Author's Note: Sorry about the long waits, both on this and in particular on The Father…yes, yes, I know, I'm sorry. But between the disfavor of the Muses and that great cultural institute known as "midterms," I'm having some difficulty. Spring break is in sight, however! So bear with me if you will and hopefully there will more on The Father soon for those of you who are following it. And as for this story…here's some more right now! Tell me what you think. Feel free to scold. :P

It was so quiet here at night.

The small house only had one bed, and because of Luke's frequent nightmares Obi-Wan was already sharing it with him, so Padmé had brushed aside the Jedi's efforts at chivalry and spread some blankets out on the floor of the main room. It was not the most comfortable of beds, but her mind and heart were too full for her to notice. Everything was silent except for her own breathing and the occasional rush of the wind against the walls outside. Despite—or maybe because of—the stillness, she could not sleep. Instead she lay motionless, stretched on her back, her eyes following the crossed beams of moonlight out the window. From here she could only see one of the three moons.

Her body might be still, but her mind flew, spun with reactions and emotions and memories. So much had happened so quickly; so much more would come with the rising of the suns. Silently she laid there, trying to process the maelstrom of impressions that had swarmed upon her in the last several hours.

Luke's nervous, uncertain young face was the strongest of the impressions by far. For so long she'd had nothing to cling to but her own imagined pictures of what her son might look like; now with wondering care she compared those old images to the child she had met today. Luke did indeed resemble his father to a painful degree, but not in the ways she had imagined he would; his small face seemed to be mostly his own, but capped with his father's blond hair, set with his father's startling blue eyes. She had imagined a vibrant, happy child; she had met one hurting and fearful. Perhaps a mere week or two earlier he had been that vibrant, happy boy; or perhaps the similarity to Anakin was only skin deep, and Luke was a quiet child by nature.

The mystery of her son's personality gnawed at her, carved slashes of guilt through her thoughts. By now, she should have known Luke so well that these answers would be embedded permanently in her subconscious. Yet she knew nothing at all.

She tried to console the stabbing guilt with the promise of the future. She and Obi-Wan had been up for several hours more after making the crucial decision that Luke would return with her. According to the plans they had made, the three of them would remain on Tatooine for another day in hopes that Luke would get at least a little accustomed to having Padmé around; after that they would pack what few possessions Obi-Wan had at the house onto her yacht and quit the system. Both of them had agreed that it would be in Luke's best interests for Obi-Wan to remain with mother and son for a time, so that Luke could adjust to life with her at his own pace. After a few months at most, Obi-Wan would rejoin Master Yoda, and she and Luke would be on their own.

She'd missed the first six years, but tomorrow she could start making up for—

A miserable wail cut through the night and Padmé bolted upright with a startled gasp. A second gasping cry struck her ears as she struggled to extricate herself from the blanket. She saw a glimmer of light switch on in the other room as she scrambled up awkwardly, kicking away the blanket; the third sob sounded broken, muffled. She reached the door breathless.

Luke was huddled up with his face buried in Obi-Wan's shirt; the Jedi was sitting up, the blankets kicked back, with one arm tucked around the young boy's trembling shoulders. His other hand rubbed her son's back rhythmically, soothingly. He glanced up as he heard her arrive.

"A nightmare?" she whispered, agonized.

Obi-Wan nodded. "He'll calm down," he said gently. "He should be asleep again in no time." Padmé felt wryly sorry for the poor man, having to soothe not just Luke but also his distraught mother…

"Then I won't disturb you," she said, and made herself retreat back to the floor of the main room. After a while Luke's sobs quieted, faded away; after a longer time the light went out, and the previous stillness was restored. But Padmé did not get so much as five minutes of sleep the entire night; when the light of the first sun began to eat away the darkness, she gave up the enterprise altogether and decided to make herself at least marginally useful by starting breakfast.

