Chapter Text
Obi-Wan hated Quinlan Vos. He hated him the way you hate that annoying childhood classmate your mother always held up as a shining role model. The one you knew, deep down, was pulling the most egregious shit the moment everyone’s backs were turned.
He hated him for falling for the exact same girl he had spent months losing his mind over, and then having the audacity to marry her seven years later—not that Obi-Wan retained a single shred of feeling for Asajj by that point.
He hated him for being the 'bright, charismatic one' of their duo, the one everyone seemed to remember no matter how much time passed.
Most of all, he hated him because Quinlan knew how to read him like a cheap, open book. Quinlan was the one who noticed all his special moods and read his insecurities, who had dragged him out of the dark valleys of depression, and time and again forced him into a dozen wild adventures that Obi-Wan would have gladly sat out at home with a good book if left to his own devices—adventures he now, begrudgingly, held incredibly close to his heart.
He hated him the way you hate a best friend. Just a little.
Because best friends are simultaneously the best and the absolute worst thing to ever happen to you.
Today was the best day to show off that "worst" part. Obi-Wan's fingers practically shook against his screen as he typed.
[Me]: I don't even doubt that you actually did it.
[Me]: Cancel it, Quinlan.
[Quinlan]: Last minute? And lose the deposit?
[Quinlan]: Come on, man! It's not every day you're entirely alone in your brand new fancy house with the renovations finally finished. I know you're dying of boredom. And maybe going just a bit insane out there.
[Me]: I am serious. Cancel it. I'll reimburse you.
[Me]: Please.
[Quinlan]: Oh Obi, R-E-L-A-X!
[Quinlan]: I'm hoping my present will help with that. Always so tense. You'll be prematurely gray and wrinkly, you know.
Growling, Obi-Wan slammed the call button. His giggling best friend picked up on the very first ring.
"The answer is no," Quinlan chirped.
Attempting to project an aura of absolute authority—knowing full well it would fail exactly as it always did with Quinlan—Obi-Wan pressed on regardless. For the record.
"Cancel. The. Stripper. Vos," he commanded.
Quinlan merely cackled into the receiver. "But I specifically requested your favorite flavor! The agency assured me they had someone long-legged, curly-haired, and packing a heavy Southern accent. Sorry, I couldn't exactly ask for a 'confident smartass'. Didn't think they'd get the type right, anyway…"
"Quinlan, I am going to murder you one day."
Obi-Wan didn't mean it. Not really. Though every time he stumbled across a particularly vicious combination of adverse side effects in the pharmacology research he specialized in, he did pause to contemplate the logistics of giving the man a roaring case of emerald diarrhea. Entirely harmless, of course. Vos was already taking daily allergy pills—for that fluffy menace Asajj insisted they’d get instead of a normal cat. It would be laughably easy to persuade him to take a matching "vitamin complex" to go with them.
Besides, Obi-Wan wasn't technically a medical doctor. No Hippocratic Oath to violate. Though, he would gladly make an exception for Quinlan, if that had been the case.
“Oh, you won't do such a thing. You love me, Kenobi. And come on, you weren't seriously expecting a standard housewarming care package or something, were you? Though Asajj actually has something prepared for you later, and it's in a basket so… be just a little bit afraid, okay?”
“Still not funny, Quinlan. Really,” Obi-Wan groaned, massaging the bridge of his nose.
There was truth in Quinlan's assumptions: he was going to get those premature wrinkles—his best friend was simultaneously right about the stress and the sole reason for its existence. Obi-Wan could already feel a vein throbbing in the center of his forehead. "Cancel it."
“Mmm, I don't think so. Besides, I thought it’d be hilariously nostalgic. Remember the first time you came to Coruscant and I took you to that strip club? Man, the way you stared! I literally had to remind you to close your mouth,” Quinlan rumbled, dissolving into more laughter. “Just treat it as a proper welcome to the city, Obi. Maybe try a little roleplay or something this time. Have some fun, it’s not going to kill you.”
“Quinlan—”
“—have to run now, man! I’m not as lucky as you to have a whole day off to myself. See you at the party tonight. And~ Enjoy your gift!”
Before Obi-Wan could wedge another word into a conversation that was decisively not going his way, the call disconnected. He stared at the blank screen for a minute or two, his cheeks flushing a faint, betraying pink at the memory Quinlan had so unhelpfully supplied.
For the record, he did not have to be reminded to keep his mouth shut. Okay, perhaps just once. Every other time, he had caught himself well before it became obvious. And the performance they had witnessed had been genuinely beautiful—it would have been uncultured not to be temporarily parched.
