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2dayihaveaheadache · 1 year ago

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The thin line we walk

Obikin WIP Wednesday (looks guilty at my clock, kinda is still Wednesday, hopefully, somewhere on the world... i guess)

Prompt: Obi-Wan is a struggling single dad of two. Anakin offers to help – in more than one way. Perfect American subrurbs vibes, Obi-Wan is challenged by his recent parting and now has to care for his kids all by himself. In an attempt to cling to his old life, he hides the breakup, pretending to life the best Home Sweet Home Life - for the noisy neighbors and the kids. One day he breaks down, Anakin is there to offer a hand or two.

dw: age gap, maybe sickfic-ish, nurse Anakin would be funny, Anakin just making Obi-Wan feel loved again, some crying during *the steamy scenes* (hopefully in a good way:)

I was asked, so i delivered a tiny (2k) WIP for this prompt. Tw for some dark thoughts on Obi-Wan's side but don't worry, Anakin is gonna give him a good warm hug (soon, i hope)

“The line we walk is a thin one..”

(scene to introduce the atmosphere)

Leaning against his groaning car, a vintage Ford Mustang 1967 from the local garage with a twice fixed chrome bumper, the engine still idling, Obi-Wan fidgeted with the strap of his cross-shoulder bag as he stared at front door in the setting sun. A slight drizzle had started, so he checked his appearance in the side-view mirror, make sure the rain hadn’t ruined his attire – reassure that he was still looking all proper coming home from work. Looking presentable for the neighbors, not sketchy, nothing to bat an eye twice. He brushed back a few copper strands that the wind had blown into his vision, readjusted the collar of his plaid shirt and then sighed, exhaustion making him wary.

He squinted, eyeing his reflection in the wing mirror of his car with suspicion, lowering his head to see clearer. A man in his end-thirties stared back at him, the hair was a mop of strawberry blond curls, the ends slightly brighter than the roots, bleached by the sun from having spent last year’s summer at the coast, now they were clinging damp to his forehead. The first hints of balding spots were visible above his temples. A receding hairline at his age, he furrowed his brows and the only thing that happened was that his wrinkles deepened. Great, he sighed another time and a sour grin played on his lips, nose crunched.

The intensity of the rain increased and transformed the gentle May drizzle into a torrential spring downpour, typical for this time of the year and region, Virginia. Fucking unpredictable Spring in Philly. If he had known that 18 years ago, he might have not moved up here, perhaps he would have chosen a different path. He had arrived with a suitcase bursting with dreams and expectations in his hands, yet they proved to be as flimsy and fleeting like a passing breeze, slipping through his grasp. He had been a fucking foolish young boy, he thought and the sour grin deepens.

The thick droplets descended from the sky, cascading, creating a weird melody of pitter-patter. They collided with the ground, echoing with a resonate thud, or got deflected, splashing against parked cars and the raised edges of the sidewalk. Even Obi-Wan’s pant legs became victim to the relentless deluge, the jeans soaking with frosty water.

He instinctively tucked his head down and pulled the wool jacket tighter, hoping it would provide some sort of comfort from the biting-cold rain. But despite his efforts, the relentless downpour found its way through his clothing, seeping through, sending a chilling sensation across his now wet skin. A shiver ran down his spine, and he couldn’t help but damn his choice of attire, an unspoken curse on his tongue.

He held it back, pinching his lips, embarrassed, eyes on the ground. Remembering where he was.

212th Street, Shellwood Port, one of the white picket fence neighborhoods, nestled within suburbs of Philadelphia. Tree-lined alleys with brick row houses or elegant two-story homes from the 1910s, all owned, nothing rental. Immaculately mown grass lanes across the backyards. In the front, carefully tended rose bushes and forest green painted doors, the pride of its residence, the names in graved in gleaming brass plates. Smith. Miller. Jones. Kenobi. An extra key hidden underneath a bloom pot on the front stair in a false sense of security. Home sweet Home, in its most picture book perfect form.

But admits this pristine perfection, achieved by pretending and idolization, there was no place for carelessly muttered curses when everything was sweet, shiny, and perfect. It was a perfectly curated world, handpicked like the choicest cherry a dessert, only the best of the best, and monitored by prying eyes behind pulled back ruffled lace curtains. A heavy sigh escaped his lips for the third time today. He felt miserable, drenched in the rain.

