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"Take that offer to our hostages and see if they are yet willing to convince the powers to change their minds." The burly Rylan sat back in his chair, crossed his arms and glared at Qui-Gon Jinn.
Obi-Wan's gaze bounced between the two beings, Rylan and Jedi. Force, he thought, It's a good thing there isn't a sheet of transparasteel between them, or it would be slag. Wonder if now would be a good time to crack a joke? Obi-Wan considered his Master's stony face and snapping eyes. He sighed inwardly. Maybe not.
Hands tucked in opposing sleeves of his cloak, the tall Jedi Master inclined his head and turned toward the door and the guards flanking it. "Come, Obi-Wan."
The Padawan moved to follow his Master.
"No." The Rylan's voice stopped them both. "The young one will continue the negotiations by coming to the factory floor with me and then observing the conditions for himself."
Qui-Gon met Obi-Wan's gaze. The younger man returned the look calmly, silent despite the desire to tell his Master that twenty wasn't really all that young. Qui-Gon nodded, first to Obi-Wan, then to the Rylan. He exited the room flanked by two escorts armed with stun guns.
Obi-Wan took the next few moments of silence to study his host. Rylans were hairless humanoids, generally stocky and of similar height to the Padawan. Pale sea-green skin gave way to scales on their forearms and on the backs of long broad hands, and also on their shins and tops of their bare feet. Obi-Wan lifted his eyes from the calloused fingers drumming the table to meet the gaze of the leader of this little insurrection, Shobyl. The Rylan blinked rapidly, as all Rylans always did -- a function of having no eyelashes to protect the eyes. The blinking, combined with slit pupils that dilated until they almost obscured the dark green irises, made Obi-Wan think of a wild frelcat he'd once had the misfortune to startle in an alley on Coruscant.
Shobyl stood. "Come, Obi-Wan." Imitating Qui-Gon seemed to entertain him and he grinned. "The stern one is gone. You will now see how the poor of Rylos negotiate."
Wry amusement struck Obi-Wan as he followed Shobyl from the office to the factory floor. If Shobyl had been looking to appeal to the rule breaker, he had just sent him away. Still, he was here to observe, so observe he would. Most diligently. He schooled his features to blandness and buried his hands deeper in his sleeves.
They stepped through two-meter high blast doors, passed armed guards, and entered the warehouse portion of the factory. Obi-Wan halted, taking in the room at a glance. A high catwalk was ringed with factory workers, heavily armed and looking very grim. The floor of the warehouse was a different matter. There, something akin to a party atmosphere reigned, with workers milling, talking, and laughing in the large central area that had been cleared of duracrates that now lined the outside walls.
Silence rippled outwards from the doorway. Obi-Wan felt as if he were a pebble that had been dropped into a pond. As Shobyl and Obi-Wan made their way to the center of the crowd, the workers parted to reveal several tables set up in the middle of the floor. Shobyl motioned for Obi-Wan to take a seat. He did.
Obi-Wan rested his forearms on the table and eyed Shobyl curiously, studiously ignoring the ring of silent onlookers. He couldn't say he felt menaced, but neither did he feel at ease. There was a palpable tension in the room.
"So I imagine you want to talk, Jedi. That's what your type is best at."
"It's your rebellion, Shobyl. Perhaps you should be the one talking. I am willing to listen to anything you have to say. You can trust me."
Shobyl narrowed his eyes. "So you say."
Obi-Wan turned his palms up, showing his empty hands to the Rylan. "You can trust me. Tell me what I need to do to earn that trust."
Glancing up at the cordon of workers, Shobyl met someone's gaze and nodded. He looked back at Obi-Wan. "Negotiate like a Rylan."
Caution entered Obi-Wan's tone. "And how does one do that?"
Two glasses of amber liquid were set down on the table. A drop sloshed over the side of the glass set before Obi-Wan. He wiped up the splash of liquid with his finger and sniffed suspiciously. The sharp odor stung his sinuses and made his eyes water. He struggled to hide his distaste. Shobyl watched him through pupils that were narrow vertical slits.