She rummaged around the kitchen as quietly as she could. There wasn't much to rummage, really; only one simple cabinet with a few shelves. The only breakfast food she could recognize was Luke's depleted box of Bantha Bites. The rest of the packages she went through one by one, navigating the information panels on their backs, wondering what would be considered proper breakfast fare on Tatooine…

Out of the blue somebody tapped on her shoulder—she gave a startled gasp—the box in her hands went flying. She turned around to see a rather disheveled Luke backing away nervously.

"Oh, Luke, I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't hear you come in." She must have reassured him at least a little, for he stopped retreating. The silence resumed, and she noticed that Luke was again carrying the starship model she had seen last night, dragging it behind him by one wing.

"You're up very early," she said at last.

Luke shifted uneasily. "You too," he pointed out.

She smiled and bent to pick up the box. "I'm not used to the time here yet," she explained. "I couldn't fall asleep."

Luke frowned at the box in her hand. "Why'd you want that for breakfast?" he demanded.

Padmé glanced at the label and shook her head at herself. Why would she want jerked bantha meat? She put it back on the shelf with a wry smile. "I was just looking through the pantry to see what there was," she said. "Are you hungry for breakfast?"

Luke nodded. "I was gonna get Bantha Bites."

Padmé took the box of cereal off the shelf and held it out to him. Luke looked at her for a moment, then inched forward and finally took the box from her, mumbling something that might have been thank you. She watched, bemused, as Luke simply sat down on the kitchen floor with his back against the cooking unit and ate straight out of the box.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked, if only to break the ungainly silence.

Luke hugged his box a little more defensively and shook his head.

Padmé frowned slightly. "Are you sure?" Shouldn't he have some sort of drink? Or was that not typical here? She tried thinking back to those few awful days that she and Anakin had spent at the Lars' homestead, but those days seemed so long ago now, and she couldn't remember.

She stood uncertainly by the open cabinet of food, uncertain of what she should do now, and watching Luke. He ignored her except for a few furtive glances at her between bites. Finally something in her could not take the awkwardness for another moment, and her diplomatic training kicked in full force. Decisively she shut the cabinet and sat down next to Luke on the floor. "May I have some of those?" she asked.

Luke stared at her for a moment, apparently unbalanced by this unexpected move. For a few seconds she feared she would frighten him away. But all he did was shift sideways to put a bit more distance between them, and push the box towards her—reluctantly, but he did it. She crossed her feet beneath her, poured a handful of cereal into her palm, and began munching on it appreciatively. "Is this your favorite cereal?" she asked, hoping to spark some sort of conversation.

But Luke was only willing to cooperate so far with the newcomer. He nodded and immediately refocused all of his attention on his model ship. Padmé was not ready to give up yet, so she switched focus right along with him. "Does that ship have a name?" she asked him.

Luke glanced up, shaking his head shyly. "Not yet."

"Still thinking about a name?"

He nodded again.

"What kind of ship is it?" She genuinely had no idea.

"It's a T-16 skyhopper," he said, more brightly. "I want a real one when I get big enough."

Padmé raised her eyebrows with outward interest—and groaned inwardly. Make no mistake, Luke had definitely inherited his father's love affair with anything fast and airborne…wouldn't that make for an interesting adolescent stage?

Luke's momentary liveliness suddenly reverted to a very Anakin-esque sullenness. She could not understand why. He shot an upset glare at her and scooted away a few inches, focusing on his skyhopper model, leaving Padmé to wonder what she'd done to offend him. With a sigh, she glanced up at the kitchen window. The first sun was shining energetically through now; its beams glinted on Luke's bleached-blond hair.

"Good morning," Obi-Wan's voice said, breaking the enchantment and disappointment. Padmé looked up to see the Jedi meander into the kitchen area, barefoot and cinching on his belt. "It would seem you've both beaten me to breakfast," he observed, switching open the cupboard. Suddenly his eyes narrowed on Luke, who was abruptly afflicted with an obvious case of guilt. "I see he wheedled you out of having to drink his milk."

