that he’s going to need to get wasted if he’s going to deal with how drastically his life has changed over the last two days.

“Hey there, Kenobi,” Vos greets. “Word on the grapevine is that we’ve got some celebrating to do. Your reign of terror over defenseless cadets has finally been brought to an end!”

"And how much money did you make off the betting pools with the end of my... What was it? 'Reign of terror'?"

Quinlan's smile turns from teasing to smug. "Enough that I can afford a few more bottles of this," he replies, shaking the drink in his hand meaningfully. "Now are you going to let me in before we get caught with prohibited liquor, or should I just head to Windu's office now and save myself the trouble?"

Obi-Wan huffs, but pushes past him to stuff his key into the lock and open the door. When he does, Quin passes him the bottle, freeing up his hands so that he can collect the stack of cardboard boxes on the floor. "Still had these laying around from when they moved me in with Aayla," he explains. "Figured I'd help you pack your shit up, if you want. The brass give you and Skywalker your room assignments yet?"

"No," Obi-Wan replies, shutting the door behind the other man and cutting off the chatter of passersby in the hall. "They're going to move us tomorrow; there is apparently some debate over where we should be moved to. Half the brass think we need space to get to know each other; the other half think we need close supervision lest we kill each other in the process."

Quinlan barks a sharp laugh, weaving his way through the room to settle in the chair at Obi-Wan's desk. His quarters, at the moment, are hardly fit for decent company. Cleanliness tends to get pushed to the wayside when it's a struggle to simply get out of bed in the morning.

There are clothes strewn across the floor, mugs of half-finished tea resting across any available flat surfaces. Qui-Gon's things are still packed in a stack of boxes beside the desk, with the exception of a small potted plant that rests on the desk's surface among a collection of orange prescription bottles, varyingly full. He hasn't worked up the will to go through it all, yet. If anyone else had seen this place, Obi-Wan would be embarrassed. Quinlan Vos does not classify as decent company, however, so he simply makes his way to the cot, dropping onto it while his friend searches out something to drink from.

Vos pulls two empty, questionably clean mugs from the refuse littered about, blowing into them to clear them of dirt before pouring them both a healthy portion of the liquor. "I hope they aren't intending on monitoring you too closely," he says. "You know what they say about jaeger pilots: if they aren't family, they're fucking."

"You and Miss Secura are not related, nor are you engaged in sexual congress," Obi-Wan points out. "If you were, you wouldn't be here sharing your liquor with me."

"Give it time," Quin replies in a salacious purr. Obi-Wan makes to grab for one of the cups, but Quinlan yanks it out of reach at the last moment. "You aren't on any pain meds or anything, are you? For what Skywalker did to your face?"

"You know Che won't let them give me anything anymore, Quin," Obi-Wan huffs, snatching the cup from him and taking a deep drag from it. The alcohol burns as it goes down, making him grimace, but settles fairly well in his stomach. "Substance abuse problem my ass," he mutters, and pointedly ignores Quin's glance at the pill bottles on the desk; at the empty bottles stuffed in a corner. Instead he glances around the room, taking in the destruction he's wrought these past few weeks. It'd been impeccably clean before, to the point of infuriating Qui. Now it’s starting to look like Quin’s quarters. "This place is a wreck. We're going to be here all night." "Good thing I brought plenty of booze, then," Quin replies, leaning forward to top off Obi-Wan’s drink.

They’re both good and plastered by the time they decide to start packing up Obi-Wan’s things. The liquor is potent, doing its job before they’ve managed to down even half the bottle. Quin takes one of the boxes and starts emptying the wardrobe while Obi-Wan collects the dirty clothes off the floor in his own. Both are appropriately marked, and Obi-Wan can’t help but note that the latter is far fuller than the first. He can’t actually remember the last time he took his things to the laundry; it’s a small miracle he managed to last this long without having to resort to reusing outfits. Trash is stuffed in the can, dishes piled in the sink. They will have to deal with those things in the morning, as they don’t have the patience for it now.

