Martin, Anakin & Daphne — a Frasier story
The apartment hangs in quiet suspension save for the relentless percussion of Seattle rain against the windows. Frasier and Niles have departed for some oenophilic symposium, leaving Martin ensconced in his recliner, Eddie curled at his feet like a furry sentinel. Anakin stands on the balcony, watching storm clouds tumble across the skyline, the Space Needle piercing through the mist like a solitary lightsaber through the darkness.
He’s grown accustomed to the persistent damp of this city, so unlike the scorching desolation of Tatooine or the climate-controlled artifice of Coruscant. There’s something honest about Seattle weather — unapologetic in its gloom, forthright in its melancholy.
His contemplation fractures at the sound of the front door opening. Daphne, returning from her errands. Something about her Force signature feels… wrong. Compressed. Like a coil wound too tight before detonation.
“Just me,” she calls out, her voice forcibly buoyant. “Picked up Dr. Crane’s dry cleaning and that special cheese he wanted.”
Martin waves acknowledgment without tearing his gaze from his baseball game. Anakin turns from the balcony, observing as Daphne bustles about, movements too sharp, smile too brittle. Her hands tremble slightly as she arranges Frasier’s shirts on the coat rack with military precision.
“Are you alright?” he asks quietly, approaching her.
“Fine, just fine,” she replies with excessive brightness. “Bit of rain never hurt anyone, especially not someone from Manchester.”
Before he can press further, her phone rings. Daphne’s entire demeanor transforms — shoulders tensing, face draining of color like a battlefield wound. She glances at the screen and quickly silences it, shoving the device deep into her pocket as though burying incriminating evidence.
“Not going to answer that?” Anakin asks.
“Telemarketer,” she says dismissively. “Persistent buggers.”
The lie hangs in the air between them, obvious as a blaster shot. Even without the Force, Anakin would recognize her fear. With it, he can sense the waves of anxiety rolling off her like heat from Mustafar’s molten rivers.
He lets it go. For now.
Later that evening, Anakin sits cross-legged in his guest room, attempting to meditate. The constant electromagnetic chatter of this planet’s primitive technology makes it difficult to achieve true focus, but he’s adapted as best he can.
That’s when he hears it — a voice, male, slicing through the apartment’s quiet like a vibroblade.
“…last warning, Daph. I’ve been patient, but that ends now. You’ve got three days to get me my money, or I’ll make sure everyone knows what a thieving little slag you really are. Maybe I’ll start with those fancy doctors you work for. Bet they’d love to hear about — “
Anakin’s eyes snap open. The voice isn’t in the apartment — it’s coming through Daphne’s phone, several rooms away. His connection to the Force sometimes amplifies sounds, especially those charged with emotional resonance. The pure malice in that voice practically broadcasts itself to him like an emergency channel.
He rises, moving silently through the darkened apartment. Daphne sits at the kitchen table, phone pressed to her ear, her face illuminated only by its blue glow. Tears streak her cheeks as she listens to the message again, volume barely audible to ordinary human ears.
“Trouble?” he asks softly.
Daphne startles violently, nearly dropping the phone. “Bloody hell! You move like a cat, you do.” She hastily wipes her eyes with the heel of her palm. “Just… checking messages.”
“Unpleasant ones, it seems.”
She stares at him, then sighs, deflating like a punctured sail. “It’s nothing. Just a bit of business back home.”
“Business that makes you cry at midnight?”
Daphne’s gaze hardens. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s private.”
“Is someone threatening you?” Anakin presses, taking a seat across from her. “I heard a voice. A man, demanding money.”
“You heard — ?” Her eyes widen. “That’s impossible. I had it on the lowest volume.”
“I have… sensitive hearing.”
She studies him for a long moment, then seems to reach some internal decision. “It’s just a misunderstanding. With an old acquaintance.”
“An acquaintance who calls you a ‘thieving slag’?”
Her cheeks flush crimson. “It’s complicated.”
“Explain it to me.”
To his surprise, she does.
“When I first moved to America, things were… tight. My work visa took ages to process, and I couldn’t access my UK accounts properly. There was a fellow from Manchester I’d run into at a pub here — Liam. Seemed friendly enough, understood the expat life. When I mentioned I was in a rough spot, he offered to loan me some money to tide me over.”
