The man was so ridiculously cocksure. How very like a politician, to believe his limited power to control events is in fact unlimited. “Senator, I don’t wish to be rude, but I must point out to you that there is a great deal of difference between comfortable Core-World-hopping and deep-space expeditions.”
Organa’s eyebrows pinched in a frown. “No. Really?”
“Really,” Obi-Wan said, letting a little of his impatience show. “In the event that I become incapacitated, are you saying you can strip down a malfunctioning hyperdrive unit, correctly identify the problem, replace its faulty components, or improvise new ones, and reassemble it to full performance capacity?”
Organa grinned. “A standard LT-five unit? Yes. Did it last week, as a matter of fact. It’s good relaxation, and I like to keep my hand in. Timed myself, just for the fun of it. Thirty-eight minutes. How about you?”
Thirty-eight minutes? That was three minutes faster than his own best time. How aggravating. “I am mechanically proficient.”
—Wild Space by Karen Miller
Bail and Obi-Wan are ridiculous
Oh but what if this is the other way round? What if Athelstan is his first regeneration? And he sits, and he drinks with this man, this leader whom he admires despite their differences. And he finds that alcohol has a numbing quality, a certain forgetfulness he sometimes needs. He casts the thought aside until the times are darker and he feels alone in the world.
And when he is reborn, he knows what to do when the times are dark. He reaches for the bottle, the one thing he knows would save him: the one thing to rely upon. A certainty.
And there is another leader, harsh, ruthless, charming. Only this one is less rugged, more effeminate, yet still just as terrible in the face of danger. Loyal. True to his comrades. And the dark haired man, Grantaire, remembers times before France, when he knew a rugged man with the same determination, and the same blue eyes. Equally unattainable.
“Enjolras, will you drink with me?”