Obi-Wan pushed the glass away. "I always negotiate with a clear mind and sharp senses."
Shobyl snorted -- a sound of utter disgust. "You're no better than any of the others."
Scowling, Obi-Wan asked, "What do you mean?"
"Trust us, the elite always say. Trust us, the Jedi always say. Trust us." Shobyl leaned forward and sneered. "But you never trust in return." He pushed to his feet and raised his glass. "I only trust a being who will lift his glass with mine."
Shobyl stood unmoving, as his gaze drilled into the young Jedi's. Obi-Wan swallowed. Force, what was he supposed to do in a situation like this? Qui-Gon had warned him not to anger the workers, no matter what. Many lives were at stake -- several high-powered politicians who had been touring the facilities when the workers had risen up, to be exact. It was those very lives that were preventing a military response to the situation; those lives that had caused the Jedi to be called in to negotiate a settlement. Were those lives in jeopardy right here? Right now? Was their safety dependent upon his decision?
Obi-Wan's gaze dropped to the shimmering liquid in the glass before him. If ... if he drank very slowly and used the Force to break down the chemical compounds in the alcohol, he should be fine. He started to reach for the glass and stopped. Force, he couldn't do this -- it just wasn't right. He withdrew his hand and lifted his chin. Shobyl still hadn't moved, but his eyes glittered darkly, dangerously. Obi-Wan could feel the gazes of a hundred Rylans boring down upon him. Even the guards on the catwalk were focused on him.
As Obi-Wan held Shobyl's angry gaze, the realization slammed into him that if he didn't drink with the Rylan, his and Qui-Gon's chances of success on this mission were probably on a par with surviving being sucked into a black hole. He took a cleansing breath and, before he could reason himself out of it, snatched the glass off the table. He clinked his glass to Shobyl's and nodded, then took a little sip. The burning liquid pooled in his mouth. He fought the urge to spit it out and swallowed. Heat trickled down his throat.
The anger drained from Shobyl's expression. "Not like that." Without taking his gaze from Obi-Wan, the Rylan said, "Whalys, show this Jedi how a Rylan drinks."
A young Rylan, younger than Obi-Wan by a couple of years if the smooth skin was anything to go by, stepped up to the table with a bottle of the liquor. Someone handed him a glass. He filled it almost to the rim -- four fingers high -- and picked it up, then met Obi-Wan's gaze and downed the drink. The young Rylan slammed the glass down on the table and Obi-Wan winced inwardly. The whole glass. Force.
"Come, Obi-Wan," Shobyl said with a stilted smile. "Lift your glass with me."
What had he gotten himself into?
"Jedi?"
Obi-Wan slowly shifted his gaze from the empty glass to scan Shobyl's face. He saw no reprieve in the harsh lines bracketing those firmly pressed lips; nor in the sparking eyes. Like a droid with a faulty power source, Obi-Wan lifted his drink in slow motion, seeming to take eons before his glass clinked against Shobyl's. The journey to his mouth was equally arduous. He hesitated with the glass brushing his lip.
Qui-Gon's austere visage arose in his mind's eye, and Obi-Wan almost dropped the glass. Shobyl's words came to mind. The stern one is gone. The Padawan was always pushing Qui-Gon to allow him more independence; now he wished with all his being that Qui-Gon were here beside him. The ludicrousness of the situation struck Obi-Wan and one corner of his mouth twitched. Shobyl must have noticed, because he smiled and nodded. Obi-Wan inclined his head in what he hoped was a passing imitation of Qui-Gon's calm gesture of acquiescence.
"Stilmor," Shobyl said.
"Stilmor." Whatever that means, Obi-Wan thought. Closing his eyes, he tossed back the drink, just as he'd seen Whalys do.
Fire scalded his throat, burning all the way down to explode in his stomach. A paroxysm of coughing seized Obi-Wan and he doubled over. The table kept him from falling on his face. He leaned on it and gulped in great mouthfuls of cool air. The burning eased slightly and he forced himself to straighten up, though he could feel a deep heat flushing his cheeks. He met Shobyl's gaze, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and banged his glass down on the table.