His eyes once again landed on the reflection in the side-view mirror, so he leaned forward to get a better view of himself. The round rimmed-glasses had slipped down of his nose a bit. He readjusted them with a hesitant smile, pushing them all up. The rain had shown him no mercy, completely soaking through his cardigan, causing his plaid shirt to cling uncomfortably to his neck, as if longing for respite from the relentless rain. The damp locks hung heavy into his face. A deep crease had formed on his forehead, a furrowed brow revealing the weight of his worries.

He was just a figure of misery in this downpour.

The weather forecast has promised a mild day – a gentle breeze and the possibilty of sunshine, he thinks bitterly. Obi-Wan, like a clockwork, tuned in the weather forecast every morning. It was like a ritual, like a morning sermon, his hands occupied by one of the many pans on the cooker, the unmistakeable aroma of cheap fraying pork oil, sizzling eggs and coffee lingering in the kitchen, then he would swiftly grab a linen towel, wiping his greasy fingers clean and adjust the radio antenna on the old model, from the 60s, to hear WTOP announce the weather for today.

It was akin to the way other people craved their first cup of coffee, a moment that set the tone for day ahead. Just like the aroma of freshly brewn beans water invirogates other, the weather program awakened Obi-Wan’s sense, preparing him for the coming day. With a cup of his favorite tea blend waiting on the counter, he sported an old-fashioned, grandma-like quilt apron thrown over his sweater, his glasses slightly fogged from the warmth of the kitchen. As he tuned in on the radio weather program, Obi-Wan’s morning came to life.

It wasn’t just about planning his acitivities, it was about, well, everything – the weather forecast held the key how to orchestrate his day as a dad. How to dress the kids. Were their raincoats still neatly hung on the coat rack in the hallway? Where were Ahsoka’s gumboots, or had they wandered off to some forgotten corner? Would they still fit her tween feet, which had grown to sizes last summer? And then there was little Cal – it was a real challenge convincing him to take a bath after he had frolicked through the mud of the kindergarten grounds.

So, how could have something important like rain slipped his mind?

As the raindrops fell from heavens and soaked him to the bone, he couldn’t help himself but feel a well-known ache in his chest, a deep-seated pain in his chest that echoed with the weight of self-loathing. An all-too familiar sensation, like a scar itching. A constant reminder no matter how hard he tried; he would never measure up – even if it were only such tiny things as packing for his kids the raincoats.

Obi-Wan had learned to fight tooth and nail for acceptance in life. The old wounds of rejection ran deep, foster system, his step dad, his wife. And now, in Shellwood Port, it had always felt like there was an invisible wall that separated him from the world of privilege, prosperity, bbq parties and rose bushes. A glass dome keeping him out. As he stood amidst the white picket fences and brick row houses, the stark contrast between his sentiments and the others loomed over him like a dark cloud.

So, he had strived and sought validation, he had fucking fought for it – for himself when he was young and spirited, a fire burning in his eyes and now, that it was too late for him, at least for his kids. That they would have a better life than he had. But then there was this raw sting, piercing the flesh on his ribcage. It was a harsh grip, squeezing tightly and refusing to let go. No matter how hard he pushed himself, there was always a lingering sense of failing. “You’ll never be good enough.” He wasn’t sure who whispered the words, he, the wind or the rain. “You’ll never be a good enough dad… because you never had one.”

Fuck his freshly ironed shirt from this morning he wore to fit in, fuck the unpredictable weather of Philadelphia that had played him like a fool, fuck Shellwood Port and its unfulfillable expectations. He had kids, he was a dad, he needed to get home.

“Kenobi, everything alright with your car?”

Obi-Wan straightened his back and lifted his head, turning into the direction of the familiar voice. A couple of feet away, on the other side of the road, he could see Mace, the neighbor from number 187th, living in the same brick row house, peeking over his white fence.

He swallowed before answering, voice strained, but he tried his best to overplay it, “Yeah, sure.”

Mace’s expression was unreadable, lips pressed together into a tight smile and an overly curios gleam in his eyes. “I was working in the kitchen...” Mace gestured to the rose bushes in front yard, blooming on the edge on the neatly mown grass lane, the grass blades were cut off at exactly 15 millimeters as if Mace would measure them with a ruler every morning. “… when I saw you on the street. You have been staring quite long at your car.”

Obi-Wan didn’t have a reply, yet, so he nodded faintly, unsure what Mace planned to imply, flexing the strap of his bag in his hand, a notorious nervous habit, a shaky laugh on his lips. “I- I was just coming home from work. It’s late and the kids are waiting.”

