This is how it feels to be the Chosen One.
The most powerful man in the galaxy stops his entire schedule to invite you into his office, and he greets you like a long-lost companion. His voice is baritone gravel draped and rolled in silk, a hint of ice for his enemies, of warmth for his friends.
And you will always be his friend.
And more, if you were brave enough, but you're only a young Jedi, a warrior dripping in the blood of your enemies, and he is… so far above your station. He is unreachable, distant as he should be. You're completely unworthy to stand in the presence of this great man, let alone… You shake the thought away like a guilty padawan.
He sits across from you now, less than a meter away, and you are both quiet this afternoon after he has had you recount the mission, listening to your exploits with a vicarious parting of his lips, a wistful, envious smile. The silence of the moment afterwards is soothing. You don't remember the last time you heard it.
He has always been able to bring you to a calm place where the dragon can't coil any higher or tighter in your chest because you know it's safe with him. He's one of the last few solid parts of your life.
It has been three months since you saw him last, and in that time he has grown paler somehow, his skin soft and untouched by natural light. He is drowning in these fancy halls full of fancy people in fancy clothes who could never dream of the real cost of this war. The Chancellor fights a battle that would drive you crazy, a battle that can't be solved with the aggressive negotiations of a lightsaber.
He offers you a cup of blossom wine, a Naboo delicacy, and you gratefully accept. Obi-Wan would disapprove of the eager way you tilt the contents back into your throat, but you've earned this. War took your innocence long ago, and the Chancellor will not judge you if you drink like a man.
He watches you, one hand lazily wrapping around his own glass and the other curling over the arm of his chair. It's a completely natural gesture, but your eyes drift down to those elegant hands, those long and slender fingers that could snap like twigs in your durasteel grip if you squeezed too tightly.
You want to worship them instead. You wonder what would happen if you reached out and did what you wanted.
You can imagine a low sigh, a regal limpness in the long fingers.
You secretly watch as he takes a sip of his wine. Refined. Delicate. Nothing like you, and that makes you desperate with forbidden desire. He is nobility on his own planet, but to you, he is an emperor.
You want him to know that. You want to prove it to him, because he can't, he won't, see it for himself.
He lets the galaxy use him, take bits and pieces away from him. You see how worn he is each time you return from a mission, one more line at the corners of his watery blue eyes, a pinched exhaustion in his thin – perfect – lips. You want to run your fingertips over them and smooth away the pain.
You wouldn't dare.
You are Anakin Skywalker, and if you could, you would take the Supreme Chancellor far away, to some place where he could never again be threatened by animals like Dooku, where he wouldn't have to put up with the scum in the Senate. It's a fantasy you've often entertained, among others that will bring a flush to your cheeks if you keep thinking about them.
But you also know… He would never allow it. There's an animal in him too, buried so deep that no one knows it's there. They might suspect, but he hides it too well. Except from you. You know he loves the war he wages, loves it passionately. He even tries to hide it from himself.
How do you know? Something boils just under the surface between you, always has, but it's gotten so much more powerful in the years since the war started. You don't know for sure what draws you to him, if it's the power of his office or the power of his eyes. Maybe it's both.
Maybe it doesn't matter.
You want his calm assurance, his command over any development, the way he takes the galaxy in stride. You are the Hero with No Fear, but the title is a lie. You fear for everything, for Padme's life as a Senator, for Obi-Wan's life as a Jedi on the front lines, for Palpatine's life as the Separatist's prime target. You fear for the entire galaxy, because sometimes it seems like this war is going to tear everything apart and leave nothing behind. Nothing to pick up and piece together.
You can sense he feels this too, but he keeps his head high and continues to fight in his own way, just as you do in yours. It's in the square of his shoulders as he condemns the Separatists over the Holonet, as he reluctantly accepts another executive power from the Senate, as his eyes soften over the body of another Jedi brought home to be entombed in the Temple.