The room erupted in cheering.
Obi-Wan returned Shobyl's smile. Now that the initial impression of having swallowed acid had eased, warmth radiated through Obi-Wan's limbs. Self-satisfaction tinged his thoughts. That wasn't so bad at all. Nothing he couldn't handle.
Shobyl motioned Whalys over. "My son will take over my duties as host while I check on the other Jedi."
"But what of our negotiations?" Obi-Wan asked. A ripple of vertigo lapped at his mind and he subtly steadied himself against the table.
"This is a most important part of those negotiations. You must meet the people of Rylos and get to know them. Talk with my people. Laugh with them. Spend time with them. Learn who they are. Then we will negotiate."
Obi-Wan nodded solemnly. That made perfect sense.
As soon as Shobyl left, a group of Rylans, all young, all boisterous, surrounded Whalys and Obi-Wan, demanding introductions. Obi-Wan relaxed as the other workers seemed content to go back to their own conversations. Chatter rose round about them and filled the warehouse with a pleasant buzz. Or was that buzz inside his head? Obi-Wan shook his head clear and turned his attention to the group surrounding him.
A female beside Whalys began to tell a story, and Obi-Wan took the opportunity to study her. Rylan females were generally more slender than their male counterparts, possessed of a lithe beauty, sleek -- an impression enhanced by their intricately tattooed scalps and upper arms. Like all the workers, this female was clad in sleeveless reddish-brown overalls that gave her green skin a warm cast; her uniform hugged her body, hinting of a very attractive form. Flushing, Obi-Wan snapped his gaze up to her face and discovered amused emerald eyes staring back at him.
She stepped forward and thrust out her hand, palm up. "I am named Crey." Obi-Wan slid his hand, palm down, over hers and told her his name.
"Obi-Wan, tell us a Jedi story." Her smile hinted of an interest that went beyond stories.
Obi-Wan dropped his gaze. "I don't know. I think --"
Whalys slipped a drink into the Padawan's hand. "A toast first. Then a story."
Obi ran fingers through his short hair and glanced at Whalys. "I'd better not. I don't think Qui-Gon would --"
"The grim one is not here. You must. You heard my father. What better way to spend time with us than by sharing a story? And a guest's story always begins with a toast." Whalys raised his glass. He lowered it and squinted at the young Jedi. "Are you afraid of this whiskey's effect? I have been drinking it since I was eight summers. It does nothing except warm your innards."
That's true. That's the only thing I've felt, Obi-Wan thought. Just one more. It can't hurt. He lifted his glass. Whalys did the same. "Stilmor."
"Wait." Obi-Wan lowered his glass. "I prefer to understand what I'm saying. What is this 'stilmor'?"
"As Rylans adopted Basic as our main language, we occasionally wedded words to suit our own purposes. Stilmor unites still and more. It means you wish the other person still more years of life and happiness."
"Ah. Well, then ..." Obi-Wan raised his glass and touched it to Whalys's. Together they said, "Stilmor," and drained their glasses.
Obi-Wan gasped as the scorching liquid slid down his throat. He was glad he didn't break out coughing this time, especially when he caught Crey's approving glance. Another wave of heat rolled over him. His hand shook just a bit as he wiped his forehead on his sleeve.
"A story now?" Crey asked.
"I, I guess. Sure. Why not?" Obi-Wan thought for a moment then launched into a timid telling of how he came to be Qui-Gon's Padawan. His audience was attentive, squatting down around him to listen. The tension coiling in his stomach began to unwind, and soon he found his enthusiasm matching his listeners' as he entered into the spirit of the story and gave life to the words with actions. Several times during the telling he caught Crey's eye and smiled. She smiled back.
When his story ended, the Rylans listening demanded another. Obi-Wan glowed at their praise. He shrugged agreement. Another drink was thrust into his hand. He startled and feebly attempted to backpedal on his decision, but Whalys would have none of it. Obi-Wan took stock of how he was feeling -- warm, relaxed. He was fine. One more drink wouldn't hurt. But it was Crey's twinkling eyes that tipped the balance. He met Whalys's challenge boldly, downing the drink without hesitation.