“And now he wants it back, with interest,” Anakin guesses.
“Triple what I borrowed, and I’ve already paid him back the original amount twice over.” Her fingers twist together in a nervous dance. “He’s saying it’s compound interest, that it’s what we agreed to, but we never did. I was desperate, not daft.”
“Have you gone to the authorities?”
A bitter laugh escapes her. “With what? No written agreement, just my word against his. And now he’s threatening to tell the Cranes I’m some kind of grifter. They’d never believe him, but…” She swallows hard. “The scandal would embarrass them. Dr. Crane has his reputation at the station to consider.”
Anakin feels something cold and familiar uncoil within him. “I could speak with this man.”
“No!” Daphne’s response comes sharp as a ricochet. “Absolutely not. I don’t need anyone fighting my battles, especially not someone who’s a guest in this house.”
“I wouldn’t be fighting. Merely… negotiating.”
She eyes him skeptically. “The way you ‘negotiated’ that mugger away from Mrs. Katsopolis in the parking garage last week? When he suddenly couldn’t breathe properly?”
Anakin’s expression remains carefully neutral. “You saw that?”
“Through the window. Don’t worry, nobody else did.” She leans forward. “What exactly are you, Anakin? Because you’re not just some bloke who fell out of the sky.”
“That’s exactly what I am, actually.” He meets her gaze steadily. “Where I come from, Jedi serve many functions. Peacekeepers, diplomats, warriors when necessary. But we also… enforce.”
“Enforce what, exactly?”
“Justice. Balance.” His voice drops. “When I was thirteen, my Master and I were sent to mediate a dispute between mining corporations on Bothawui. We discovered one corporation was using indentured labor — children, mostly. Forcing them to work in conditions that killed dozens every month.”
Daphne’s expression softens slightly. “That’s horrible.”
“The Republic courts would have taken years to resolve it. Evidence would have disappeared. Witnesses would have vanished.” His mechanical hand flexes unconsciously. “My Master authorized a more… direct intervention.”
“What did you do?” she whispers.
“We freed the children. And as for those responsible…” The memory rises, vivid and visceral — the executive’s face as Anakin had held him over the mining shaft, the man’s pleas dissolving into sobs as Anakin had described in methodical detail exactly what happened to children in his mines. “We made sure they understood the consequences of their actions.”
Daphne stares at him, eyes wide. “You’re saying you’d… what? Threaten this man? Hurt him?”
“I’m saying I could resolve the situation.”
She stands abruptly, chair legs screeching against the floor. “Listen to me very carefully. You are not to speak of this to anyone — not Frasier, not Niles, certainly not Martin. And you are absolutely, positively not to approach Liam or involve yourself in any way. Do you understand?”
The vehemence in her voice surprises him. “I understand.”
“Promise me, Anakin.”
“I promise I won’t speak of this to the others.”
She narrows her eyes, catching the deliberate omission, but seems too exhausted to press further. “I need to get some sleep. Early morning tomorrow.”
As she leaves the kitchen, Anakin remains seated, turning her situation over in his mind. He’d given his word not to speak of it. He hadn’t promised not to act.
The following afternoon brings an unexpected convergence of the Crane brothers in the apartment, their concurrent presence generating the usual atmosphere of competitive refinement. Anakin observes from the periphery as they debate the merits of various wines for an upcoming dinner party, their vocabulary expanding proportionally to their mutual antagonism.
“The Château Margaux would be the apotheosis of complementary pairings with the duck confit,” Niles insists, his posture rigid as a battle droid’s.
“While under normal circumstances I would concur,” Frasier counters, “the current geopolitical tensions with France make serving such a conspicuously Gallic vintage tantamount to culinary treason. One might as well accessorize with a guillotine.”
“Oh please, Frasier. Your palate’s nationalism is showing. Besides, the Margaux’s subtle notes of darkening plum and encroaching shadow would underscore the dinner’s thematic exploration of choices and their consequences.”
“If you’re so concerned with the symbolic resonance of beverage selections, perhaps consider how your preference for the excessive tannins suggests a fundamental attraction to bitterness and restraint. Some might view it as a portent of a soul teetering between discipline and catastrophic release.”
Anakin catches the faint reflection of himself in the window glass as the brothers continue their verbal sparring. Their words echo strangely in his consciousness, like prophecies he’s not meant to understand yet.
