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Early nights are a gift reserved for those who have been blessed with the talent of good time management, the privilege of full rest days, or — much rarer — the ability to shove insomnia right out the airlock of their brains. Ahsoka is finally in possession of the full criteria trifecta, so it is only fitting that the one night she hopes to get a healthy amount of sleep also happens to be the one night the universe refuses to let her have it.
It’s 2300 hours. The Coruscant sky is dark enough that she can spot the sprinkle of stars across the dimming curtain of blue.
Ahsoka is just about to flop into bed when her comm beeps. She picks it up, wondering who in the galaxy would have any reason to comm her at this time.
It’s Rex.
“Commander?” he asks, his voice tinny over the transmitter.
“Hey, Rex,” Ahsoka says, frowning. “What’s up?” There’s no reason for Rex to be comming her at this time.
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, before Rex clears his throat awkwardly and says, “You might want to come to the cafeteria.”
“Why?” she asks. Who’s in the cafeteria what’s in the cafeteria why the cafeteria —
Oh. Anakin.
At the exact same time, Rex says “It’s General Skywalker, sir.”
She groans. She’s pretty sure she knows what’s going on in the cafeteria.
They’d gotten hold of a crate of Corellian whiskey when they’d intercepted a smuggler’s ship on the last mission, and they were technically allowed to keep it because its true owner had not been identified. The Council hadn’t really stepped in or given orders to return the goods — in fact, they seemed content to let the battalion do whatever they wanted with the generous number of bottles.
Good quality bottles, mind you.
Since they are free for the next couple of days, the entire 501st has decided to spend the night emptying that crate to the best of their abilities.
Ahsoka has not seen Anakin piss drunk yet, and she’s content to keep it that way. But if tonight is the night she has to hold her master’s hair back while he throws up into a toilet bowl, then such is the will of the Force.
The Force works in mysterious ways.
Ahsoka weights her options. She can leave the comfort of her quarters and bid goodbye to the seven hours of sleep she was hoping for in order to rescue her Master (or rather, spare everybody else from her Master’s shenanigans.) Alternatively, she can politely decline and advise Rex to contact Obi-Wan instead, which would be perfectly valid because he’s definitely more equipped to deal with Anakin in this particular situation.
Who is she kidding? She made up her mind the second she heard Rex’s voice.
“I’m on my way,” she says into the comm, hastily pulling a robe over her sleep tunic and pants and quickly making her way down to the cafeteria, shaking her head good-naturedly.
(She sometimes forgets that Anakin is young enough to be her brother, and at the age at which most people would be living out the wildest years of their life. He deserves to enjoy himself at least once in a while. Even it it means getting drunk out of his mind with his battalion.)
They all are, without a doubt, royally drunk.
Sure, they’re all stuck at different points on the scale of lost inhibitions, but none of them are truly spared from a blood alcohol content unacceptable for recreational speeder driving.
It’s not difficult to find Anakin. He’s the only one not wearing blacks. He’s sitting at a table with a few clones, Rex among them. Rex seems to be the only one who isn’t intoxicated or even remotely tipsy. Ahsoka almost begs him to do himself a favour and drink, just to join the rest of the clones in their inebriated states.
“Sorry to call you down at this time, sir,” Rex says apologetically. “He has been talking about General Kenobi for the last half hour. I think he’s had eleven drinks so far.”
Ahsoka’s never drank, but she automatically categorises eleven as extreme.
At least Anakin isn’t shouting, or crying, or doing any of the things she associates with being drunk. He is, however, sitting with his head resting on one hand, muttering something under his breath. When Ahsoka comes closer, he looks up with the most relaxed expression she’s ever seen on him and says “Hey, Snips.”
He’s not slurring his words, which is a relief, but not really, because she can hear everything he says very clearly. This includes “Where’s Obi-Wan? Did you bring Obi-Wan?” followed by “Can you tell Obi-Wan I love him?”
“Okay,” Ahsoka says, nodding slowly at Rex but not looking away from Anakin. “I can work with this. I think.”
Rex chuckles. “Good luck, sir.”
Ahsoka smiles tightly and gently takes the glass of amber liquid from Anakin’s loose grip, setting it down on the table. He doesn’t even notice.
“Skyguy? I’m gonna take you back to your quarters,” she says.
“Right,” he mumbles. “Is Obi-Wan there?”
She changes her mind. “How about I take you to Obi-Wan’s quarters?”