Ah, give him a break! It had been a year ago, right at the tail end of a long, bleak winter spent hiding inside after his brutal breakup. The club had been a sudden, dazzling stripe of color: flashy lights, gorgeous bodies that looked absolutely nothing like his ex, the heavy bass, the choreography. Oh the things those gorgeous angels did at the pole… Yes, it had gotten him going. It wasn't the cheap, tacky nonsense usually depicted on television where people stuffed crumpled bills into dancing girls’ bra or tiny panties. If anything, it had been closer to art. And there had been so much glitter that Obi-Wan had spent the subsequent weeks finding stray, sparkling flecks in his clothes, his hair, and—well, everywhere.
That said, Quinlan was entirely wrong about this being relaxing. This prank was a literal boulder dropped directly into the pristine, manicured lawn of his plans. Obi-Wan was hosting a housewarming party tonight; he had invited every single person he knew in the city—a whopping eleven people—specifically to show off the renovations, serve expensive wine, and spare himself the exhausting necessity of meeting each of them separately. Obi-Wan was nothing if not practical.
Even if a stripper could be… tentatively pleasant to look at under other circumstances….
No. Absolutely not. It wouldn't be enjoyable at all, it wouldn't be funny, and it certainly wouldn't be relaxing.
When whatever creature Quinlan hired showed up, Obi-Wan would simply lock the door. Close it in their face. Better yet, he would just pretend he wasn't home.
Yes. That was a flawless plan.
Yeah… no.
An hour later, when the doorbell rang, Obi-Wan told himself he was just going to peek through the peephole and leave the intruder stranded on the porch. Maybe stare a little before he returned to his otherwise planned out afternoon. Perhaps send Quinlan a message that he’d reverted the parcel back to the warehouse, where it belonged. Okay, it was a low joke, treating people like that was not in his character.
But that all didn’t matter, because now… Obi-Wan stood glued to his living room floor, staring up at a spectacularly toned backside and endlessly long legs, while his "present" was pretending to service the internet cable system hidden inside the alcove.
Quinlan had mentioned something about roleplay. And apparently, Obi-Wan was terribly, horrifyingly into it. Surprise.
More specifically, it would appear he was into blue coveralls. The baggy, unsexy, utilitarian kind.
His mind, entirely against his will, began calculating the logistics. Did the suit come off in one swift go? Was it secretly held together by a strip of tear-away Velcro? Would they do it right there on the step ladder, the stripper guy positioned just a couple of steps up, exactly where he was standing right now?
Fuck. Why on Earth had he opened that door?
Well, probably because Quinlan hadn’t been lying about a single one of Obi-Wan's long-term, meticulously collected obsessions. His "present"—the stripper, the technician, the man, whatever the hell he was supposed to address him as, given that even the half-scratched-off nametag on his chest was likely fake—was a masterpiece. He looked to be in his early twenties, possessing dark blonde, wavy hair pulled back into a rakish ponytail that managed to look both messy and sexy at once, and wearing a pair of work coveralls that had absolutely no business looking that spectacular on a human body.
And then there was the smile. It wasn't a proper, polite stretch of lips, but a wicked, one-sided smirk, his eyes twinkling with the kind of deliberate mischief usually reserved for Hollywood close-ups.
Obi-Wan had been absolutely gone on the spot, he hadn't even been able to muster a coherent syllable as the nameless, gorgeous creature on his porch read his address off his smartphone.
And then, the man had effectively executed him a second time by dropping his name.
“Obi-Wan Kenobi, that right?”
Helpless to do anything else, Obi-Wan simply stepped aside and let him in, utterly captivated by yet another flashing smirk. Teasing…
“Been in houses with this floor plan before,” the fake technician noted casually over his shoulder as he moved deeper into Obi-Wan’s sanctuary.
In turn, because opening the door for a stripper hadn't even been a tentative line item on his agenda, Obi-Wan now found himself absurdly lost on his own property, especially as his guest made himself immediately at home. Before Obi-Wan's racing mind could formulate a defense—something resembling a decisive ‘well, actually, you should go home now or to whatever place you need to be, take a break or something, though you’re very handsome and everything’, the stripper hauled a step ladder over, positioned it against the wall, and addressed Obi-Wan’s obvious confusion with a wink.
“You can kick back and relax now, Mister. I’m a professional.”