Obi-Wan launched into describing a recent mission, that could have, and probably should have, gone terribly wrong. Rapt gazes followed his every gesture; bodies leaned forward, straining to hear. A storyteller's vigor thrummed through Obi-Wan's veins. When it came time to describe a fight, he pulled Crey to her feet and positioned her as his opponent, showing his audience what happened next. He came at her slowly as he talked. Suddenly, Crey yanked his arm and twisted. Obi-Wan landed on his back with a loud "Oof!" A collective gasp sounded from the group.
He blinked rapidly as the room spun once then settled back into immobility. How did that happen? Crey hovered on the edge of his vision, a worried look on her face. Obi-Wan propped himself up on his elbow and stared at her for a second. "That was very good, Crey. But when it happened last time, I was the one still on my feet."
Relieved laughter rippled around the group. Crey pulled him to his feet and said. "Another story?"
"Force, no. My body can't take that much punishment." Obi-Wan grinned. "I think I need to walk a little. Wear off this muzzy feeling that's come over me. You must have rattled my brains with that flip."
Whalys stepped between the two and clapped them both on their backs. "Not walk. Dance. Come on, everyone."
A tide of young Rylans swept Obi-Wan to one side of the warehouse, where several workers were tuning up instruments. The musicians laughed at the enthusiasm of the group and launched into a lively folk tune.
Obi-Wan stood back and watched the dancers weave into a hand-linked circle, swaying and laughing. The beat throbbed though his head and pulsed down his arms. He found himself clapping and elbowing Crey to join in. She grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the circle.
"No! I don't know how to dance!"
But the music carried him along and soon his feet were cross-stepping and kicking like everyone else's. Had he ever felt such freedom? Such exhilaration? The music suddenly cut off and Obi-Wan stumbled to a halt. Whalys stood in the middle of the circle with his hands held aloft. "Our Jedi guest will now share a Jedi dance!"
The young Rylans shouted their approval, drowning out Obi-Wan's protests. Crey pushed him into the middle of the circle. Obi-Wan lifted his shoulders and held his empty hands out toward Whalys. "There are no Jedi dances."
"Ha! You have a saber." Whalys pointed to Obi-Wan's belt. "You must have a saber dance."
Murmured agreements sounded round about them. Crey stepped up behind Obi-Wan and slid his cloak off his shoulders. Obi-Wan glanced about at the ring of expectant faces. Saber dance? A smile slowly dawned and he glanced at the musicians. "Something of middling speed, please." Crey clapped and reached up to touch her lips to his cheek. Obi-Wan ducked his head to hide the sudden heat rolling up his neck.
The music began. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, then started to move. It wasn't difficult, really. Take himself through a couple of forms in time to the pounding beat. He unclipped his lightsaber and flicked it to minimum setting, powering it up in the midst of a spin. The circle of spectators gasped. Obi-Wan smiled and switched to a more difficult set of moves. He spun and whirled, ducked and scissor-kicked, twirled and lunged. He executed a backflip, and halted, unable to move. The Rylans burst into applause, thinking the dance finished. Obi-Wan had no intentions of disavowing them of that notion. If he moved an eyelash he was going to be violently ill. Maybe that flip hadn't been such a good idea.
Two Creys walked toward him, both smiling. They fused into one. Obi-Wan took a small breath. His stomach settled slightly, seeming to like the air. He took a larger breath and closed his eyes. Mistake. Flashing lights on the inside of his eyelids whirled insanely fast. Eyes flew back open as he swayed. A hand grasped his elbow.
Music started again, slow and soft. Crey's hands wrapped around his neck, and Obi-Wan looked down into her incredible green eyes. "This is a pair dance, Obi-Wan. Dance with me."
"I, I don't know how." Obi-Wan swallowed hard as her body brushed lightly against his.
"There's nothing to know. Just sway your hips in time to the music."
