Work Text:
When the chrono display ticks over to show 8:00pm, Anakin stubs out his cigarette on the balcony rail. “Time to go,” he says as he steps back into the darkened apartment.
Light from the neon signs outside washes over Obi-Wan’s face as he rises from the sofa. “You’re sure?”
“I’m fucking positive.”
“There’s no need to be rude,” Obi-Wan says primly, pulling on an oversized leather jacket. “I only want to be sure this time.”
Outside, the air is hot and damp, with the smell of exhaust fumes and trash left out too long on the walkways. Great gusts of steam vent from grates beneath their feet as they walk past. “This place,” Anakin says emphatically as he lights up again, “is a shithole, plain and simple.”
“Oh, I agree,” Obi-Wan says, eyeing two figures in a darkened alleyway with distaste. “If only we made more money, and could live somewhere nicer.”
“That’s the dream,” Anakin says. “Take my hand, it’s cold.”
“Softie,” Obi-Wan teases, but he takes Anakin’s outstretched hand.
They meet Mace, Quinlan and Aayla on the corner of a street three blocks away. “People already think we’re a gang,” Anakin says as they draw near, “You don’t have to dress like it and enforce the image.”
“I’m not the only one wearing leather,” Mace points out with a raised eyebrow. It’s an old joke between them; they all know a gang is pretty much exactly what they are.
“Let’s make this quick,” Quinlan says with a yawn. “I wanna make the club afterward.”
“Drinks are on you, then,” Obi-Wan says with a grin, and they set off.
Obi-Wan isn’t fond of the description ‘hitman’. It doesn’t quite encompass the art of the thing. There’s a certain finesse to building your team, knowing who can break into the building, who can kick down the door, who can deal with accomplices and most importantly, who’s the best shot. Aayla breaks through the pass security system in half a minute; Mace is suitably intimating as he kicks the door down and goes in, guns blazing; Anakin and Quinlan subdue the flunkies while Obi-Wan gets a clean headshot as the target tries to make a break for it over the balcony.
Afterward, they don’t do much cleaning up. That’s not their job. Taking holos and securing evidence for the mob boss is enough; the police, when they arrive, will know what kind of crime this was. They won’t look too close.
“Y’know, I hear Hondo’s making it big with his piracy racket,” Quinlan says as they file out onto the street.
“Don’t even suggest it,” Aayla grimaces, “Triple Zero is scummy, but it’s better than ass end of nowhere Florrum.”
“The lady has a point,” Mace agrees.
“I’m just saying, we could make a packet in the piracy business, and see a bit more of the galaxy along the way.”
They walk down the street together; Obi-Wan supposes they must look imposing, with the way people duck hurriedly out of their path. “What you’re forgetting is that to be a space pirate you first need a ship, Quin,” he says, “And we don’t exactly have the money for that.”
“We could pool our resources,” Quinlan says stubbornly.
“What resources?” Anakin laughs. “I make rent, but I don’t have a secret stash under the floorboards or in the mattress.”
“You do a lot more than make rent,” Quinlan grumbles.
“Yeah, he makes rent and then he spends it on drinking and gambling,” Obi-Wan says, playfully shoving Anakin.
Anakin shoves him right back. “Big words for someone who does exactly the same thing.”
They all laugh. It’s part of their routine; dream up big ideas and shoot them down, then decry how seedy their lives have become before walking right back into vice’s arms. Somehow it hasn’t got old yet.
The Zabrak working the door at Tapani’s is new, but she knows what she’s about. Someone must have warned her who to look out for, Obi-Wan thinks as she lets them pass the door without a word.
Inside the air is thick and close with noise and fumes. The stink of death sticks is heavy in the air, the lighting dark, flashes of colour illuminating dancing bodies and groups and couples seated around the booths. They’re such regular customers that there’s a booth reserved for them, and a server comes round with a tray of drinks a few minutes after they sit down. That’s rare in this establishment, but the owner needed an ex-boyfriend getting rid of a few years ago, and they were only too happy to help.
“Check out who’s at the bar,” Quinlan says after a minute, grinning into his drink, “Obi-Wan’s old Mando flame.”
