Saturday:

Part Two:

Afternoon

"Hey, I wonder who that woman going over to Palpy's is…" Anakin muttered, looking out one of the windows in his bedroom. "Doesn't she realize he's up to something?"

Artoo gave a low whistle. I ain't never seen an ass like that.

"Of course you haven't," Anakin replied brusquely, looking through his macrobinoculars again. "I bet the old man's plotting."

Should we go over and break it up?

"Of course," Anakin answered automatically, brash as ever. He struck a determined pose, grabbing his lightsaber and twirling it in the air, in an obvious Final Fantasy VII tribute. Suddenly, his shoulders slumped, and he fixed his tie. "But there's a fence now…"

So?

"Well, there's no gate." He said in a fierce whisper.

There's no gate? The chirping droid mocked, Have you gone mad? Are you a Jedi or not? Pull yourself together, man! Besides, Anakin…the fence is two feet of scrap lumber. You're six-kriffing-six. I don't think it's gonna be a problem.

"You're damn right," Anakin decided, a steely glint entering his eyes, "I'll use my mad Matrix skills…and I might just get some tonight!"

A curious beep. Eh?

"You see, girls like guys with skills. Mechanical skills, fencing skills, fake-ID-making skills, Jedi skills... hey, wait. We're describing me here!"

If Artoo had the hands to accomplish such a thing, he would have smacked himself in the forehead. Of course, if he had mechanical arms he would have resorted to beating himself with them, at the exchange that followed.

"Damn!" Padme groused and sat up from where she had been lying on the canopy bed, her face smeared with a thick layer of moisturizer. She walked over, grabbing Anakin by the shoulders and pulling him into a rough kiss. She shoved him against a nearby wall, clung about his neck, looked deeply into his eyes…then kissed him again. She pulled away, leaving him wanting more. "I have to get ready."

Daaaaaaamn. Artoo whistled admiringly.

Anakin lifted his fingertips to his mouth, much like a sixth-grader after his or her first kiss. "Honey…" he said admiringly, "I think the spark is back in our marriage!"

"Anakin," Padme murmured, "The spark never left." She gave him a long, lusty look that promised things to come. Then she turned away, suddenly a responsible adult, "My relatives will be here in an hour." She smacked him in the ass, and walked off, hips swaying, into the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothing.

"Why are you making such a big deal out of this holiday?" Anakin called as she started to run a bath. "I mean," he went on, "I've met your family. I know you want impress them, but w why do I have to wear this pimp-suit?"

Padme stuck her head out of the bathroom door. He was relieved to see that she had washed the thick green cream off her face. "No, Anakin," she said as if she were talking to an adorable, but rather dense child. It was the same way she spoke to their kids. "You've met my parents and my sister. You have not met my family." She slammed the bathroom door.

Anakin shook his head, picked up the micro-binoculars, and continued to spy on the neighbors. He knew where Palpatine's bedroom window was – he had been privy to many of Palpatine's singing-into-a-hairbrush sessions. Today, however, the curtains were closed for the first time that Anakin could remember. He could just make out the sight of two figures beyond the veil. "Holy shit," he breathed, leaning forward slightly. He had the Force, extensive knowledge of robotics and a video camera… he wondered what Palpatine would be willing to pay to keep this information from getting in the wrong hands.

A small hand tugged at his pant leg. He glanced down to find Leia. The girl was looking every part the spoiled daughter of a wealthy senator. Her hair had been braided and twisted into a neat bun, her white Mary Jane's as shiny and new as their day of purchase. Starched tights clung to her thin legs, hiding the childish scrapes that adorned her shins, remnants from rough summer play. She was clad in a pink-frilled, beribboned dress, the bell-shaped skirt falling to her knees.

Luke stood by her, shoulders slumped. Just that morning, his hair had been framing his face. Now it barely reached his forehead. The sides were shorn, but the fine-spun gold strands were left to grow long on the top. He wore an electric blue suit with a plain gray tie. Both of them looked completely, utterly miserable.

Anakin, however, couldn't tear his eyes away from Leia's dress. It was a monstrosity. It was covered in flounces and delicate pink ribbons. It was the color of Pepto Bismol. In fact, he distinctly remembered the cat's vomit being the same color.

He brought his eyes away from the skirt to look at the children. Both looked so dejected, he was half-worried they would enter a ritualistic suicide. He dismissed the notion, still staring at the over-bright garments. His own suit was a respectable slate-gray color. Padme had said that it would bright out the color of his eyes. Only…his eyes were blue.

Not for the first time, he wondered if Padme was blind.

It would, after all, explain so much.

"Daaaad," Luke whined, in classic Skywalker fashion.

Leia immediately followed her older-by-a-minute twin's less than stellar example. "I look like crap," she pouted. "Luke, too."

