Obi-Wan is aging surprisingly well (obi1) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2012-04-25 11:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | eleventh doctor, obi-wan kenobi |
On the Street
Who: Obi-Wan Kenobi and The Eleventh Doctor
What: Panhandling. Whilst sick.
When: This morning
Where: Somewhere in Orange County....
Rating: Starting with PG
Status: In Progress
Last night had been unseasonably cold, not to mention unreasonably cold--mostly due to the rain. Chilly wet drops came down for hours. On Obi-Wan's skin they felt like water dripping from ice cubes. Maybe he'd just been living in California for too long. Back in Scotland, he might have considered it an especially nice night for this time of year. In fact, the whole experience made him more homesick than usual--which was also probably why he hadn't spend the night stressing about keeping out of the rain. And, regardless, the partial shelter he had fashioned out of a wooden pallet hadn't been even close enough to keep him dry.
He'd woken up shivering and sneezing. His head was pounding. His body ached all over.
When Obi-Wan was sick, the usual remedies were never an option. They were too expensive. But he had other reasons, many of them, for snubbing painkillers and cough syrup.
The first hours of the morning were spent hoping that if he got more sleep, it all might go away. But he had no such luck. By ten o'clock, he started to wonder if coffee--one of the two remaining addictive substances that ruled him--would dull the pain in his skull. If the Green Maid were open, he'd get it there, but it was too early and Obi-Wan wasn't a fan of the pop-in, whether or not Galia or her boyfriend would mind.
He counted his money, hands still trembling from the cold he could not seem to shake from his bones. He could spare... a dollar. Crap. Enough for McDonalds, but not enough for coffee that actually contained caffeine.
Obi-Wan forced himself to stand. He hated asking for handouts. That wasn't an option. Or was it? Crap...
He muttered under his breath as he gathered up his things, cursing the mother of the injured contractor that cost him a week of work. And then he cursed himself for spending more than he'd needed to on a couple of new t-shirts. He cursed himself for wanting to look clean, for wanting to pretend he wasn't a hobo, he cursed the pride that dictated every decision he made... the pride that somehow both kept him on the streets and made him hate himself for needing help.
The words started to burst from his mouth without his control. "Spare any change for a cup of coffee?" The words were sour on his lips, like lemon juice. He shivered. "Spare any change for a cup of coffee?"