There is something almost soothing in the mindless work of cleaning up. Obi-Wan used to enjoy it, before Qui’s death, and finds himself easily slipping back into that feeling as he wipes a rag over the desk and other flat surfaces to clear away the settled dust. The smell of disinfectant and clean is a pleasant change of pace from the must that’d settled over the space.

“What are you gonna do with this stuff?” Vos asks, nudging the boxes of Qui’s things to draw Obi-Wan’s attention to them. “I know you probably don’t want to go through them, but are you taking all this crap with you?”

“It’s not crap,” Obi-Wan mutters, batting Quinlan’s hands away when he makes to open the top container. They’re moved carefully to over by the door, where the rest of the filled boxes have been stacked for easy transport in the morning.

“Now, you see, I knew Qui-Gon Jinn,” Quin presses, trailing behind Obi-Wan as he works. “The man hoarded junk like an old lady hoards cats, so I am almost positive that most of the stuff in those boxes is, actually—”

“Shut up, Quinlan!” Obi-Wan snaps, dropping the last box on the pile with more force than necessary and rounding on the man. “I won’t have you talking about him like that in my own damn quarters!”

Vos raises his hands in a placating gesture, trying to calm Obi-Wan’s ire. Considering the amount they’ve both had to drink, it’s not particularly successful. “I’m just trying to help, man.”

"I do not need your help, Quinlan."

"Yes you do; this isn't healthy, Obi-Wan."

"And you're just the epitome of mental health, are you?" Kenobi sneers. “Getting drunk every night and hooking up with anyone who’ll spread their legs for you?”

"At least I can get more than fucking ibuprofen when my copilot nearly caves my skull in," Vos shoots back. "You're never going to move forward with Skywalker if you're still clinging to the past like this!"

"There is no 'moving forward' with Skywalker! We're conn-pod partners, that's it! One drift hasn't made me care for him. I’m never going to care for him, just as he’s never going to care for me."

Vos’ lips twitch triumphantly, and Obi-Wan knows what’s about to come out of his mouth before it does. "That's not what they saw down in medical, after you got out of the pod."

"They don't know what they saw," Obi-Wan hisses. "Now if you're quite done making an ass of yourself, I would like you to leave."

A wounded expression crosses Quin's face, but it's wiped away almost as quickly as it came. "Whatever, man," Quin mutters, pressing past him and out the door. "Keep up your damn shit-show. See if I care."

The door slams shut behind him, and Obi-Wan’s anger drains as abruptly as it swelled. It leaves him weary—even more so than the extended drift he’d taken with Skywalker earlier had. He shouldn’t have snapped at Quinlan like that, but he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. There is nothing between him and Skywalker, nor will there ever be. What happened in medical was… a fluke. A side effect of spending too much time tied too each other’s mind too soon.

There are always side effects of long drifts. Ghost Drifting is the most common: a period of time after the completion of a drift where the pilot’s minds seem to somehow remain connected. It’s never as intense as a true drift—there is never transference of thought or memory—but there is the occasional tingle of phantom sensation, or an ability to predict your copilot’s decisions and movements before they make them. Drift specialists chalk it up to their brains still operating on the same wavelength once the bond of the drift is severed, slowly returning to their usual thought patterns as they spend time apart. This, however, is only speculation as studies of Ghost Drifting have been wholly inconclusive.

Despite their strangeness, Ghost Drifts are regarded as one of the more innocent side effects of the drift. More dangerous consequences have been recorded, from codependency between pilots to a total loss of identity. Obi-Wan suspects that these are more what he and Skywalker experienced when they were finally separated. There is no other explanation—not for their behavior. Not for the way Skywalker had clung to him while they set through their medical examinations, the line of his body pressed into Obi-Wan’s side as if that point of contact were the only thing keeping him from simply fading away to nothing. Not for the way Obi-Wan had allowed that touch, soothing the man who had beaten him senseless only a day ago when the nurses had to poke and prod at Skywalker’s cracked ribs and—

The mug of Quinlan’s half-finished drink, which Obi-Wan had collected under the intention of returning it to the sink with its brethren, shatters against the wall. It makes a racket, all those little pieces of ceramic falling to patter onto the tile floor, but there is no one to hear. No one to care. The quarters next to his have been empty for weeks, since they brought him Qui-Gon’s things in a neat stack of cardboard boxes and gave him their deepest condolences for the death of his partner. Like that would make him feel better. Like that would patch the psychic wound gouged into the back of his mind as Qui-Gon bled to death in the conn-pod of their jaeger.