Crey began to move, slowly, slowly. Her sparkling eyes mesmerized him. Of their own accord, his hands came to rest on her hips. Obi-Wan followed in her wake. The gentle movement gave his nausea the chance to subside, but now a new feeling was churning through his insides. Warming him even more than he already was. Pleasure skittered along his nerves.
This was nice. Very nice.
His hands migrated to the small of her back, pulling her closer. Suddenly the music changed and the pair were pulled back into another ring dance. Crey laughed. Giddiness swept over Obi-Wan as the circle broke into a snake and wove through the other workers who all cheered the dancers on good-naturedly.
When the dance ended, Obi-Wan fell onto a small crate. "Force, I'm thirsty." Someone handed him a glass and he knocked back the contents without thinking, wheezing in alarm as the whiskey burned down his throat. His voice cracked. "Doesn't anyone on this planet drink water?"
Several Rylans chuckled at the comment. Obi-Wan's answering smile faded as dizziness assaulted him. He tried to draw on the Force to calm his churning mind, but it slipped through his grasp like ... like whiskey down his throat. He grinned to himself.
Everything faded to a merry blur. He talked. He laughed. Crey or Whalys were always at his side, though he preferred it when it was Crey. He had the vague notion that he wasn't always as steady on his feet as maybe he should be, but he readily dismissed the thought. He was Jedi. A little alcohol couldn't affect him overly much.
Once or twice someone handed him a glass. He obligingly held it aloft and toasted the Rylan in question with an enthusiastic cry of "Stilmor!", which always resulted in a shout of approval from those standing closest.
Obi-Wan couldn't stop grinning. These Rylans certainly were an affable bunch. The buzz was back in his head, an agreeable counterpoint to the hum of voices all around him.
A familiar voice, loud and sharp, cut through the haze and jerked Obi-Wan around.
At the sight of his Master striding toward him, a silly smirk plastered itself on the Padawan's face. What was Qui-Gon's problem that he looked like such a sour grouch?
Qui-Gon halted before his Padawan, crossed his arms, clamping his fingers around his biceps, and frowned down at Obi-Wan. "You ... are intoxicated."
Obi-Wan waved the comment away, his head lolling to the left in synchronization with his hand. "Pssssh. I'm fine."
Qui-Gon jerked his head back as whiskey breath washed over him.
"I'm in perfick control." Obi-Wan brandished a finger at Qui-Gon and was momentarily distracted by the wiggling of his own digit. He shook his head and brought his bleary gaze to bear on his Master. "And they trusht me." He spun away, arms in the air. "Rylans! Do you trusht me?"
A loud chorus of 'yeses' rolled across the warehouse. Obi-Wan turned back to Qui-Gon. "Shee? They trusht me."
A Rylan stepped forward and handed Obi-Wan a drink. They clinked glasses and shouted, "Stilmor!", then tossed back their drinks. Obi-Wan burped loudly. The Rylan laughed and slapped him on his back.
Obi-Wan draped a companionable arm across the young Rylan's shoulders. "Thish is my good buddy, Whalysh."
Qui-Gon arched one brow. "I assume that means your name is Whalys, since my Padawan seems to be having trouble with his s's."
Whalys nodded and grinned. "Obi-Wan's a good Jedi. You wanna drink, too?"
"No, thank you. This portion of the mission was Obi-Wan's responsibility."
Whalys shrugged. "Your loss, Jedi."
Shobyl appeared at Qui-Gon's shoulder. "My son is right. It is your loss. We only offer the good stuff to those we do trust."
Qui-Gon glanced askance at the older Rylan. "Are you telling me that my Padawan isn't drinking what you call Outlander Whiskey?"
"No. He's enjoying a taste of true Rylan Whiskey."
"More than a taste, I'd say," muttered Qui-Gon. Inwardly, he marveled that Obi-Wan was still standing. Rylan Whiskey reacted with extreme potency on human physiology. The outlander version was about two-thirds water by necessity.
"He's a good Jedi," Shobyl added.
"So I've heard. Though I wasn't aware that the ability to hold one's liquor was the measuring stick of choice on Rylos."
"You want to talk with us, you drink with us."
