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Obi-Wan is in the middle of making tea when he gets the call. He always makes tea in the afternoons to have ready for Anakin when he comes back from lessons. Anakin doesn’t especially like tea, he thinks, but he doesn’t think he dislikes it, either, and Obi-Wan can only work with what the boy gives him. The first time he asked Anakin what he wanted to drink the answer was “beer”, and that was . . . something.
Obi-Wan really does not know enough about Tatooine.
Either way, he wants to give Anakin some small stable thing in his day. It’s so little, but it’s been only a few weeks since Naboo and the Trade Federation and . . . Qui-Gon. “Stable” is not exactly something Anakin is spoiled for.
“Stable” doesn’t feel like something Obi-Wan is spoiled for either, now.
He answers the call, careful to keep an eye on the tea so it won’t boil. He wasn’t expecting to hear from anyone today, so he’s not sure who it could be.
“Hello?” he says, and a holo of one of Anakin’s teachers appears on the small apartment stovetop. Obi-Wan is immediately alarmed.
“Good afternoon, Knight Kenobi,” she greets.
“Good afternoon, Master,” he says slowly, desperately searching his memory for her name and subject. She’s one of the newer teachers, and he recognizes her, of course, but he doesn’t know her. She’s not a sabermaster or physical education teacher, he assures himself, so Anakin can’t be injured, and she’s not the dean of discipline, so he can’t be in trouble, and . . .
“It’s about your padawan,” she says, obviously and unhelpfully. Obi-Wan resists the urge to say something rude. Qui-Gon probably would have, considering.
“Is he alright?” he says instead, because really that’s the bigger concern. The master hesitates. Obi-Wan still can’t remember her damn name.
“He’s fine,” she says. “It’s just . . . we had an assignment today.”
“I don’t understand,” Obi-Wan says. Of course they had an assignment. It’s classes. That’s why Anakin goes to them.
“It was a translation assignment,” she says, and Obi-Wan remembers—languages. She teaches languages. “Do you speak Huttese, Knight Kenobi?”
“No,” Obi-Wan says, frowning.
“Anakin does,” she says.
“I would expect so, yes. He's from Tatooine,” Obi-Wan says, trying not to let the irritation into his voice. It’s worry, of course, not true irritation, but she could get to the damn point already.
He exhales. He lets that feeling go.
“Is there a problem, Master?” he says. The line of her mouth thins.
“Yes,” she says. “I’m not . . .”
The door of the room opens, and Obi-Wan looks over. So does Anakin’s teacher. It’s Anakin himself, and a shot of relief goes through Obi-Wan. He looks fine. He doesn’t even look like he’s been sneaking around the ships and speeders again, and he’s right on time, so he can’t have been cutting class or anything like that.
Anakin looks uneasy, and feels the same in the Force. Obi-Wan stops feeling relieved.
“Excuse me, Master,” he says. “May I call you back?”
“Yes, Knight Kenobi,” she says uncomfortably. “That would be fine.”
That is even less of a relief.
“Thank you,” Obi-Wan says, and ends the call. He doesn’t ask Anakin her name, even though he still can’t place it. He has more important concerns. “Anakin. Is everything alright?”
“Everything’s fine,” Anakin says, setting his jaw stubbornly and dropping his bag by the door. Obi-Wan is not convinced, but pours the tea. It didn’t boil, at least.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“No, Master,” Anakin says, which is probably a lie because surely a nine year-old gets hungry sometimes, but Anakin has yet to say “yes” to that question. Obi-Wan just tries to make sure he feeds him at appropriate intervals, at this point. He keeps hoping Anakin will settle in, but so far it’s not happening.
He sets the table with tea and snacks. Anakin sits down in his usual seat and watches him warily. He does that a little more often than Obi-Wan wishes he would, but at least he isn’t hiding in his room, so Obi-Wan will take what he can get.
“How were your classes today?” he asks as he sits down across from him, and Anakin’s face screws up.
“Fine,” he lies. Obi-Wan doesn’t even have to feel it in the Force, it’s so obvious a lie. He doesn’t want to pry, but . . .
“Your teacher called,” he says, although of course Anakin knows that, and Anakin’s face screws up again. Obi-Wan sees his small hands tighten into fists.
“I did what she said!” Anakin says defensively. “I did it right!”
“Did you?” Obi-Wan says.
“Yes!” Anakin snaps. It’s the angriest Obi-Wan thinks he’s ever seen him, defensive and frightened at the same time, and he remembers the council’s words about fear.
It’s really not the time for that, though.
“I believe you,” Obi-Wan says, and Anakin immediately looks bewildered. The anger goes out of him all at once, taking—most of—the fear with it. Obi-Wan watches him carefully for a moment, then makes a point of picking up his tea and taking a sip. Anakin picks up his own cup with both hands. He sloshes a little bit of tea, because those hands are shaking. Obi-Wan doesn’t comment.
“She said to translate it,” Anakin says, still just barely defensive. “That was what I did.”
“Translate what, Anakin?” Obi-Wan asks, and Anakin’s face crumples for a moment. He puts down his unsipped tea, then gets up and goes to his bag. He comes back with a crumpled sheet of flimsy and thrusts it at Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan pauses, but takes it. It’s . . . a worksheet, apparently. It’s filled out completely, and looks perfectly normal to him. He doesn’t understand what Anakin’s teacher was calling about, at least not from looking at it.
There is, admittedly, an aura of dread and worry attached to it, but not Anakin’s.