Left absolutely breathless, Obi-Wan did exactly that. Not that he had much choice. Sinking back against the arm of the sofa, torn between delight, lust and confusion he simply watched as A went to work. In another spiral of thoughts tormenting him, Obi-Wan decided he would just call him A, as it was the singular letter he could make out of his name badge, and leaving him entirely nameless felt uncomfortably close to treating him like a piece of meat—and Obi-Wan wasn't quite that far gone yet.
In all truth, he was already staring at A like he was one, so… at least he had a name.
Obi-Wan had no earthly idea what the man was actually doing to the wires, and frankly, he didn't care. His entire world had narrowed to the way A dug into the cable box, biting his lower lip as he strained to reach the higher connectors. He watched the way the man shifted his weight, leaning into the metal frame of the steps and balancing himself by practically hugging the step ladder with his thighs, straining muscles that were now outlined oh-so beautifully by the cheap blue fabric.
For all Obi-Wan knew, A could absolutely just rip half the cables out of the box, while he was at it, if he just continued standing like that.
Against all the previous talks of his elevated manners, Obi-Wan actively had to remind himself to close his mouth. He was staring. Worse, he was salivating. Fuck. Apparently, on top of being quite interested in strangers huffing over his cables and stretching in his living room, he desperately needed to get laid… This little detail had surely been calculated by Quinlan as well—the absolute bastard he was.
In time, A noticed his intense gaze—would have been a miracle if he didn’t see Obi-Wan staring at his butt—quipping immediately from his perch: “All fine down there?”
It would have been just lovely if the question had included a definition of terms. Fighting his own brain, Obi-Wan fished for an appropriate response, desperately trying to hide the fantasy of tasting those plump, inviting lips and cupping this pretty ass in his palms…
Really, where did they make guys like him? Like, he was certainly no Broadway model but there was this lightness to him, simple beauty in his doe eyes and shark smile…
“Is it alright if I…”
Obi-Wan trailed off, incapable of finishing the sentence. Alright if he stood there? Alright if he came closer? How was this choreography of desire supposed to work? Was he allowed to touch the man, or did physical contact cost extra? Because Obi-Wan knew with absolute certainty he would swallow the financial deficit right up just to trace his hand over this flesh.
Judging by his face and hands, A was beautifully, flawlessly tanned and clocking that, Obi-Wan’s mind momentarily hyper-focused on the imaginary contrast of that sun-kissed skin against the blue-white pallor of his own hand wrapping around his waist, trailing lower over his thigh…
“You can watch,” the man smirked, looking down at him. “I’ve been told I’m highly amusing when I’m working. Just give me one more moment here, and I’ll be right with you.”
Oh, heavens… Obi-Wan desperately required a blueprint for what that was supposed to mean. A was amusing—highly so—though if Obi-Wan had full command of his vocabulary right now, he would have chosen words like captivating or mesmerizing.
He’d search for more words about the man’s simple beauty and charm, but then came the real crisis: what did “be right with you” entail? Was this still part of the utility-man script? Was Obi-Wan expected to pretend he didn't have the cash to pay for the fake service? Was he meant to question the quality of the "handyman's" work so the man would offer to show him his real skills?
Or did that only work for pornographic fiction?
Argh. Obi-Wan just wanted a direct answer. How, exactly, was he supposed to coax A out of those blue coveralls? And more importantly, how was he going to survive it when he did?
The alarm bells screaming of his desperate necessity to get laid were currently ringing at a deafening volume inside his head.
Unfortunately, there was no emergency service offering an on-demand dispatch for gorgeous and willing utility men in his immediate area, and Obi-Wan knew his own habits all too well—he would never actually go out to a bar to meet someone new to satisfy this spark of desire. No, he would spend days overanalyzing a sketchy, faceless Grindr profile or two, lose interest and courage in process, and eventually resign himself to the solitary, sweet release of his own fist.
Could it be A had Grindr? Probably. He looked like he was at least bisexual, for that Kenobi had a certain kind of eye…
Frankly, Obi-Wan didn't just need to get laid; he needed a therapeutic overdose of sex, because this sudden, ravenous obsession with a total stranger was completely unlike him.
Still, he couldn't quite bring himself to shut it down. Thinking about it, letting himself get excited, allowing the heat to pool low in his gut…
“Should be all fixed up now,” A quipped, having already jumped down from the step ladder, landing with a light, athletic grace that brought him dangerously close to where Obi-Wan stood. “I’ll let you check it out, though.”
And then… A simply stood there, waiting.