Obi-Wan does not care for Anakin Skywalker. One drift can’t change that—can’t plant feeling in his mind. No matter what the medical staff think they saw. They’d been in the drift too long, too soon. That’s all.

Turning from the spattering of alcohol that’s slowly tricking its way down the wall, Obi-Wan chugs the rest of his own portion before dumping the mug in the sink. He can’t deal with any more of this tonight. The rest of the bottle of liquor, which Quinlan had forgotten in his abrupt departure, is tucked safely away among his clothes in one of the boxes. If he’s caught with alcohol by anyone other than Quin or a handful of others, it’ll certainly be taken away and he’ll be back in the medical bay under observation. Now, with Quin pissed at him and no guarantee of reconciliation anytime soon, he’d rather not take any more risks than necessary.

Dropping onto the familiar, lumpy mattress of his cot, Obi-Wan allows the drink to drag him down into unconsciousness.

It feels like he’s only just fallen asleep when he’s startled awake by the sound of someone pounding at his door. Obi-Wan groans, grasping at his head as though the pressure will stop the throbbing in his skull. His mouth tastes like something curled up and died inside it overnight, and his stomach is twisting itself in knots. Of all the things he missed about alcohol during his forced reprieve, hangovers certainly weren’t one of them.

“Kenobi?” A familiar voice calls through the metal of the door, starting into another round of banging as though it will get him to answer faster. “Kenobi are you in there?”

“One moment, Aayla,” he calls out as he attempts to sit up, if only to make her stop her insistent pounding. The world spins around him in an unpleasant sensation as he fumbles for the shirt he must have stripped off overnight. When he’s presentable, the patterned burn scars his circuitry suit left behind hidden safely away beneath fabric, he somehow manages to make it across the room to throw open the door.

Waiting just outside, arms crossed in impatience, is Aayla Secura. Quinlan’s copilot is just a few years younger than him, built strong and sturdy. Today she’s got her turquoise-dyed hair pulled back into two braids and tucked beneath a brown bandana that matches the color of her leather bomber jacket. “You look like shit, Obi-Wan,” she says in lieu of a greeting.

“Good morning to you, too,” he replies, squinting against the fluorescents in hall—too much for his sensitive eyes to handle at the moment. “What brings you to my door at this hour?”

Aayla uncrosses her arms, waving a strip of paper that’s clamped between her fingers. “Got your new room assignment. Quin said he was coming over here to help you pack last night, then came back in a tiff. Figured you’d need some help getting your things to your new place, since I’m doubting Skywalker’s going to come around to offer his assistance.”

“No,” Obi-Wan says with a weak chuckle. He isn’t sure why that thought makes his heart contract painfully in his chest. “No, I’d imagine he isn’t.”

Even with the hindrance of his hangover, it’s easy to finish collecting his things with Aayla’s aid. Before he knows it they’re loading all his boxes onto a dolly that’s waiting in the hall, and Obi-Wan is hit with the starting revelation that he’s leaving these quarters. Sure he’d thought about it before—he’d packed all his things!—but the full extent of what that means doesn’t seem to have registered until now. He’s going to be moving out of these quarters. He’s leaving this chapter of his life behind. He’d going to spend the rest of this war, or the rest of his life, at Anakin Skywalker’s side—whichever comes first.

The only thing he can think as he follows Aayla through the halls of the shatterdome to his new quarters, is that it should have been Qui-Gon.