His contemplation fractures as Daphne emerges from the kitchen, her face taut with stress despite her forced smile. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She checks it, and Anakin senses her spike of fear before she can mask it.
“Daphne, be a dear and fetch the decanter from the china cabinet,” Frasier requests without looking up from his wine catalog. “The Waterford crystal, not that ghastly leaded glass monstrosity Dad brought home from his police retirement banquet.”
“Of course, Dr. Crane.” Her voice is steady, but Anakin sees the tremor in her hands.
It baffles him — how these supposedly brilliant men can be so utterly oblivious to her distress. Their self-absorption runs deeper than the Coruscant underlevels, their neuroses more tangled than Separatist conspiracy webs.
“Perhaps Daphne could use some assistance,” Anakin suggests, rising from his seat.
“Oh, I’m sure she’s more than capable of distinguishing between fine crystal and roadside souvenir glass,” Niles says with a dismissive wave. “Though I suppose from your perspective, all Earth artifacts must seem quaintly primitive.”
“Actually, I was referring to her obvious distress, which both of you have failed to notice,” Anakin says, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice.
The room goes silent. Frasier and Niles exchange glances, then turn to Daphne, who looks mortified.
“Daphne, is something wrong?” Frasier asks, finally paying actual attention.
“Nothing at all,” she insists, shooting Anakin a warning glare. “Just a bit of a headache. Nothing to concern yourselves with.”
“Are you sure? You do seem rather… tense,” Niles observes, sudden concern flooding his features now that it’s been explicitly pointed out.
“I’m fine!” Her voice rises sharply. “Really, everyone just stop fussing.”
She retreats to the kitchen, leaving an uncomfortable silence in her wake.
“Well, that was rather peculiar,” Frasier muses, already half-dismissing the incident.
“Indeed. Though perhaps our extraterrestrial guest is simply projecting his own tumultuous emotional landscape onto others,” Niles suggests, returning to safer territory of psychoanalyzing someone other than himself. “After all, beings constructed of such dichotomous elements — discipline versus passion, duty versus desire — often displace their internal conflicts onto external relationships.”
Anakin feels his anger rising like a sandstorm. “Or perhaps you’re both so entrenched in your self-important intellectual exercises that you fail to notice when someone you claim to care about is suffering right in front of you.”
“Now see here — “ Frasier begins indignantly.
“Woah, partner. Throttle back.” Martin’s voice cuts through the tension as he enters from the hallway. “No need to go nuclear over a little disagreement.”
“It’s not a disagreement,” Anakin says tightly. “It’s willful blindness.”
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“Maybe,” Martin concedes with a significant look. “But there’s a time and place.”
Anakin takes a calming breath, centering himself as Obi-Wan taught him. “You’re right. I apologize for my tone.”
“Well, given the cultural differences, I suppose some allowances can be made,” Frasier says magnanimously. “Though I must say, Anakin, your defensive posture regarding Daphne is rather intriguing from a psychological perspective. One might hypothesize that you’re displacing protective impulses originally intended for another woman entirely…”
“I believe I’ll check on Daphne,” Niles interrupts, evidently uncomfortable with where his brother’s analysis is heading. “Perhaps offer her some of my chamomile tea sachets imported directly from Provence. They’re quite effective for stress-induced cephalgia.”
As the Crane brothers drift back to their natural state of competitive caretaking, Martin motions Anakin toward the balcony with a subtle head tilt.
“Little free advice,” Martin says once they’re outside, voice low. “You’re not gonna win that fight. Woah there, cool down. Believe me. If you could shout their heads out of their butts… I would have succeeded myself years ago.”
Anakin leans against the railing, watching the Seattle skyline blur in the perpetual rain. “How can they not see what’s happening? They’re supposed to be observant. Intelligent.”
“They see what they wanna see,” Martin shrugs. “And right now, they want to see a happy household where their biggest problem is whether French or Italian wine goes better with duck.”
“Meanwhile, Daphne’s being threatened and extorted.”
Martin’s eyebrows shoot up. “She told you about that?”
“You know?”
“Course I know. Former cop, remember? I notice things.” He sighs, shifting his weight off his bad hip. “She got a call last week, went white as a sheet. Started taking her breaks out by the dumpsters where she thinks nobody can hear her arguing on the phone.”