“Sure,” he says, and attempts to stand up, wobbling precariously. She catches him before he can topple to the floor. This must be how the crechemaster feels when she has to deal with the younglings, she thinks.
Slowly, Anakin’s arm around her shoulders, she makes her way out of the room, boisterous voices and clinking cups fading as she turns into the corridor.
“So,” she says. “Tell me about Mast — Obi-Wan.”
Anakin sighs, but straightens up a little. “He’s the best. Love him so much.”
“That’s all?” Ahsoka asks, amused.
“Not really,” Anakin says. “He’s the best master I could ever have,” Anakin says proudly. His voice is so steady that if it were not for his weight on her shoulder, she would have thought he was sober.
“That’s sweet,” Ahsoka murmurs. Anakin doesn’t talk about Obi-Wan very much. Not to her, at least. But she knows he cares deeply for his master. Deeply enough that they’ve violated about half of the Code in numerous ways.
“He’s so pretty,” Anakin complains. Yeah, definitely drunk out of his mind. She regrets not recording this.
“Let’s get you to bed,” Ahsoka says loudly, slinging his arm tighter over her shoulders. “Come on. Bed. No more Corellian whiskey for you.”
He grumbles something unintelligible and somehow manages to lean even further on Ahsoka, who grunts at the extra weight. The walk back is as laborious as a jungle trek through a foot of mud.
Obi-Wan is waiting in his quarters when Ahsoka knocks on the door. There’s a lot to be said about his lack of surprise when he opens it to find a very drunk Anakin Skywalker held upright by a very tired Ahsoka Tano, who gives him a look that says I had no part in this and he’s your responsibility now.
“Behold,” she says, with a poker face good enough to rival Obi-Wan’s. “My master, the Chosen One.”
Obi-Wan blinks a couple times before asking, “What has he been drinking?”
Ahsoka snorts. “Guess.”
“Jawa juice.”
“That’s gross. No.”
Obi-Wan doesn’t ask how she knows what jawa juice tastes like. “Beer? Ebla?”
“Nope.”
“He’s been with the clones, right? Corellian whiskey?”
Ahsoka throws her free hand out to the side, in a taa-daa motion.
Obi-Wan just sighs. “Okay. I can take it from here.”
Ahsoka wonders if this is the first time Obi-Wan has had to deal with Anakin like this. Probably not, for he’s able to maintain some semblance of grace as he takes Anakin from her, leaning him against his side, and all but drags him into the fresher.
Ahsoka goes straight to the couch. Her quarters are so far away, and she really doesn’t want to have to walk back. Master Kenobi will probably let her stay.
She hears the sound of water running, then the rustle of linen clothing and sheets on a bed. Obi-Wan is murmuring something to Anakin. She can only hope he’ll be asleep soon, and not hungover to Sith hells in the morning — thought she won’t be surprised if he is.
Obi-Wan emerges from the bedroom shortly and heads for the space next to Ahsoka.
“I’m tempted to offer you a drink so you can forget ever seeing that,” Obi-Wan muses, glancing at Ahsoka out of the corner of his eye. She’s smiling faintly, but staring blankly at the wall.
“Don’t offer me a drink. I can’t guarantee I’ll refuse,” she says.
“I suppose your master wouldn’t be too pleased if he discovered I gave his underage padawan alcohol.”
Ahsoka scrunches up her nose. “Why do I get the feeling my master was also an underage padawan when he first had alcohol?”
“My dear, your master was an underage padawan when he first got roaring drunk.”
Ahsoka laughs at that. “Isn’t his metabolism, like, super fast or something? How much alcohol does it take to get him drunk?”
“A lot.”
“I see,” she says. So eleven is more than extreme.
They sit in silence for a while. Ahsoka shifts a little closer to Obi-Wan, who notices and smiles, putting an arm around her. It reminds him of when the person in his arms was Anakin instead of Ahsoka. It seems so long ago now, that Anakin was a feisty, hard-headed padawan. He still is feisty and hard-headed, but he has someone to call him Master. Just like he used to call Obi-Wan. Still calls Obi-Wan.
Some things never change, Obi-Wan thinks, smiling as Ahsoka curls up tighter against him.
“I suppose you’ll want to stay over tonight,” he murmurs.
Ahsoka nods. “Please.”
“Always, my dear,” Obi-Wan says softly.
When she falls asleep, still nestled into his side, he gently eases her onto the cushions and retrieves the spare blanket he keeps lying around for this exact purpose. After pulling it up to her shoulders, he turns off the lights and heads into the bedroom, where his disaster of a padawan is hopefully sleeping off the utterly absurd amount of whiskey he’s consumed tonight.
