An Anakin/Padme drabble set during the clone wars.
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars any more than I am George Lucas, which is to say not at all.
Not Think.
She is standing at her balcony, gazing out over the dark Coruascant skyline. She is thinking about him. It seems she has never stopped, not since the day two year ago when she saw him again for the first time in ten years. But tonight she is thinking especially hard about him. He has been gone too long.
Six months: six months since she last saw him. Six months since the last time he held her in his arms. Three months since she has had any word from him at all. There was only that one, stolen communication. Late at night planetside, when for ten minutes she could listen to his voice, distorted by distance and electronics, and try to pretend that he was home with her where he belongs.
She watches the Holonet, anxious for any drop of new she can get. There have been rumors, reports even, that he's been killed, but then there will be another great victory, one that could not have been won without "The Hero with no Fear" and the rumors will dissipate.
There is a noise behind her, but she doesn't turn around. She has closed her eyes, thinking about the smell of him, imagining the way his arms would wrap around her, letting her know she isn't alone in her yearning.
And then, suddenly, imagination becomes reality. There are warm, strong arms around her, one flesh, the other made of metal, but which she loves anyway because it's a part of him, and his face is buried in her hair, and his voice is saying in a low tone, "Did you miss me, Angel?"
"Anakin." The name drops from her lips like a prayer. A prayer that he will never have to leave again, that she will never again have to stand on her balcony just thinking, because there is nothing else she can do. And then she is kissing him, and she forgets what she was thinking about, because who wants to think when everything they are thinking about is coming true.
She pulls back just a little, so she can study his face. "Why didn't you comm me?" she asks. It's a valid question.
"I wanted to surprise you." There is a lilting note in his voice, an echo of the boy she married, rather than the man he has become. So she doesn't think about the new scars she can see, or the haunted look in his eyes, or the way his left hand trembles slightly as it reaches up to touch her face.
There is enough time during this awful war to think about those things. She does it every day. Now he is here, and all she wants to do is be held by him, and not think.
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