Qui-Gon turned his attention back to Obi-Wan, who was swaying slightly and staring at him with a happy, if vacant, expression. "So, Padawan, have you done any talking, yet?"
"Heck, yeah. Talked lots. Right, Whalysh?" He cut off, his eyes growing round. "Ohhh. You wanna know if we've bin negosh--, nogo--" He started to chuckle. "No go!"
Shobyl rested his hand on Qui-Gon's shoulder. "Tomorrow we negotiate."
Obi-Wan burped. "Yep. Tonight ish a, a no go!" Laughing, Obi-Wan took a half step forward, almost losing his balance. He swung and backhanded Qui-Gon on the chest, then staggered and fell against him. Qui-Gon set him back on his feet and pursed his lips.
Obi-Wan expelled another puff of whiskey breath in Qui-Gon's face and flung an arm around his neck. "You're a good mashter, Mashter. Butcha worry too much."
"Is that right, Obi-Wan?"
"Yep. Don't be so grim. I got 'er all unner control." He sagged a little then straightened up.
"Mm. I can see that. But perhaps we should retire for the night so we'll be fresh for tomorrow's negotiations."
Obi-Wan patted Qui-Gon's chest with his free hand. "I unnershtand. Man your age, gotta get your resht."
Qui-Gon wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or shake the boy. Instead he said, "That's right, Obi-Wan."
"You go on, Mashter. I'm fine."
Whalys clapped his hand on Obi-Wan's upper arm. "Come on, Obi-Wan. They're starting another ring dance."
"Ring dansh! Gotta go, Mashter. Catcha later." Obi-Wan staggered off, leaning heavily on Whalys.
Qui-Gon sighed and shook his head. He scowled as someone handed a drink to each of the two males and they gulped them down like water.
"You are displeased with the young Jedi's behavior," Shobyl said.
Obi-Wan and Whalys were pulled into the ring dance. Obi-Wan's laugh rang out as he was practically dragged around the circle.
"He is not behaving in a manner befitting a Jedi."
"Different situations call for different behaviors. But I imagine you've traveled much more than I ever hope to, so you know that full well. Obi-Wan is the first being -- and certainly the first Jedi -- who has opened his heart to the poor of Rylos in recent memory. We will yet honor him for that. Do you plan to punish him?"
"That won't be necessary. I believe he has already chosen his own punishment."
Obi-Wan pitched out of the circle of dancers and landed on his back. A young female Rylan stepped aside to help him. He reached up and pulled her down on top of him. Qui-Gon tensed and started forward. Shobyl's hand on his arm stopped him.
Smiling, the female scrambled to her feet and stepped back, motioning Obi-Wan to follow. Qui-Gon narrowed his eyes as his Padawan struggled to his feet and grinned at the female. Obi-Wan took a single step toward her and halted. He swayed dangerously, his eyes enlarging, then rolling back in his head.
Obi-Wan fell over like a slab of ferrocrete. Qui-Gon winced as the young man bounced slightly when he hit the floor.
The Jedi Master glanced at Shobyl. "I think, perhaps, Obi-Wan will be retiring with me, after all."
Obi-Wan groaned. It felt like a thousand kotgrubs were roiling about in his stomach and clawing up his throat. "Gonna be sick," he whispered.
Strong hands clamped under his armpits and dragged him into a bright white room. The glare knifed into Obi-Wan's eyes. He moaned and started to gag, just as he was deposited before a toilet. Obi-Wan gripped the sides and emptied the contents of his stomach into the receptacle.
He sat back on his heels, sucking air into his lungs, the taste of bile thick upon his tongue. His stomach started churning again. He spoke very slowly and carefully. "Ohhh. I am going to die."
A snort sounded directly behind him. "You are most certainly not going to die, Padawan."
Qui-Gon's voice bludgeoned Obi-Wan's mind. He gripped the sides of his head. "Force. Then I want to die. Put me out of my misery, Master. I --" He cut off as his own words banged around in his head, adding to an already blinding agony.
