“I see you are quite recovered.”
Well, he’s half-right, Anakin thinks as he looks up from his mounds of food, blinking through half-shut eyes. The hangover isn’t doing him much good, he has to admit, but the waffles certainly are. Dex does know his breakfasts.
“Good morning to you, too,” he croaks, as Obi-Wan slides into the cafeteria booth across from him, bringing his steaming cup of coffee with him. “Why are you so cheerful?”
“None of your business,” Kenobi says archly, which means that soon it will absolutely be his business, because he’ll make sure of it. New squeeze? Must be a new squeeze. There’s always a particular sort of relaxed smugness to Kenobi after he’s slept his way through another colleague, Anakin finds, and he’s wearing it now, like he’s the only one in the entire damn building who’s managed to come through multiple trauma shifts unscathed. “How’s your patient?”
“She’s not my patient,” Anakin mumbles, angrier than he wants to show, and decides to make up for it by stabbing up the nearest sausage far more viciously than he needs to. “Resting comfortably, as far as I hear.”
“Good. You should go see her.”
“Why the fuck would I want to do that?”
“Because we benefit from contact with those we serve,” Kenobi says, and despite him sounding like every lecturer Anakin ever had in med school, and whom he despised to the last, there’s always that knowing fondness to Obi-Wan which makes it damn near impossible for Anakin to hate him for it. “You may even make a friend.”
“Not likely.”
“Why not?”
“You know why,” Anakin whines, and flaps his hands in a way which is supposed to convey just how inadequate he’d felt last time he’d been in a room with Padme Freakin’ Amidala, alone, only knowing how beautiful she was from the television and how intelligent she was from the newspaper; how he’d made a complete and utter ass of himself, and how there’s no way in hell he’s going to let himself think that briefly removing part of her ribcage in order to withdraw a three-foot-long metal spike from her punctured lung could somehow change that.
Judging by Obi-Wan’s reaction (raised eyebrows and a sideways smirk), said explanation hasn’t really gotten through.
“Fine,” Anakin grouses, petulantly dropping his fork. “I’ll drop by and see how’s she’s doing.”
“Very good,” Obi-Wan says cheerfully, and, mission accomplished, starts to get up - he’s interrupted, however, to Anakin’s returning delight, by two enormous arms plucking him up out of his seat in a bear hug that Anakin knows all too well. Going by the slow expiring wheeze Kenobi lets out as Dex lifts him into the air, he might be needing that rib resection, too....
“Obi-Wan!” the massive chef bellows happily. “You’ve been avoiding me, my friend!”
“Not you, Dex,” Obi-Wan coughs, grinning. From where Anakin’s sitting, the whole thing looks rather painful, which is perfect. “Just your terrible coffee.”
“Oh, now,” Dex says, faux-chagrined, and drops Kenobi back down to earth. “I’ve made several improvements recently.”
“Really? Because I still can’t feel my tongue...”
They make quite a pair, Anakin thinks, as the doctor and cafe manager bicker their way to the till - and always put on a good show.
Just what I needed, he thinks, but that thought brings him back to what he needs to do, now, apparently, and his mirth quickly fades.
Damn it.
Hippocrates is probably going to have something to say about this...