"Yeah, I noticed. I mean, uh… well… that sounds like a personal problem. I mean, Lei', Princess… what are you talking about? You look…um…you look…"

"Like a cupcake?"

Anakin rubbed the back of his neck, "I was going to say Threepio's love child with Martha Stewart, but yeah."

"Or crack added to cotton candy," Luke put in.

Leia tackled her brother easily – they were much faster and more agile than normal children their age. And they knew the Force. Surprisingly, they were an inch or so smaller than was average, something Padme had fretted endlessly over, even when a pediatrician had told her that twins often grew slightly slower than single births. Anakin watched the two fight fondly. Luke and Leia had endless energy, were cute as the proverbial button, and were forever running rather than walking.

Leia was screaming at the moment, "Luke, you look like abortion!"

"You look like Alice in Wonderland!" Luke shifted from beneath her, pinning her to the ground.

She bit his hand, wriggling loose, "You look Frank Sinatra!"

Luke ducked her well-aimed punch. "You look like the Easter Bunny's slut!"

Leia flinched as his foot connected with her shin, "You look like Jack Sparrow's bimbo!"

"Leia! Luke!" Padme admonished sternly, as she emerged from the bathroom. "We do not use those words. Unless we're talking about the woman whose running against me for office. Then, 'crack-fiend whore-lady' is the polite term. Or unless we're talking about Aunt Jeanie, who won't be joining us tonight, in which case the phrase you use is 'lazy, tawdry strumpet." She flashed a resplendent smile, revealing her even white teeth, and slid off her robe to reveal a black silk slip, took a garment bag from the closet, and disappeared into her small dressing room.

Anakin sulked, "I feel like I'm invisible." He whined.

"Dad…shut up." Luke said.

Anakin ignored him and strutted after Padme. "Angel, what's up with the kids' clothes?"

"Zip me up," she said, turning and lifting her hair off her back to give him a view of her pale back. He complied, slowly sliding the zipper up. "Thanks. Anyway, it's to shut my mom up about the kids never using her presents."

"Oh," he laid his hands on her shoulders, idly working out the tension in her neck with his thumbs.

"Ani…could you make this nice for me? My family hasn't been together in years. Not since Aunt Eunice died. We had fun then."

"You had fun when Aunt Eunice died?" Anakin's mouth quirked into a smile.

"Yeah, no one liked the miserable old hag. My family's a bit odd."

"What's that mean?"

"You'll fit in fine. I hope."

The doorway interrupted the combination massage/conversation. Anakin pulled his hands off her with great reluctance, and took his time strolling through the unusually clean house. He passed Threepio, who was freshly-oiled, mirror-polished, and looked completely in his element. He rolled his eyes as he heard what Threepio was fussing over this time – the roses in a vase being too close together. The doorbell rang again. And again. And again. Annoyed now, he stalked to the front door, pulling it open to reveal two women and a man.

A woman in a long black dress, and a tattered shawl pinned around her shoulders by a broach glittering with diamonds and amethysts stepped forward. She wheezed slightly, leaning heavily on her cane. "I am Agatha." When she spoke, her voice was brittle and hoarse, "I foresee great suffering in your future." With that, she swept into the house, without waiting for an invitation.

The other woman was rather corpulent, though her mass was hidden under a tent-like yellow dress. She chuckled heartily, "That's Ma for ya," she muttered, as she vigorously shook Anakin's hand. "I'm Padme's aunt, Corona Lewis. That's my husband, Ken. It's short for Heineken."

"I'm Anakin," he replied, feeling slightly overwhelmed.

"Great to meet you, Nicky. You'll have to excuse the muumuu," she gestured to herself, "I was at the coast less than an hour ago, having sex on the beach. The drink, too." She grinned, "Ken and I brought our dogs. Do you mind?"

"Not at all," Anakin waved his hand carelessly, "We have a golden retriever ourselves. And two cats, four goldfish, and some hermit crabs." Anakin was anticipating the Lewis' dog to be a well-behaved poodle or some other kind of lapdog.

What he got was much different. Of course.

Corona grinned, eyes crinkling, "I like you! Come on, Devil! Hurry up, Satan! Over here, Beelzebub!" Three monstrous hellhounds bounded inside after her.

In strode Corona's shady-looking husband, Ken, whose trench coat swirled about his ankles. His eyes were shadowed by a broad hat, which he tipped lightly with a gloved hand. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a pair of oversized sunglasses and a thick black scarf.

"May I take your coat and hat, sir?" Threepio asked cheerfully.

Ken made sure that his scarf and sunglasses covered his face, before deigning to remove his hat. He unbuttoned his trench coat… to reveal another one underneath, completely identical to the first. A camera hung around his neck, and there were two blasters strapped to his belt. He lifted the camera, snapping a picture of Anakin's weary frown. "I will know all your secrets," he promised, before slipping away.