You wonder if he is ever afraid too, of what's coming. If so, he never shows it. Even when Dooku's Magna guards grabbed him so roughly and tore him away from your protection on Naboo, he never once looked frightened, only quietly confident that you would be there to rescue him again.
But the truth is, he rescues you, when the fear bubbles up in your throat and the darkness of space threatens to close on you, he's always there with a warm smile and listening ear, and you'd like nothing more than to show how grateful you really are. How much you want to thank him. How much you want him and his quiet, knowing power.
He senses your intense gaze at last and looks up from contemplating his wine. "Is something wrong, Anakin?"
Everything's wrong, you think, because that decadent voice isn't gasping your name as you coax it from between trembling lips. The image jolts you and you feel the hot blush travel across your cheeks. You look away and cough and pretend the wine has caught you off guard.
"No, Chancellor, I was just thinking… Thinking how glad I am to be back on Coruscant." But not really glad right now, because what you want is entirely out of reach. Half a meter away, and it might as well be the distance to Tatooine for all the good it does.
He chuckles quietly, oblivious to your thoughts. "And those of us who remain here think how nice it would be to get away, now and then."
"I'm sorry, sir. I wasn't meaning to complain." You feel a twinge of guilt. In a way, he is a prisoner trapped in the golden cage of his service to the Republic. Who knows when he was last able to wander freely? To walk where he wanted? To say whatever he actually felt? At least as a Jedi, you only answer to Obi-Wan and the Council (which is more than enough), but he answers to everyone.
"No offense taken, Anakin," he smiles. "I suppose I've grown rather fond of this planet, shortcomings and all." His willing sacrifice chokes you up, just a little, and you lower your head and wish you could both just disappear from the public eye, long enough to clear the air and free you from the endless demands.
He reaches over and pats your arm fondly, hand coming to rest on the long leather glove. You freeze, fingers clenching around the glass. "Cheer up, my friend. Your mission was a complete success, and Count Dooku has lost one of his finest resource planets, thanks to you."
The planet didn't really matter when you were on it, a random breadbasket in the Outer Rim, but your heart swells with his praise. Now it matters. It's brought his attention to you. You want to keep it there forever. You want his eyes to keep lingering on you, to notice how you are no longer the small boy that Obi-Wan brought back from a dusty, worthless planet.
You are a man, with a man's strength, and a man's muscles, and a man's desires. Maybe he notices the first part, but he will never notice the rest. You are too frightened to force him to notice, and he would never guess that you harbor thoughts of him vulnerable and beneath you, of quick touches and hard kisses, of finely brocaded cloth falling away and skin sliding smooth as shimmersilk under a warm calloused palm and cold metal.
His hand lifts suddenly from your forearm, and you catch an unguarded sliver of surprise from his politician's mind. You panic for a moment and then relax, because he doesn't have the Force and he can't know what you were thinking. His pale blue eyes regard you, almost cautious. "Are you well, Anakin? I feel something is troubling you."
The peace you always feel with him is gone, replaced by a raging fire that threatens to burst free of the tight bonds you've placed around it. You have to leave, before you do something you'll both regret. You lumber to your feet, all awkward limbs like you're a gangly teenager again. He watches, bemused, head tilting to one side.
"I'm sorry, Your Excellency, but the Council requested my report after I gave it to you."
He knows the excuse is false, you can see it in the ways his eyes narrow, but he nods and rises to his feet, ever gracious. "Of course, Anakin, you have much to discuss. Although, when you are finished with your report, promise me something."
You will promise him the galaxy, if he wants it. "Sir?"
He reaches out and brushes his hand along your arm, a concerned friend. His fingers catch on the edge of your sleeve. Your heart stops. "Take care of yourself, Anakin. I worry for you sometimes, you know. We expect too much of our heroes."
You flee with a polite, embarrassed nod of agreement. That much is true.
.
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I wanted to (and miserably failed) to write like M. Stover, lol.
And yes, Anakin, Palpy is totally judging you for how you drank his expensive blossom wine.
Thanks for reading, and I'd love any feedback from you guys! :D