He tried to deepen the grin but it just made him feel even more like the idiot with the painted face, so he let the expression drop, looking more serious at Mace. “Yeah, so – so, everything alright with you?”

His attempt on small talk found no continuation. Mace leaned further forward, supporting himself with one hand on the fence, eyes narrowed, not entirely convinced with Obi-Wan short lipped reply, an unforgiving undertone in his voice, stoic, reserved. “Your car needs a wash.”

The nervous laughter he had tried to hold back, bubbles up in his chest and then echoed from his lips. Inappropriate in the situation, he felt Mace’s stern glare on himself, the lips pressed together into a thin line, a flinty gleam in his eyes, watching his every move and then judging him. Obi-Wan halted in his movement, one hand pressed to his chest. He tried an apologetic smile and failed. “ In the rain …I guess-“

He did not like Mace’s calculating stare, overly curious and intrusive – it makes him nervous, uneasy, biting absently his inner cheek and pushing up his glasses, his eyes finding Mace’s again.

Then he faced back to his car, pretending to be seriously overthinking Mace’s suggestion. The metal of the Mustang shimmered the evening sun, reflected by the rain. The black paint coat has a few scratches, the chrome bumper hung crooked over the sealed beam headlights and the white stripe on the engine cover had a tinge of champagne yellow to it, a sign of its age, typical for vintage motorcycles that are still in use. Overhanging branches from his pear tree painted a dark shadow on the car window, hiding the inside. He spotted nothing peculiar, nothing worthy for a trip to the car washer – especially in the rain.

He shifted back to Mace, putting up a grin. “You are right. I’ll- I will consider it.” He nodded weakly, wishing for the conversation to be over.

“You have been working a lot lately.”, Mace continued, folding his hands in front of him, glaring over his white picket fence, head tilted to the side.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been just wondering where Satine is. Depa and I, we haven’t seen her around in a really long time and we asked ourselves, are you two fighting?”

It hit him like a truck.

(the next morning, scene to introduce more of Obi-Wan's character and his struggles -> turned way more into a character study than I thought)

Obi-Wan's shirt was freshly ironed, the fabric felt stiff around his neck, he wore Bermuda shorts and tennis socks, pulled over his ankles.

He looked like the picture book perfect version of a white man in his thrities, father of two, living his best home sweet home American Dream in the suburbs, with more than enough of on the bank, the weekends filled with garden grill parties with the neighbors.

That kind of man to never admit to buying a six pack of canned beer. Or the kind to scold the kids for running over the freshly mown lane. The kind to be overly punctual, narrow-mind, gratingly stuffy and – calls the police on you for noise disturbance at 7 am in the morning when the kids have stand up to noisy, squalling that they want to go to school. Better said, he looked like a fucking stick-in-the-mud.

What a dream to be, right? That type of aspiring role model he wanted to be for his children, the perfect type to be living in Shellwood Port.

Obi-Wan deepened the frown on his face, one eyebrow cocked, leaning forward. He wetted his lips with a nervous flick of his tongue and opened the first button of his shirt, more room to breath. His fingers were shacky, nervous, so he clenched them. His first breath was shuddery, unsure, almost as if it was unlearned, like he hadn’t done it in a really long, like he hadn't been able to breath the last years. Like he had been uptight all the time.

The second intake was less shacky, so he tried his best smile.

He should be happy; he thought as he scowled at himself in the bathroom mirror, eyebrows still furrowed, the smile painted on his face that doesn’t seem like a smile. The wedding band on his index finger burned his skin. He should be happy, he repeated, happy even now as a now single dad. He rose the corners of his lips, practicing his best tooth paste commerical smile to convince everyone - just not himself.

"Dad, hurry up... I gotta go to school."

"Right, 'Soka. I'll hurry up."

There was blood in the sink when he leaft.

(sorry)

(extra, because i have a soft at heart for them, imagine that happening at the same time)

Meanwhile Anakin in the house next door, pining hard on his hot, older neighbor, like doing his laundery twice to see the other man working shirtless in the garden (he just has black laundery so no need to seperate it and make to washing cycles out of it, but every excuse is right to to pine for Mr. Kenobi), knowing damn well that he will pamper, love and cherish that man with every fiber of his heart....

hope you enjoy!

I will expand on this prompt, so await more action in the future...

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