[10]
In the wake of the attack on the Naboo Senator and her companions, the Jedi Council issues a formal invitation to Luke to discuss his training and intentions. Anakin says it is because the dissected debris and lack of fatalities in the party left an impression of obvious skill. Ever since, either Anakin or Obi-Wan have been in attendance, their presence a guard against similar dangers. Leia prefers the older Jedi; he doesn't startle dark memories or expect her to make conversation.
In contrast, there is a certain inevitability that when Anakin shows up it will be at an entirely unreasonable hour of the morning, before Leia is ready to talk to anyone. Entering the kitchen in Padmé's apartment she almost runs into his broad form and is forced to divert to the opposite side of the counter. Her glare is practiced and merely indicative of her state of mind before breakfast.
Anakin greets her cheerfully, moving to get her a cup of tea. "Princess."
Leia knows she's heard the title before from his lips. But this time her ears catch the tones in the bright baritone that had lain underneath the bass distortion from the black-masked helmet. A chill travels down her spine at the familiarity, sending the morning encounter from routine to reminiscent. "Say that again?"
He grins, obviously confused by the request, but more than willing to comply. "Princess."
It's not exactly the same. She'd caused him to second guess what he was saying, but it's enough to confirm the suspicion that blossomed like a super nova. She'd thought Vader despised her and everything she stood for. She'd spoken to him before the mission to intercept the plans for the original Death Star and assumed he found her insignificant at best. Trained to pick up nuances in what was said and how it was said—a blink of an eye or a shift of the lips—he'd defied reading. She only knows what Vader's voice sounded like when he was angry because she'd faced his wrath and quaked in her boots.
The way he'd said her title every time they met—now that she sees his face in the plain light of day she reads it as respect.
Her mental shields slam into place. Respect is not love—he'd had no reason to love her—but it means he'd seen something of value in her, something he'd honored with more than mouthed courtesies. She doesn't want Anakin to guess how the realization throws her off balance. She needs time to consider this and he's standing right there!
The shields work because Anakin straightens and a line appears between his brows. The container of tea skitters away as his hand moves restlessly on the countertop.
"Why bring that up?" she demands, needing an answer to calm her racing heart.
He sighs. "I didn't mean to offend you. I just thought—never mind. Obviously I was wrong."
"You startled me," says Leia, softening a little. As long as this isn't some elaborate trap to reveal incongruities in her origin story, she doesn't mind his use of her title as a nickname. "I—I'm not used to hearing it anymore."
"Shot down again, Commander?" Padmé trails in, wrapped in a satin robe, her hair hanging in loose curls over her shoulders, entirely unsurprised by the tableau in her kitchen.
"Whatever gives you that idea?"
Their hostess helps herself to hot water and the container of tea, her smile mostly a twinkle in her eyes. "One gets to recognize the tension in the air when the two of you have clashed."
"I'm sorry," murmurs Leia. "I don't mean to be difficult—"
"Force help us all when you do," teases Anakin.
Leia smiles, choosing to be amused rather than offended.
Luke joins them, his hair still charmingly sleep tousled. "Already?" he asks, shaking his head. It's not been lost on him how often the Jedi are around. "I'm not planning on skipping out you know. I said I'd be there."
"Point taken," says Anakin. "Still, a lot could happen between now and our appointment with the Council."
"Would you like to send me out to check the vaporator on the east ridge?" grumbles Luke, side-stepping one issue and oblivious to the trap laid in another quarter. "That's what Uncle Owen always did when he wanted to 'keep me out of trouble'."
"Is that because the closest family was to the west—the one near Anchorhead—what was their name?" Padmé pauses, thinking. She has paid careful attention to the details supplied by both twins, noticing that their overlaps usually involve people and not geography. "Darklighter?"
"Yeah. Biggs and I had some good times." Luke frowns. Leia can't remember either of them ever mentioning a settlement called Anchorhead—it sounds familiar, but she'd place it further back in their acquaintance, back when Luke had been mourning Biggs' death—
"I met Huff at the funeral," says Padmé and the twins look at her with matching expressions of utter incredulity (Leia still half in the past and wondering how she'd missed Padmé at the service for those lost in the attack on the Death Star, and Luke astounded that anyone would voluntarily visit Tatooine).
A deep frown appears on Anakin's brow. "...Owen Lars is your uncle?"
"Said so, didn't I?" mutters Luke, setting his jaw stubbornly.
"But—You're from Endor, not Tatooine." Neither twin makes a move to confirm or deny this statement. The Jedi starts to his feet, his seat clattering against the floor in his haste, taking Leia's breath away. They've been found out. Anakin is distressed, shaking his head in denial. His blue eyes have gone stormy, and his tongue trips over the turbulence of his thoughts. "He's not—he can't—you—they're all gone?"
Padmé lays a slender hand on his arm, as if to stop a tirade, but Anakin just looks lost now, his face gone blank as if he's stared into some fresh horror. Leia is moved by the sight, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She hadn't known he'd cared—
Luke shrugs his shoulders a little, not seeing a better answer.
"I—no wonder you hate me," says Anakin. He fumbles for the chair, and slumps down again. "You think I should have been there. That I could have done something."
"Something like that," Leia admits, biting her lip. "But I—I didn't know any better then. It was wrong of me to single us out for special treatment." She reaches across the counter, taking his hand as she would Luke's. "Please. Don't blame yourself."
He is, though. She can see it on his face. He feels guilty—helpless—and the nearest person to take his frustrations out on is himself. It's a sensation she's familiar with. His voice has gone rough as he asks, "Were you planning on telling me?"
"Probably not," says Luke.
"Why?"
Luke offers a weak grin, and quotes Han. "'The first thing that happens when you get famous, kid, is that all sorts of relatives you didn't know you had show up and want you to do something for them.' We didn't want to be those people. You've done so much already."