Too thoroughly confused to understand what he was supposed to be verifying, Obi-Wan decided to wait, too. His brain helpfully suggested he should check if A’s strong thighs were as beautifully toned as they had looked, or if that mouth tasted as sweet as he had been imagining for the past ten minutes.
He actually extended his hand a fraction of an inch, the instinct to touch nearly overpowering him, before catching himself against the inappropriateness.
Yanking his arm back, Obi-Wan cleared his throat, snapping out an exhausted, flustered phrase instead:
“I'm sorry. Erm, if you say it’s fine, I believe you. Should we perhaps discuss… the payment?” he ventured, feeling pride pool in his chest for gathering the courage to actually ask.
He held his breath, praying that was the cue to start their choreography. For someone being paid to perform a striptease, A was proving surprisingly reluctant to start. Not that Obi-Wan minded the delay; he was actively enjoying the exquisite torture of being teased by the lack of contact. He'd bet all the money, it would only make the actual performance better.
A blinked, looking slightly confused. Heavens, he actually pouted when he was confused… Help Obi-Wan survive this. “Ah, the bill’s already taken care of. Dispatch doesn't even send us out on a call until the money’s cleared our account, so…”
“Well… it was a gift from my friend,” Obi-Wan pressed, trying to steer the script back on track. “I was hoping I could pay you extra…”
“Your friend paid your bill?” A’s eyes widened in genuine surprise, a slow, appreciative whistle leaving his lips. “Damn. I need to get me some friends like that. And, uh… do you mean like a tip? Honestly, it’s not really encouraged by the company. Our rates are pretty fair for the market, and they already compensate me for gas money. Though, I wouldn't mind a glass of water, if it's no trouble?”
Obi-Wan froze.
Okay. Perhaps that was the game…
“Of course,” Obi-Wan answered, nodding toward the hallway, only too happy to have A follow him deeper into his house.
The kitchen would be an ideal venue, actually. It was bright, the barstools were comfortable, and… well, perhaps he could eventually persuade A to accept that extra cash. Because he would simply perish if he didn’t get a lap dance out of this—assuming, of course, the boy didn't mind. Perhaps A had a highly specific script and couldn't deviate from the choreography, or maybe he just preferred to stay on schedule to hit his usual time slot.
What even was a standard time slot for a home-visit striptease? Thirty minutes? An hour?
“Here you go,” Obi-Wan murmured, passing him a glass of ice water. Warmth tightening in his belly, he felt steered to deliberately trace his fingers over the back of A's hand as the glass changed possession.
The man shot him a grateful smile and greedily gulped half the glass dry before letting out a long, breathless exhale. “Man, this heatwave is absolutely brutal. It’s properly melting out there. Good thing your place has a solid AC system. Though, you don’t look like you go out into the sun all that much…”
Obi-Wan swallowed instinctively, watching the rhythmic bob of the boy's Adam's apple as he drained the rest of the water. He wanted to press his lips against the tender skin of that throat. Or at least trace it with his fingertips—not that he was in any position to be picky.
Instead, his short-circuiting brain completely bypassed the filter between his thoughts and his mouth.
“You can take something off. If you’re hot… I wouldn't mind.”
A stopped and stared at him. And suddenly that mischievous twinkle in his eyes shifted to the kind of curious, excited, half-lidded gaze that sent a jolt straight down Obi-Wan’s stomach.
Mentally, he danced in absolute relief. Finally, finally, he had dropped the correct cue. He had done something right.
“Oh, really?” A asked, slowly licking his lips.
Obi-Wan nearly lost his mind all over again, his eyes glued to the swipe of that pink tongue. They were standing so close now; he could literally reach out and touch him. But perhaps he should step back to give the boy some room?
He would have done anything A asked him to, really, entertaining himself with various scenarios of this all playing out however A wanted it to.
Well, right up until the moment A suddenly raised an eyebrow and let out a bewildered:
“Mister… do you by any chance think I’m a hooker or something?”
Oh, no. Obi-Wan had not done anything right at all.
“Of course not! I am so sorry if it sounded… well, exactly how it sounded,” Obi-Wan stammered, his face instantly burning a catastrophic shade of scarlet. “I didn’t mean to assume anything like that at all, I assure you. I deeply respect what you do, and I know your occupation has nothing to do with sex work. Not that I imply that sex work is something not deserving respect. Of course it does. I’m.. not talking about that. But well, what you do… It’s… quite underrated, really. Artistic, even. I’m sorry, I talk too much.”
And… There he went, losing entire train of thought because a pretty boy was looking at him. Pathetic, really.