Obi-Wan lunged forward, throwing up again, afraid to move when the convulsions stopped. Head still in the toilet, he said, "I'm sorry, Master. Force, I'm so sorry. I'll never --" A vise grip squeezed his stomach and he began vomiting yet again.
When he could finally sit back again, tears were streaming down his cheeks and dripping onto his chest. He rubbed at the trickles and paused. He squinted downward. Throat raw and aching, a croaking whisper was all he could manage. "Where are my clothes? Got nothing on but my shorts."
"I had to strip them off of you when you vomited all over them," Qui-Gon replied.
Obi-Wan winced. "You don't have to yell, Master. Don't remember that at all. I'm sorry. Force, I'm so sor--"
A hand gripped his shoulder as Qui-Gon knelt beside him. "I'm barely talking louder than a whisper, Padawan."
Obi-Wan groaned. His stomach contracted painfully and he dove for the toilet, retching. Painful dry heaves that went on and on and left him sobbing. His master hoisted him to his feet. His knees buckled and Qui-Gon was forced to drag the miserable young man back to his pallet, just outside the refresher.
Draping an arm over his eyes to block out the dim light, Obi-Wan said, "Please, don't ever, ever, let me do anything like that ever again."
"I didn't let you do it this time, Padawan. You'd better try and sleep."
Obi-Wan moaned and curled into a tight little ball of misery. He thought he heard a soft chuckle as he spiraled away into darkness.
A hand shook and shook him and wouldn't leave him alone. Obi-Wan swatted at it and rolled over. The shaking continued. It was making his headache worse.
"Flog off, whizball," he muttered.
"Obi-Wan!" Qui-Gon's voice was harsh.
The Padawan's eyes sprang open. He cried out and quickly slapped his hands over them. "Why's it so Force-awful bright in here? Turn off the blasted lights."
"Padawan. I do not have the power to turn off daylight. Now, get up and get dressed."
With a groan, Obi-Wan turned his face into his pallet. "Thought you said I'd thrown up on my clothes. Can't get dressed. Got to sleep."
"I cleaned your clothing. Get dressed. Now."
Even with the pain that was ricocheting through his head, Obi-Wan recognized that tone of voice. No argument allowed. But abject misery could make one extremely perverse.
"Why?"
"Yes, Master, is the reply I'm looking for."
Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut tighter. "Why?"
"Because negotiations are due to begin in twenty minutes and we barely have enough time to grab a bite to eat."
Obi-Wan's stomach lurched. He gagged and clamped his hand over his mouth. The feeling subsided and he pried open his itchy burning eyes to squint at Qui-Gon, who was kneeling before the pallet. Was that a smirk on his master's face?
"Are you enjoying this?"
"And if I am, that makes no difference at all. You still have to get up."
"You can negotiate without me. Got to sleep." Obi-Wan started to roll over again, but was stopped by Qui-Gon's hand gripping his arm.
"Sorry, Padawan. That's a no go."
Obi-Wan stared at his master. "A no go?"
"That's right. You're the one who drank with the Rylans; you're the one who gets to talk with the Rylans. I can only offer you support and advice." One corner of Qui-Gon's mouth lifted. "Up you get, you party gundark."
With a long drawn out groan, Obi-Wan pushed himself to his knees. The room spun round and he groped for the wall. Once standing, he slumped against the ferrocrete as Qui-Gon proceeded to help him into his leggings, then his tunic. His master lifted his leg and deposited his foot in his boot, then did the same with his other leg. Twenty years old and being dressed by his Master. If he wasn't feeling so putrid, he would be totally humiliated.
Qui-Gon stood and slapped his hands together to brush them off. The sound cracked loudly in Obi-Wan's ears and he winced.
"Ready?" Qui-Gon asked.
"Force, I am going to die." Obi-Wan pushed away from the wall and sagged against his master.
Qui-Gon chuckled. "No one ever died from a hangover, Padawan."
"Just wanted to," muttered Obi-Wan. "Never again. I swear. Have you ever been this stupid, Master?"
The only answer Obi-Wan received was another chuckle as Qui-Gon guided him toward the waiting Rylans.