Obi-Wan grimaces; he knows even before he looks who it’s going to be. And yes, there’s the distinctive armour of the famous Mando bounty hunter he had a thing with some years ago. They were an item for a while, and Obi-Wan ‘saw the galaxy’ – the scummy parts, anyway – while helping out with his bounties. Then he started to get weird about kids and living on Mandalore, and Obi-Wan cut him loose.
He’d been in contact afterward, asking if Obi-Wan wanted to give it another go, but by then Obi-Wan had met Anakin, and, well…the rest was history.
“I can’t believe he’s here,” Obi-Wan groans. “Don’t let him see me, alright?”
“It’s dark,” Aayla shrugs. “Just don’t look his way.” She knows the drill; she has lots of experience in avoiding unwanted exes.
Anakin slips an arm around his waist, but doesn’t say anything. Obi-Wan just leans into him and hopes he knows that he’d take him over anyone else in the universe – and especially over Jango Fett.
The evening progresses as it usually does. They raise a cheer when confirmation – and money – comes through from the mob boss. They drink, Quinlan and Anakin have a gamble, Obi-Wan and Aayla have a dance, Mace disappears off into the back room with ‘business associates’ (Obi-Wan doesn’t ask; he never asks anything about Mace’s personal life).
Chipper and buzzing on alcohol some patron probably gave her as a joke, the girl they’ve all jokingly dubbed ‘Anakin’s shadow’ appears halfway through the night, hanging onto his arm and laughing boisterously at all the jokes she makes at his expense. Obi-Wan just smiles as he watches them; Ahsoka is good for Anakin, though she annoys him now.
Eventually the bar starts taking last calls, and Obi-Wan takes Aayla’s arm and they stumble out into the street, leaning against the wall outside and taking gulps of what passes for fresh air down here in the Undercity.
All the warning Obi-Wan has is Aayla hissing, “Look out,” before he hears a familiar voice say his name.
He sighs heavily as he turns; he really thought he’d avoided him. “Jango. Surprising to see you here.”
“Even more to see you here.” The Mandalorian has his helmet off for once; his expression is scornful. “What are you doing here, cyar’ika? You could be making out like a bandit on Nar Shaddaa, with your skills.”
Obi-Wan wants to snarl at him, don’t call me that, I’m not your sweetheart- but he contains it, pulls it in, and says calmly, “I could. But I like Coruscant.”
Jango snorts. “Apparently everyone loves kriffing Coruscant.” He looks Obi-Wan in the eye. “Come on. You know the Hutts would pay you a fortune.” Then he glances back toward the club. “Or are you not sure they’d hire your new boyfriend?”
“He’s my fiancé, actually,” Obi-Wan says with relish.
That surprises Jango. “What? Are you serious? That kid?”
“Yes, him.” Obi-Wan makes a twirling motion with one finger. “Now, turn and go. I already told you we were over a long time ago.”
Jango holds up his hands. “Alright, suit yourself.” With a mocking salute, he turns and leaves.
“Me-ow,” Aayla says with approval, “You showed him, huh?”
“I suppose,” Obi-Wan says, relieved when he sees Anakin and Quinlan heading toward them.
Ahsoka is still hanging off Anakin’s arm as they walk over. She detaches herself once they reach Obi-Wan, and gives them all a quick grin before bounding off down the street. “Be careful!” Obi-Wan calls to her back, and she acknowledges him with a wave.
“You don’t need to worry,” Anakin tells him, taking his arm, “She’s fine on her own.”
Obi-Wan is exhausted and not a little drunk, and really feeling it when they get back home. He just about manages to undress and pull on an old T-shirt before collapsing into bed.
Anakin curls up close behind him and gently kisses the back of his neck. “Have I told you I love you today?” he asks softly, throwing an arm over Obi-Wan’s waist.
Obi-Wan takes his hand. “Several times. I never mind hearing it again.”
“Good. Because I love you.”
“Well that’s lucky, since you did agree to marry me,” Obi-Wan says, grinning into the dark.
Anakin kisses his neck again, and Obi-Wan can feel him smiling. “Yeah. Luckily, you said yes too.”
The night is never quiet in the Undercity. There are always speeders passing by, clubs pounding out noise all night, gangs in the streets and drunks shouting and laughing and breaking out into fights. But here and now, whatever else he might be, Obi-Wan is cosy and warm and happily in love; at peace.
Just proves it, I suppose, he thinks as he drifts off to sleep. You don’t have to be good to be in love.