“Snips, there are lots of things you’re going to learn from me as my padawan. Battle strategy, saber forms, how to be the best pilot the galaxy has ever seen —“
Obi-Wan snorts at that. Anakin woke up at the crack of dawn as if he hadn’t been drinking himself into oblivion the night before, with no more than a little headache and a dry mouth. All it took was a glass of water and he looked fit enough to spar for an hour. No hangover. What a shame.
Ahsoka was already sitting on the counter drinking caf when Anakin walked out, ten times more presentable than she’d seen him last. He’d grinned, as if the events of the previous night had never happened, drank his own cup of caf, then sat down on the couch for the chat he really needed to have with her.
Which is what he’s doing now.
“— but I also have an obligation to give you a little piece of advice.” How good said advice would be, he isn’t a hundred percent sure, but it’s a good starting point nonetheless.
Now he has Ahsoka’s full attention, even if it’s accompanied with a wry smile.
“Don’t do anything I would do,” Anakin starts.
Ahsoka grins, flashing her fangs. “Okay, that rules out all the irrational options.”
Anakin flicks her montrals.
“Ow,” she complains.
“And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he continues.
Ahsoka ponders this. Then her face lights up. “Wait, that’s actually the best advice you’ve ever given me. I’ll never make a bad decision again.”
“And you’re still not going to listen.”
“I am!”
“You’re not.”
“I’m not going to get drunk on Corellian whiskey, if that’s what you mean.”
Anakin groans, burying his head in his hands. Obi-Wan is trying not to laugh from where he stands by the counter.
“You’re never going to drop this, right?” he asks, sinking into the couch.
“Nope.”
Anakin sighs again, and Ahsoka grins with what he can only call malice. “Should I tell Master Kenobi what you said about him?”
“You wouldn’t dare. I’ll make you practice forms for three hours,” Anakin threatens, but he’s only half serious. It’s not as if he doesn’t gush over Obi-Wan — to his face, no less — when he’s not drunk, anyway.
Ahsoka is relentless. “I seem to recall you saying ‘he’s so pretty!’”
“Ahsoka!”
Obi-Wan just waves an indifferent hand. “Oh, that’s no surprise. He says that when he’s stone-cold sober.”
“Wow,” Ahsoka says. “I think I could have lived without knowing that.”
“I could give you a drink to forget,” Anakin offers.
“Don’t you dare,” Obi-Wan interjects.
“We have plenty more whiskey —“
“Anakin.”
“I’m only twenty, you know.”
“Anakin Skywalker, you will not give your padawan a single alcoholic beverage until she is at least eighteen.”
“You could make that a Force suggestion,” Anakin says, grinning.
Ahsoka watches them banter, her smile as wide as a tooka’s. Obi-Wan has his head in his hands, looking like he’s about to bring out his lightsaber and cut a hole in the floor so he can fall through and escape Anakin’s ridiculous antics.
“You’re not even hungover. You had eleven drinks and you’re not even hungover.”
“Twelve drinks,” Anakin says.
Obi-Wan just glares at him, giving up on talking some sense back into his head.
An hour later, once his padawan has left to return to her own quarters, Anakin beckons Obi-Wan over to the couch, holding out his arms. It’s peaceful, he admits, as Anakin wraps his arms around his master, resting his head on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.
“I take it you had a good time,” Obi-Wan says dryly. Anakin laughs.
“I did.”
“And I take it Ahsoka doesn’t know your tolerance for alcohol is about ten times higher than the average human’s?”
“Even Vokara Che doesn’t know how I can drink enough to kill a bantha without throwing up.”
“Lucky you.”
They are silent for a few minutes, appreciating the peace of these moments, so few and far between.
Then Obi-Wan asks, “So, what exactly did you say last night?”
Anakin smiles. “Oh, I don’t know. Probably the usual.”
“Probably?”
“Honestly, I don’t remember half of it.”
Obi-Wan nudges up against Anakin’s mental barriers. “Oh,” Anakin says, and lets him in.
Obi-Wan sees the usual. He’s the best. I love him so much. Then — he’s the best master I could ever have.
When he looks at Anakin, he’s smiling with pride — and affection. Obi-Wan cannot help but allow a similar expression to blossom on his own face as he pulls Anakin tighter against him.
“You’re still really dumb for doing that,” Obi-Wan says.
“Probably,” Anakin replies, and he knows he’s forgiven.