“What did she say to you?” Obi-Wan says. Anakin clenches his jaw.
“That it was wrong,” he says.
“Which part?” Obi-Wan looks at the worksheet again. Nothing is marked or stands out as strange. He recognizes Basic, Huttese, and a few other random languages. He only notes the Huttese because Anakin’s teacher had mentioned it. It’s a bit odd to see it on a temple worksheet, he feels, but he really only barely knows what they’re teaching the younglings these days. It’s been some time since he was in general lessons himself.
“That one,” Anakin says, and points at one of the Basic phrases. It says “master Jedi”, and nothing else. There are a few columns following it, presumably intended for translation purposes. Anakin has filled each one in painstakingly careful writing. The Huttese phrase has a small red spot next to it, Obi-Wan notices belatedly, as if someone started to mark it but changed their mind. The languages he recognizes appear to be correct, but otherwise it is not helpful whatsoever.
“Wrong how?” he says after a moment, at a loss. Anakin folds his arms.
“It’s not wrong,” he says stubbornly. “I wrote it right. I know how to write Huttese!”
He would, Obi-Wan supposes.
“I know, Anakin,” he says. “Did she tell you what the problem was, though?”
“No, Master,” Anakin said. “She just got really upset and then everybody laughed at me.”
Obi-Wan still doesn’t remember this woman’s name, but he immediately dislikes her.
“What did she say?” he tries.
“She said Jedi aren’t slavers,” Anakin says, and Obi-Wan . . . blinks. “I know that. I’m not stupid.”
“I know you’re not,” Obi-Wan agrees, slowly. Why . . . ?
“But that’s how you write ‘Master’!” Anakin says hotly, jabbing a finger at the paper, and oh.
“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says. “How many ways are there to write . . . ‘master’ in Huttese?”
“That one!” Anakin says in exasperation, pointing accusingly at the paper again. “I wasn’t wrong!”
“What about ‘teacher’?” Obi-Wan asks. Anakin stops, and frowns in confusion.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” he asks. Obi-Wan sets down the flimsy. He is . . . not prepared for this conversation.
Qui-Gon would know what to say, he thinks, brief and bitter.
“That’s what ‘master’ means, when it’s a Jedi,” Obi-Wan says carefully. “Teacher. Or expert. Or both. Not . . . anything else.”
“What?” Anakin says.
“Oh, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says. He wants to reach out and touch the other’s shoulder. He’s not sure if he should, or if he’d be welcomed if he did. “Teacher. Not . . . owner. That’s what it means.”
“. . . oh,” Anakin says, staring at the worksheet. Obi-Wan takes a sip of tea, mostly to give him a moment. Anakin looks up at him, looking lost.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “I know Jedi aren’t—I didn’t mean that.”
“I know, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, even though of course that’s what he wrote. He can understand a younger teacher getting upset by it, though he still isn’t very pleased with her. Certainly they’re going to have to have some kind of talk now, he’s sure. At the very least, he doesn’t want her pointing out misunderstandings like that in front of the whole damned class. Anakin has enough problems fitting in right now, he’s sure, being dropped into the middle of everything like this.
“Am I in trouble?” Anakin says.
“No,” Obi-Wan says immediately, not even wanting to think about what Anakin means by “in trouble”. “You aren’t.”
“Okay,” Anakin says, looking awkward. Obi-Wan wants very badly to do—something. The right thing. Whatever that thing might be.
Qui-Gon, again, would’ve been so much better at this.
“You aren’t in trouble,” he repeats firmly. “And if your teacher thinks otherwise, I’ll speak with her.”
“But you’re just a knight,” Anakin says uncertainly, tugging at his padawan braid. “She’s a . . . master.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Obi-Wan says. “I’ll talk to whoever I need to.”
“It’s fine,” Anakin says, staring into his lap. “I messed up.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Obi-Wan says.
“. . . I don’t know how to write ‘teacher’ in Huttese,” Anakin admits, glancing at the worksheet. The confession might be the closest thing to an example of vulnerability he’s shown in weeks, if not in their entire relationship. Obi-Wan feels something painful in his chest and isn’t sure how to define it.
“That’s why you go to class,” he says. “They’ll teach you.”
“Okay,” Anakin says, twisting his hands together uncomfortably. “Um . . .”
“Yes?” Obi-Wan says.
“So you’re not . . . mad?” Anakin checks warily. “That she called you?”
“No,” Obi-Wan says. “I’m not mad.”
“Okay,” Anakin says, and tugs at his padawan braid again. Obi-Wan almost reaches up to do the same, but he doesn’t have one anymore. He smells ash and feels the heat of flame, and all he wants is to fix this problem in a way that will make Anakin feel better.
He just doesn’t know how to do that.
“I promise,” he says, and Anakin peers up at him with uncertainty. He's so young, Obi-Wan thinks.
"Alright," Anakin says, and Obi-Wan pushes the sheet of flimsy away from both of them and gives him the best smile he can. Qui-Gon would be better at this, but Qui-Gon isn't here. Obi-Wan has to do the best he can.
"Good," he says. Anakin gives him a long, unreadable look, his emotions roiling in the Force, and then darts around the table and throws his arms around him, tea-sticky hands and all.
"Sorry, Master," he says very quickly, then lets go and runs off. Obi-Wan . . . blinks, slowly, and looks after him as the door of his room swings shut behind him.
He's still not sure if he's doing this right, but he hopes that was a good sign.
And if it wasn't . . . well, then he'll just make tea again tomorrow, and do the best he can.