Before Obi-Wan could bury himself further, A cut him off, his brow furrowing deeper. “What I do?”
Oh, Heavens. It couldn't possibly get worse, could it? And yet it seamlessly was, veering straight into the uncharted territory of yes, it absolutely can. How had Obi-Wan managed to profoundly insult the man’s job while trying to tell how much respect he had for it?
He had no earthly idea, so he simply defaulted to the exact same, continuous loop of frantic I’m sorry's.
A looked righteously out of it for a moment, silently allowing this madness to unravel while Obi-Wan produced a few more relentless, stumbling apologies. He even managed to squeeze in several awkward additions: “Well, I understand it’s not a traditional profession,” and, “I’d never assume to insult you—anyone—with such blatant offers.”
He was not having a good day, okay?
And then, A’s features cycled through a rapid wave of emotions. A sharp frown of irritation tightened across his face, followed by a sudden, bewildered “o” as he cracked his mouth open to speak—only to instantly think better of it. Finally, his expression smoothed out into something Obi-Wan couldn’t quite grasp.
He hoped, for a second.
Before A breathed, “Damn. Mister. You think I’m a stripper,” and chuckled to himself like he’d just solved some grand riddle.
Stop. This. Train.
That tone wasn't teasing. It wasn't defensive saltiness at a perceived insult. It was…
He was genuinely surprised.
No. Fucking. Way.
Obi-Wan stood frozen to the floorboards, entirely incapable of producing a single syllable while unbridled horror painted itself vividly across his face. This was the worst nightmare imaginable.
A low, impressed whistle escaped the A’s lips as he watched the show. “Wow. Oh… damn, that’s actually a huge compliment, I guess. Probably pays way better money, too. Man, I can’t even imagine those tips…”
Obi-Wan's brain—a certified marvel, really, routinely praised by academia and currently funded by a prestigious stipend to relocate to the corporate main branch in Coruscant—was absolutely, catastrophically ill-prepared to process this comment. Or anything else for that matter…
Did he just… actively pine over a legitimate technician who had only come to his home to perform actual maintenance? One he’d undoubtedly ordered himself and just forgot?
A service that had absolutely nothing to do with taking those blue coveralls off?
Had he really just assumed?
Assumed that…
And then imagined…
And thought some more….
Even fantasized…
Fuck. Fuck. Catastrophic fuck.
As the full weight of the situation finally crashed down on him, Obi-Wan’s first instinct was to dissolve into the hardwood floor and permanently cease to exist. But because that was currently physically impossible, the only logical alternative was to let out a quiet, strangled wail and clutch the edge of the kitchen counter for dear life.
Everything that followed was a dizzying blur of frantic I’m sorries and I’m such an idiots, cycled through without a single shred of rhyme or reason. He couldn't even remember what exactly he had blubbered about, completely losing the thread of reality, disjointedly jumping from an unsuccessful start of “it wasn’t my idea at all” directly into trying to pay the man for the inconvenience, before instantly rambling onwards into a panicked monologue about how he didn't mean he was trying to buy the boy's forgiveness.
Or him, at all. He wasn’t for sale. Because he wasn't a fucking stripper.
The universe dissolved into pure white noise the moment he repeated “I am the absolute worst” for the third consecutive time, closing his eyes so tightly that he actually saw stars.
And… came back online when he felt a pair of broad hands on his shoulders.
Cutting straight through the screaming vortex of thoughts and self-loathing cluttering his head, Obi-Wan was given a firm shake that scrambled his flaring panic and made him—and his brain—shut up for a second.
“Hey! Easy there, Mister! Obi-Wan.”
It took him a moment to realize A was holding him tightly, his hands a welcome weight on Obi-Wan’s shoulders. But it was the sudden, casual drop of his own name that made Obi-Wan perk up, only to instantly drown in the boy's pools of blue. Why on earth did the not-a-stripper have to possess such pretty eyes? And such an addictive, cute laugh…
A chortled in a relaxed, easy way that went entirely against Obi-Wan’s current existential spiral.
“Hey, it’s kind of funny, actually,” A insisted, his grip on Obi-Wan's shoulders warm and addictive. “I told you, for all I care, it’s more of a compliment. I don’t know if you’ve ever actually ordered a stripper, but this—” he gestured down at his own baggy torso, “—I don’t think the sexiest person on the planet could make this fabric work. Honestly, I doubt I’m even pretty enough to be a stripper—”
“You’re very pretty,” Obi-Wan murmured, absolutely not helping the situation.
