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Obi-Wan is an early riser, a fact bemoaned both by his old master, who preferred nighttime meditation to Obi-Wan's sunrises, and by his old Padawan, who required ample sleep, caf, and the stars to be in an impossible alignment to wake up at sunrise without complaining. During the war, of course, Obi-Wan slept when he could and woke when he needed to, but what with Dooku’s convenient betrayal of Sidious and the subsequent systematic destruction of every single one of the old Sith’s plans, Obi-Wan has been able to return to a normal schedule. Anakin, it seems, has not followed his lead.
It’s five forty-five in the morning, the sun is just beginning to pass the horizon, and Obi-Wan has twenty voicemails from Anakin— the last dated to half an hour ago.
Obi-Wan deliberates just leaving the voicemails and meditating on the balcony, but, he considers, it’s Anakin, which means that there’s a decent chance he’s calling about property damage that’s entirely his fault but that will somehow become Obi-Wan's problem. It should be Padmé’s job to deal with Anakin-related problems now, what with her making the nigh-incomprehensible decision to marry him. Anakin should be calling her, not him, but... Obi-Wan frowns. Anakin might, for once, have a valid and non-criminal reason for calling him. It’s theoretically possible. Maybe life without hiding a secret marriage has miraculously mellowed him out.
Obi-Wan clicks on the most recent one— it’s only fifteen seconds long, which does not bode well— and settles in to watch.
In the holo, Anakin is sitting on a slouchy leather couch that’s worn and faded, which, come to think of it, looks a lot like Garen’s old one. Obi-Wan has a moment of deep mistrust of the couch— he doesn’t even know half of what’s happened on it, but he knows enough to know that he doesn’t want to be within two meters of the thing— and a brief moment of horror as he considers where and when Anakin might have gotten ahold that particular one, but he sets it aside for the moment.
Anakin is clearly not at the Senator’s house, though Obi-Wan has no idea where he is. It’s certainly not the temple, unless the temple has recently acquired grey duracrete walls covered in old podracing posters and a ranking list that says ‘Near-Death Experiences in the Last Month (no anakin, getting chewed out by obi-wan isn’t a near death experience bc we’ve all survived it)’ with ‘AnSk’ at the top with 13, right above ‘QlVo’ with 12.5.
How, Obi-Wan wonders errantly, does one achieve half of a near death experience? And why is there a chart with monthly rankings?
Anakin looks an utter mess. His eyes are puffy, there seems to be a light sheen of sweat across his face, and he has the alternating flushed/pale look that Obi-Wan associates with people so incredibly drunk that they’re about to vomit on his shoes. Anakin slumps back in the holo, falling ungracefully on to the couch, and the movement reveals that he’s holding a jug of what looks to be the 501st’s latest batch of moonshine. Ah, Obi-Wan thinks, that would explain Anakin’s state. The clones make their liquor strong— strong enough to get even a Jedi drunk.
“Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Anakin slurs, looking off to the side of his comm, “you’re my— you’re my only ho—”
Then he leans over and vomits, and the message ends.
“Charming,” Obi-Wan remarks, already regretting his decision to look at the recordings.
He selects another one, about ten voicemails and three hours before the one he’d just seen, and Anakin pops up, much less drunk.
“—I just love them so much,” he says, apparently not having realized that the recording just started. “They’re— they’re— Obi-Wan—“
Anakin sniffs, and to Obi-Wan’s horror, starts crying. Obi-Wan looks at the holo, askance. Anakin doesn’t cry. He screams, he rages, he occasionally breaks plates and short-circuits lightbulbs, but he doesn’t cry.
“They’re so SMALL!” Anakin says, not bothering to wipe away his tears. “And their heads! Obi-Wan, their heads! They’re like— like—" he makes a vague shape with his hands, “like a fruit! But smaller. And softer. And squishier.” Anakin looks stricken. “They’re so squishy! What if I kill them!” He repeats himself, slightly more panicked. “Obi-Wan, what if I kill them?”
The recording ends.
“Oh dear,” Obi-Wan murmurs, an unsettling suspicion growing. He chooses the sixteenth message, desperately hoping that Anakin is going to say something to contradict Obi-Wan's theory.
Anakin is still spread out on the couch. “It’s—” Anakin looks vaguely confused for a second, before his eyes refocus on the comm. “It’s just— I mean— I’m drunk. I’m twenty three and— and I’m drunk!”
“Oh, are you?” Obi-Wan mutters.
“I can’t— Like! Obi-Wan! Why did you let me get—” He pauses, hiccupping. “Drunk. ‘M drunk.” He sighs. “You- you’re. Fucking drunk.” He pauses. “No. Me. But— you shouldn’t have,” he slurs. “You shouldn’ta let me, y’know.”
The message ends.
Obi-Wan's mouth creases, and he opens the eighth one.
Anakin is unsteady, leaning forward and glaring at Obi-Wan with the sort of fury born of terror that Obi-Wan's only seen a few times.
“How the fuck,” Anakin swears, “did you raise me? I’m a fucking disaster! And,” he adds, “then you put me in charge of Ahsoka! What the hell were you thinking? She was a kid! She is a kid! I’m not fucking— like— I mean— Obi-Wan, what the HELL were you thinking?”
Obi-Wan snorts. Leave it to Anakin to have a crisis over being responsible for a kid only after he’s been absolved of any responsibility but teaching her street racing tips and giving her pep talks.
Obi-Wan opens the fifth one.
Anakin looks nearly sober in this one (at least compared to his state in the first recording), though his movements are over-exaggeratedly careful enough to show that he’s been drinking.
“Obi-Wan,” he says, tucked in on himself on the couch like a pretzel. He runs his fingers through his already messy hair, eyes wide. “What do I do? I’m not ready for this— I don’t even have a dad. And Padmé is so incredible, but she’s busy with the Senate and that’s awesome except for when she hasn’t slept in two days and has to wear that weird smelling extra heavy foundation to cover up the bags under her eyes, but she’s so nice, and she keeps telling me that I’m great, and, like, I know I’m decent with the crèchelings but those are like, whole kids, and—” Anakin runs his fingers through his hair again. “Fuck, why am I asking you?” He ends the message.
The suspicion that had been growing settles heavily in Obi-Wan's stomach. He bites the bullet, and clicks on the first message.
Anakin is pacing in front of the couch, hair askew from how many times he’s run his fingers through it. “Obi-Wan,” he says, an air of panic all around him, “Padmé is pregnant. With twins. And I’m the father.”
Obi-Wan feels an impending headache as his suspicions are confirmed. He looks outside to where the sun has already risen, and abruptly sets down the comm and goes back to his bedroom. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that Anakin will have managed to work through his fatherhood crisis by the time Obi-Wan awakes, but Obi-Wan is nothing if not an optimist. After all, Anakin’s calls were valid and entirely non-criminal. If Anakin can do that much, then maybe there’s a chance he can figure it out on his own.
It’s Obi-Wan's only hope.