Vader removes his mask and changes clothes before heading off to inform Padmé of the Emperor's decision. He has become more aware of it than he has been in the past—it was once just a part of him that he never thought twice about, but now he must remember when he has to take it off and on and off and on again.
He remembers that one of the new commanders, fresh out of training, had made a comment about it—
"Guess you have to look pretty for the girl, huh? Can't kiss her in a mask, either."
Vader choked the life out of him in return.
He doesn't feel much remorse, if he feels any at all, toward those he kills out of pure spite and impulse. But he knows that Padmé would disapprove, so every time he gets rid of one of his employees, he is very careful about covering it up and keeping it a quiet matter. The men like the gossip like teenage girls, and he fears that Padmé could simply walk by them and learn everything.
When Vader enters he and Padmé's room, she immediately looks up from the hologram projection of a book she was reading.
"Ani?" she says. He smiles at the delight that sparks in her eyes the moment she sees him. It's almost like everything is fine, like nothing in the universe could break them apart. When really, he knows that breakable threads are holding them together.
She looks absolutely beautiful—she always does. Her hair spills down her back in dark curls, and she wears a dark purple dress that pools onto the floor around her feet. As always, the japor snippet he gave her hangs from her neck. He's glad that she still wears it, but it brings back memories he does not like to dwell on—Tatooine, that wretched planet, being a weak slave boy, his mother, who he was before—
That's enough, he stops himself.
(And in fact, Padmé brings out those very same things, and more.)
"What took you so long?" Padmé inquires.
Vader hesitates. "I was speaking with the Emperor."
Padmé seems to nearly leap out of her skin upon the mention of the Emperor. Her eyes widen like a deer's in harsh car headlights on a dark night, and her hands curl into fists defensively. "W-what did he—"
"It wasn't bad, really. Don't worry," Darth Vader assures her. The moment he sees the fear rise within her, he feels that he has to stop it. It isn't a thought for the Empire's sake, so that Padmé trusts them more, he realizes. It is just that he doesn't want her to be anything but happy.
He is sure not to mention the Emperor's sour tone or his threat to Vader of what would happen to Padmé if she slipped up. "The Emperor has given you a position," continues Vader.
"A position?"
"He has requested that you serve as 'a diplomat of sorts,' to negotiate with the systems that have not responded well to . . . other methods," he tells her.
"But I'm guessing it isn't a request," she retorts bitterly.
Vader bites his lip, not wanting to admit it. But for once, he tells the truth—there's no point in hiding something Padmé already knows.
"No, it is not a request, exactly," admits Vader.
"It's fine, I'm used to not having any choices by now," Padmé goes on. The words slice into Vader like a knife—although they are softly spoken in such a gentle voice, they are harsh and cold and full of steel to him.
Padmé seems to notice the hurt in his face, the slight waver in his composure, because she quickly adds, "That wasn't directed just at you, Ani."
But the damage is already done.
"Right," is all he says, keeping his words brief so he can focus on holding it together. And it isn't anger that he's pushing back.
x x x
After she had slipped up in front of Anakin, gone too far with her words, they parted ways to try and lower the tension between them. When she said she didn't have choices, she didn't just mean that she had no say in staying here. She had no say in what happened to her children, where they are, and the current state of things. She had no say in being frozen in carbonite for eighteen years. She had no say in where she would hide until the time was right.
Padmé is tired of not having a say.
But she couldn't explain to Anakin what exactly she meant, so of course, he took it as a jab.
Sometimes, Anakin reminds Padmé of a hormonal teenage girl.
Padmé has been wandering around the Death Star for several minutes, maybe even as much as an hour. It is like a labyrinth in the space station—the hallways have endless twists and turns and they never seem to come to an end. Everything looks the same, all gray and black and modern. She passes by men in gray uniforms with arrays of badges and Stormtroopers in white armored suits.
They almost always at least glance her way, either that or they focus their gaze to the ground to avoid looking at her. She is used to it by now—how could they not, when she must be so full of mystery? Padmé doesn't even think that it's public knowledge in the Death Star that she and Anakin are married. They only know that they are together, and that is enough to make Padmé too well-known.
After several more minutes of Padmé meandering through the corridors, one of the men stops her and grabs her by the arm, pulling her to the side of the hall. It is empty except for a little black droid that looks like a toaster with wheels screeching down the pathway.
He is wearing the same gray uniform as all of the other men do, and his brown hair is cropped short to his head.
"Who—" she begins.
"I'm the spy the Alliance placed within the ranks of the Empire—Castor," he says. His words are rushed, like he will not have enough time to get them all out. "You're Padmé Amidala, aren't you?"
She nods, but she gets the feeling he doesn't need confirmation.
"I've heard things among the other men," he says. "They say you're Darth Vader's wife." There is a pause as the horror sinks into Padmé—the spy could expose everything. "It's true, isn't it? I've seen the two of you together before."
She swallows the lump that has formed in her throat. "You're very inquisitive, even for a spy," she comments, trying to put off answering him for a few moments longer so she can think of a response. "Why ask me questions when you seem to know all the answers?"
The spy smiles, almost slyly. "You're stalling," he says. "So it's true, then. But I guess you don't want me to relay that information to the Rebel Alliance?"
Padmé shoots him a sharp look. "Why would you want to do that?"
"Because you could easily be a traitor," Castor tells her. "And I will always do what is best for the rebellion." His entire demeanor changes, just like that, from sly and curious to solemn and stone cold.