Nor did it help that he was notoriously terrible at compliments. His ex had frequently reminded him that he became sweaty and awkward whenever he tried to say something sweet.
Was he sweating like crazy now? Because he knew he was awkward.
“What I mean to say,” A carried on, a lazy smile tugging at his lips, “is that it’s fine, Mister… erm, Obi-Wan. I’ve been pranked before and it was… well, it was not pretty either. My advice? Let it go. You’ll laugh about it in a week or so. Do something fun in the meantime—maybe actually order a real stripper or something. Better yet, prank your prankster. Whatever works best for you, really. Don’t overthink it.”
He patted Obi-Wan’s shoulder reassuringly, a casual gesture that sent a fresh jolt straight down Obi-Wan's spine.
Obi-Wan deeply doubted he would ever order a handyman to his house again, let alone a stripper, but he wisely refrained from sharing any of those internal calculations. Instead, he simply blinked at the man holding him, still entirely unable to comprehend how they had completely bypassed the righteous fury he had vividly imagined would rumble through A who just came to do his job. Wasn’t anger the most logical, human reaction to someone assuming you did exotic dances for money instead of honest work?
“You know…” A continued, his gaze drifting around the kitchen, “it’s been a terrible month for me so far, so this? This is kind of the highlight of my boring-ass life fixing people’s Wi-Fi and stuff.”
“You’re not boring,” Obi-Wan argued.
He had no idea why he was debating the point. He knew absolutely nothing about him except that his name likely started with A—now that he knew that the badge pinned to his chest wasn’t a stage prop—that he was an internet technician, and that he was breathtakingly gorgeous.
For Obi-Wan, that was more than enough data. In fact, it was far too much data.
Where had he been? Ah, yes. In the middle of wanting to disappear.
“And you are a total mess, Mister,” A chuckled. His hands finally slid off Obi-Wan's shoulders, though he infuriatingly didn't step back out of Obi-Wan’s personal space, his lingering warmth still tickling Obi-Wan’s chest. “I’m really not insulted, I promise. Bygones. Mmm… tell you what. If you want,” the technician’s eyes quickly darted down before seeking out Obi-Wan’s again. “You can buy me a coffee or something. I did call you last week to confirm the appointment, after all, so you should have my number on your phone… It’s—”
A coffee? A coffee wouldn't fix that.
“Do you… like wine?” Obi-Wan blurted out.
He was unsure what was steering the conversation at this point, given that his brain had completely ceased operations. As a man of science and medicine, he naturally rejected sentimental clichés—but according to every piece of romantic fiction he had ever read, in these kind of situations controls were inevitably handed over to either his heart or his cock.
Maybe both.
“I'm hosting a party tonight,” he rushed on, desperate to save the moment before the man could leave. “A housewarming. Would you… care to join? There will be food. And drinks. I spent a fortune on everything, so it must be good at least. I’m really, truly sorry about earlier, so if I could at least make it more bearable.... It’s at eight.”
A blinked at him.
“You’re inviting me to a party?”
Was that also a catastrophic error? It was, in all likelihood, an entirely insane thing to offer someone you had just mistaken for hired adult entertainment. Again—idiot. Just how horny can you be, Kenobi? And yet, for some inexplicable reason, Obi-Wan suddenly couldn't bear the thought of the man walking out that door with a memory of him being this desperate animal who assumed an actual handyman was his stripper. He was losing his mind. Clearly.
“I ordered all this fancy finger food and… well, you don’t have to come, of course,” Obi-Wan scrambled, desperately trying to repair the damage and inevitably shattering it further on the way down. “Just… if it's too much, feel free to forget I even offered.”
He likely would have continued his descent into the abyss, digging a pit so deep he’d never see the bottom of it again, had the technician not cut him off. A sudden smirk played across his lips, a soft chuckle escaping him before he effortlessly slid out of Obi-Wan’s immediate orbit, melting right back into the easy youthful professionalism he had maintained during the first half of their encounter.
“I’d better get going now.”
So.. that was how it was destined to end.
Letting out a heavy sigh—one Obi-Wan couldn't quite identify as relief or despair—he followed the man out of the kitchen. They walked back through the living room to retrieve A’s tool bag and step ladder (again, not props, huh), and moved toward the front porch; all the while Obi-Wan hovered just a couple of steps behind, desperately searching his vast vocabulary for one final, flawless way to express the depth of his mortification.
He went with a classic.
“I, once again, apologize. Profoundly. I am entirely—”
“I can make it by nine,” A suddenly quipped and Obi-Wan’s mouth snapped shut.