Padmé stared back. "He…said he didn't want anything to drink."

"Oh, I know he doesn't want anything," Obi-Wan snorted. He pressed another button, opening a food cooler, and pulled out a transparent jug full of blueish liquid. "But he knows perfectly well that he's supposed to be drinking, especially now in the morning." He shot Luke another reproving glance as he poured a cup of the blue stuff and handed it to the young boy. Luke took it ruefully and made a face at the contents.

Padmé tried to get a glimpse of the cup without being too obvious. "Ah…what is that?"

"Blue milk," Obi-Wan answered. "It comes from banthas. It's a suitable and considerably cheaper substitute for water in these parts. Luke, drink."

Luke's pitifully pleading eyes dropped in defeat and he took a reluctant sip from his glass. Immediately his small face scrunched up into a comical expression of distaste. "I hate blue milk," he muttered.

Padmé worked very hard not to smile. But she must have let something in her expression slip, because her amusement was not hidden from Luke, who glared at her again.

"I believe your Aunt Beru made that word off limits," Obi-Wan intervened gently. "And it is impolite to glare at your mother."

"She's laughing at me!" Luke retorted irritably.

"She did not laugh at you."

"Well, she wanted to." He crossed his arms sullenly.

"But she did not," Obi-Wan reminded him. "Why don't you go and get dressed now?"

Luke sulked his way into the other room. Padmé watched him go.

"I'm sorry about that," Obi-Wan said as he poured himself a bowl of something. "He's always been quite sensitive, but his perceptions have been especially acute since the attack."

Padmé shook her head, picking herself up off the kitchen floor. "The only thing wounded is my pride. I'd thought I was better at controlling my expression." She laughed a little at herself.

Obi-Wan frowned. "No, it's nothing to do with you," he corrected her. "It's his Force sensitivity I'm speaking of."

Padmé stopped mid-smile. "I'd…forgotten that."

"Well, it's hardly your fault. You haven't had much experience with Force sensitive children."

Padmé turned her eyes towards the door where Luke had left. Another good reason for Obi-Wan to stay with them for a short time… "Is he very talented?" she murmured.

Obi-Wan nodded somberly. "Easily as much potential as Anakin. Possibly even a little more, although it's very difficult to tell right now."

Padmé blew out a measured breath, clenched her fingers around the countertop. "And the Order considered Anakin to be very strong, as I recall."

Obi-Wan smiled rather bitterly. "Anakin had the highest midi-chlorian count of any being in the history of the Jedi, Padmé," came the none-too-reassuring response.

Padmé stared at him. "I didn't realize he was that…gifted." Her shoulders slumped as she turned her bleak, haunted gaze back to the door. So that was the reason Palpatine had set his sights on her husband, all those years ago… She hadn't had much for breakfast, but she found her appetite to be suddenly lacking.

"You should have something to drink," Obi-Wan remarked into the weighted silence. "Care for some blue milk?" His eyes glinted, just a small fraction of the friendly twinkle she remembered liking so much when she first saw him on Naboo. But it was an improvement over the complete bleakness she had only barely had the energy to notice on Polis Massa.

She felt a little brightened by the reminder that time could bring at least some healing. "How bad can it be?" she said lightly, picking Luke's box of cereal up and exchanging it for the glass of blue milk Obi-Wan poured her.

Her heart skipped a beat again as she saw Luke scamper back into the kitchen. How long would it take her to get used to seeing him?

Luke started to say something to Obi-Wan—then he saw the glass of blue milk she was just about to drink. He stopped to watch raptly. Padmé raised the cup a little in a mock toast and took a sip rather absently…

It was all she could do to avoid spitting the revolting stuff out. Actually swallowing it was an act of sheer willpower, which took far too much concentration for her to even hope to control her instinctive expression of disgust.

Luke instantly broke into a big, wide grin. "Gotta drink it all," he said sweetly.