"I'm not," she snaps. "I was married to him before he turned, before he joined the Empire. And now I have to stay here."
"Have to?" Castor repeats. He raises an eyebrow, the ice in his face falling away at Padmé's words. "You mean you're kept here against your will?"
Padmé nods. She can't even say the words—they would fill her with too much dread.
"He makes you stay?" he pries further.
"Yes," Padmé tells Castor. "I've left before, but . . ."
Where she trails off, Castor picks up. "But he found you," he says.
"I think he always will," she tells him. "If I ran again, out of this galaxy and to a faraway place, he would scrounge to the universe to its ends to find me. So I'm stuck here." Padmé takes a deep breath and shuts her eyes for a moment, trying to collect herself. "Please don't tell the Alliance. They'll take it the wrong way."
Castor nods. "I won't tell the Alliance," he promises. "But if you blow my cover, your secret won't be safe anymore."
"You don't need to worry about me," Padmé says. "I'm not going to expose you."
x x x
The fluorescent lights in Leia's office seem garish to her this late at night, but she is too buried in her work to bother to turn them off. Papers are scattered all over the sleek silver top of her desk, from blueprints to scribbles on white. She's lost count of how many times she has written Padmé's name just today.
For the past few days, she has been making plans to rescue Padmé from the Empire. She isn't completely sure when or exactly how it will be done, she just knows that it must be. There is this desperation growing and growing stronger every day within her—she has to save Padmé. It feels to her as if the world will end if she does not.
The holocommunicator beeps, and Leia drops her pen and answers. A projection of Castor, the spy the Alliance had placed in the Death Star, rises into the air. He is wearing an Imperial uniform, from the hat to the shiny boots.
"Castor, you have updates?" Leia asks eagerly, completely skipping greetings.
"Yes, General Organa," he replies immediately. "I have located Padmé Amidala, as you requested."
"Is she alright?" she demands.
"Yes, very much so," Castor tells her, but there is something about his tone that makes Leia uneasy. "I do not think the situation is as dire as you believe."
"What do you mean?"
"She is treated like a queen, here, General," he explains. "The other men say that if someone crosses her, Darth Vader will have their head. They say he practically worships her."
"Vader? What does he have to do with this?" Leia nearly snaps, Vader's name leaving a bitter taste on her tongue.
"Everything, actually."
Just then, Bail Organa nearly bursts through the doors, worry on his face. He is wearing blue plaid pajamas that hang off his body and his eyes are squinted against the harsh light. Bail seems heavy, weighed down, as he saunters towards Leia's desk, like he is wearing stones in his shoulders.
When he is close enough to see what she is doing, he crosses his arms over his chest and scowls.
"Leia!" he exclaims, his voice scratchy with sleep. "It's the middle of the blasted night, and you're sitting in your blasted office making rescue plans?! I told you already, there will be no rescue!"
Her face turns hot, bright red, at her father's words, but it doesn't stop her from fighting back.
"But Father, Castor is helping me assess the situation, I can—" Leia begins to protest.
"Castor!" her father repeats, glaring at the hologram projection of the spy. Bail walks around the desk to stand next to Leia, so Castor can see him. "Castor, you listen to me, you listen real close. You will no longer inform Princess Leia of any of your findings. You will report to me. Understand?" The stern way he speaks seems to frighten Castor, because his body has gone rigid. Even Leia can see that through the hologram.
But Bail doesn't scare her—there are not many things in the entire galaxy that scare her. His seething tone only kindles her fire, only makes the defiance in her grow.
"Y-yes, sir," Castor stammers. "I-I'll end my transmission, s-sir." He bows his head quickly.
And with that, Castor disappears.
Leia looks up at her father to glare at him with cold dark eyes. "Why do you always have to ruin my plans?" she growls. "You're not in charge of me! You might be my father, but I am turning nineteen in only a few months!"
"You may be an adult, but I am your superior in the Rebel Alliance," Bail snaps. "Enough of this nonsense, Leia Organa. You don't need to be worrying about Padmé while she is perfectly fine. She doesn't need saving. Trust me when I say this: she will never be harmed in the hands of the Empire. Do you understand me?"
She does not even flinch at the harshness, at the steel of her father's words. "No, I don't understand!" she fires back caustically. "I don't understand, because you won't tell me anything! You keep leaving me in the dark! What do you mean when you say that she'll be fine? Blasted, Castor was about to tell me, but you ruined it!"
"It's a good thing I did," Bail retorts sharply.
"He told me that Padmé is treated like a queen on the Death Star, that Darth Vader will 'have the heads' of anyone who would cross her," Leia tells him, using the information as leverage to try to get her father to break, to spill everything he knows. "It's strange, don't you think, that Darth Vader would protect her, would almost worship her? But she can't be a traitor. I can feel that she is fiercely loyal to the rebellion, and to me. It's too weird, Father. And I'm going to find out what's going on. If not from you, then from a different source."
"No you will not," her father commands. But his decree is useless against Leia, who stands before him with furious willpower, defiance, and determination. They show in the hardness of her face, in the fire that has ignited within the depths of her eyes. Bail can see it, and the truth is, it worries him.
Bail sweeps the papers from her desk into his arms and crumples them all into one great wad in his hand. He glowers at them and then sighs, the anger in his face faltering.
"I'm taking these to the incinerator," he tells her. "You will not revisit this, Leia. That is an order from not your father, but your leader."