“And you haven’t done anything?”
“She asked me not to. Said she’d handle it.” Martin’s expression darkens. “Though if this fella keeps pushing… well, I still got friends on the force.”
Anakin studies the older man. “You’d bend the rules. For her.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I looked the other way for the right reasons.” Martin’s gaze turns distant. “Had this case once. Domestic abuse. Guy kept putting his wife in the hospital, but she’d never press charges. Too scared. We’d pick him up, he’d cool off in a cell overnight, then back home he’d go. System was useless.”
“What happened?”
“One night, he ‘fell’ down three flights of stairs. With some help.” Martin’s voice remains casual, but his eyes hold a steel Anakin recognizes. “Never laid a hand on her again. Some people only understand one language.”
They stand in contemplative silence, the rain intensifying around them.
“She told me not to get involved,” Anakin says finally.
Martin gives him a sidelong glance. “She didn’t tell you not to make him… never be seen again, did she?”
“The Jedi Code doesn’t allow for… that kind of justice, Martin.”
“Yeah? Neither does the law, cause it’s written by guys like them,” Martin jerks his thumb toward the living room, where Frasier can be heard exclaiming over some minute detail of table settings. “‘Lapis lazuli is simply… tacky!’” Niles’s horrified gasp follows: “HOW DARE YOU?” Then immediate capitulation: “You’re completely right, I was out of line.”
Martin shakes his head. “Somebody’s got to look out for the Daphnes while everybody’s looking out for themselves.” He pulls himself up from the balcony chair with a grunt, patting Anakin’s shoulder as he passes. “Just something to think about.”
Night falls on Seattle like a bruise, the city lights diffused by fog and rain into a watercolor of neon and shadow. The apartment is quiet. Frasier has retired to bed with noise-canceling headphones and a copy of Jung’s collected works. Niles departed hours ago, fretting about condensation damaging his Italian leather shoes.
Anakin waits by the window, watching. When the digital clock reads 2:17 AM, he silently rises and moves toward the door, footsteps imperceptible even on the hardwood floors.
A soft voice stops him. “Going somewhere, kid?”
Martin sits in his recliner, barely visible in the darkness. Eddie perks his ears up beside him.
“I need some air,” Anakin says quietly.
Martin reaches for the remote and turns on the television, volume low. “Just remember. You never left. Far as I know, you’ve been asleep all night.”
“Understood.”
As he reaches for the door handle, Martin adds, “Sometimes justice needs a little help finding its way.”
Anakin nods once and slips out into the corridor.
The Thirsty Scholar Pub squats at the intersection of two rain-slicked streets, its windows filmed with decades of smoke and disappointment. Inside, the air hangs heavy with cheap beer and cheaper cologne. Anakin moves through the sparse late-night crowd like a shadow, awareness extended through the Force to locate his target.
There — at the back. A man matching the description Anakin gleaned from Daphne’s thoughts during their conversation. Early forties, Manchester United tattoo on his forearm, thinning hair compensated for with excessive bravado. Liam McPherson. Currently holding court among three visibly intoxicated women, his hand wandering inappropriately across the nearest one’s thigh.
Anakin approaches the table directly. No subterfuge. No clever infiltration. The direct approach often unsettles predators more effectively than elaborate schemes.
“Liam McPherson?”
The man looks up, irritation flashing across his face at the interruption. “Who’s asking?”
“Someone concerned about your business practices. Specifically regarding Daphne Moon.”
Recognition, then wariness crosses Liam’s features. “You her boyfriend or something? Tell her to call me herself if she’s finally got my money.”
“I’d like to speak with you privately.”
Liam laughs, playing to his audience. “Hear that, ladies? Man wants me alone. Sorry, mate, not my type.”
The women titter obligingly.
“Outside,” Anakin says, voice dropping to the tone that made Clone troopers snap to attention and Separatist leaders reconsider their choices. “Now.”
Something in his demeanor must penetrate Liam’s alcohol-fogged bravado, because the man’s smile falters. “Look, if Daphne sent you to negotiate, you’re wasting your time. She owes me three grand, and the clock’s ticking.”
“Outside,” Anakin repeats. “Or I discuss your other business ventures. The ones involving certain substances imported from Vancouver.”
Liam’s face pales. He mutters an excuse to the women and follows Anakin through the bar and out the rear exit into an alley that reeks of rotting produce and urine.
The moment the door closes behind them, Liam’s demeanor changes, aggression replacing the earlier uncertainty. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are — “
His words cut off as his airways suddenly constrict. Not enough to choke him — just enough to establish the new power dynamic.
“I think,” Anakin says calmly, “I’m the person who’s going to explain your new reality to you.”
Liam claws at his throat, eyes bulging in panic. Anakin releases the pressure just enough to allow speech.
“What… the… fuck…” Liam gasps.
“Daphne Moon has repaid whatever she borrowed from you. Twice over, by my calculation.”
“Interest… agreement…” Liam wheezes.
“I’m altering the agreement,” Anakin says, channeling the cold precision he uses on the battlefield. “Pray I don’t alter it further.”
He releases the Force choke entirely, allowing Liam to collapse against the alley wall, gulping air like a landed fish. Before the man can recover, Anakin kneels beside him, voice lowered to an intimate murmur.
“Here’s what happens now. You delete Daphne’s number. You forget she exists. If you see her on the street, you cross to the other side.”
“Or what?” Liam manages to rasp, defiance still flickering in his eyes. “You’ll use your magic trick again? Kill me?”
“No.” Anakin smiles, the expression devoid of warmth. “Killing you would be quick. Merciful, even.”
He places his mechanical hand on Liam’s chest, directly over his heart. Through the Force, he sends a single, targeted impression — the sensation of internal organs slowly crystallizing, blood vessels hardening into glass, pain beyond human endurance.
Liam shrieks, a sound of pure animal terror.
“That,” Anakin says conversationally, “was approximately one-tenth of one percent of what I’m capable of doing to you. At a distance. While you sleep. While you work. While you attempt to pleasure those women who are surely reconsidering their choices even now.”
He releases the impression, allowing Liam’s body to register that no actual damage has occurred. The man slumps, trembling, sweat pouring down his face despite the chill air.
“Do we understand each other?” Anakin asks.
Liam nods frantically. “She’s clear. Debt’s gone. Just… stay away from me.”
“Wise decision.” Anakin stands, brushing imaginary dust from his borrowed jeans. “One last thing.”
He reaches into his pocket and produces several folded bills — money he’s been gradually accumulating from odd jobs around the neighborhood. He tosses them onto Liam’s still-shaking form.
“For your trouble,” he says. “Consider it severance pay from a business relationship that has reached its natural conclusion.”
Without a backward glance, Anakin walks away, melting into the rain-soaked Seattle night.
When he slips back into the apartment three hours later, the television still glows softly in the darkened living room. Martin doesn’t speak as Anakin removes his damp jacket and hangs it precisely on the coat rack. Eddie perks his ears up and Martin puts his finger to his lips with a wink.
“Fun night, kid?” he asks softly as Anakin passes.
“Productive,” Anakin responds, no expression on his features.
He pauses at the hallway. “Martin… thanks you for, reminding me, about priorities.”
The older man waves dismissively. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Far as I know, you’ve been asleep all night.”
Anakin nods, understanding perfectly.
In the morning, Daphne moves through the kitchen with a lightness that has been absent for weeks. Her phone rings — she checks it, then smiles slightly as she silences it and drops it into the trash compactor without ceremony.
“New phone policy?” Anakin asks innocently, accepting the cup of tea she offers.
“Decided some connections aren’t worth maintaining,” she replies, meeting his eyes with quiet knowing. “Amazing how problems sometimes sort themselves out when you least expect it.”
She squeezes his shoulder briefly as she passes — the gesture containing volumes of unspoken gratitude and shared understanding.
“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Frasier announces as he enters, adjusting his tie with scientific precision. “I’ve invited a colleague from the station and her husband to dinner on Friday. Daphne, could you possibly prepare that delightful Manchester trifle you mentioned once?”
“Be happy to, Dr. Crane,” she responds warmly.
Anakin watches their interaction with fresh eyes. Perhaps Frasier and Niles aren’t deliberately oblivious — perhaps they simply exist in a different reality, one where trifles and ties hold the same gravity as matters of justice and survival. Different worlds, different codes.
And sometimes, unexpected friends from distant places.
Martin catches his eye from the recliner and raises his coffee mug in silent salute.