"Screw you too, asshole." Anakin muttered.

"Ani!" Padme called from the top of the stairs. She glided down the sweeping staircase, a vision in poinsettia-red brocade, a few tendrils of hair framing her face. "Be nice!" She hissed through clenched teeth, then gave him a deep, open-mouthed kiss. Anakin returned vigorously, effectively shutting her up.

"Uh, Padme?"

The two sprang apart, to see that Padme's parents, sister, brother-in-law, and nieces, had gathered around them. Anakin grinned broadly, slipping an arm around Padme's shoulders, "We have a very healthy relationship."

"So I see," Jobal raised an eyebrow coolly, "Padme, dear, if you could please let the servant boy do his work, and invite us in to meet your lovely husband and darling children?"

Padme drew in a sharp breath, "Mother," she said icily, her voice like the crack and snap of glacier ice. "This is my husband, Anakin."

"You got divorced? Whatever happened to the idiot you married?"

"Mother, that was also Anakin."

"No kidding?" Came a male baritone, and everyone turned to see Obi-Wan, a rolled-up Playboy tucked under his arm and holding a twelve-pack in each hand. "The back door was open," he explained, jerking his head toward the end of the hallway. There was silence, so he said, as if continuing an old conversation. "So my speeder died when I was tearing across the yard, Dukes of Hazard style."

"You'll die." Great-Aunt Agatha creaked, appearing in the doorway. She leaned heavily on her cane, looking as if any contact might cause her to snap.

Obi-Wan bowed low, the action made difficult by his burdens. The Playboy dropped, opening to the centerfold. It was promptly grabbed by the bulldog, Beelzebub. "Great," Obi-Wan muttered.

"You want me to go check the speeder out?" Anakin offered, wanting to get away from the crazies. The second Obi-Wan nodded, Anakin sprinted into the hallway. Luke and Leia had taken their leave less noticeably – they simply edged off into the sitting room.

"So, where are your kids going?" Sola asked, noticing their rather conspicuous absence.

"Into the parlor," Padme forced a smile. "Shall we go join them?" She could hear faint strains of music. They must have been practicing their scales again, she reasoned. The twins had started piano lessons (Padme insisted) a week ago, with a sour old woman called Madame Asinotov.

As Padme led the ragtag band through the house, the piano music steadily increasing in volume, Jobal leaned close to Padme, "Are you sure that's your husband? Whatever happened to the sweet little boy who wanted to marry you when you were kids?"

Agatha cackled, "The sweet little boy died!"

Padme pressed her lips together in a thin line, refusing to say anything. When they came into the room, they found Luke and Leia sharing a piano bench. Uncle Ken snapped a picture. His camera spat out a copy, which he slipped into a folder called 'EVIDENCE.' Padme thought nothing of the twins at the piano, but everyone else stared, slack-jawed. "What?" the brunette asked, "It's only a few scaled.

"Padme!" Sola scolded, swatting her in the back of the head. "That's hardly scales! It's Pachebal's Canon in D minor!"

The Senator blinked. "Is that good?"

"You plebian," Sola said fondly, "How long have your kids been playing?"

"Eh…" Padme paused to consider. "They've had about three lessons."

"What are we talking about?" Anakin asked as he came in, wiping off his just-washed hands with a lace-edged cloth.

"Those towels are just for decoration!" Threepio needled, hurrying after him.

Anakin held out the hand towel. "Here." He said quietly.

Threepio snatched it, "Oh, sure, just make me out to be the bad guy here…" the golden droid mumbled as he went off, occasionally muttering, "completely ungrateful … jerk … rude … thinks he's god … like he's so smart … I'll show him …"

Artoo rolled after. Dubya-Tee-Eff, mate?

Anakin chuckled, then realizes that the Naberries were looking at him, lips pursed in that disapproving Naberrie manner. "So…what were we talking about?"

Sola forced a smile, "Your kids are musical geniuses! Congratulations! Padme can't even carry a tune in a bucket…"

Anakin scoffed, "Playing the piano can't be that hard, can it?" He moved to the piano, "I've never even touched one before, and let's see how I do." He sat straight, wrists loose, before he began to play. His fingers were rapid over the ivory keys, golden light shining over his sand-colored hair, his thick eyelashes half-lowered.

Finally, Anakin turned, "There you have it. Jingle Bells, and I've never even touched one of these things before."

"That wasn't Jingle Bells." Sola informed him, "That was La Vie en Rose."

"See, Padme?" Jobal snapped, "I bet the pretty boy with the wimpy little girly braid by his ear would have known how to play a useful Life Day carol, rather than some old song no one cares about."

Padme, frustrated, growled and banged her forehead against the ornately carved mantle over the black carved fireplace. She cried out in pain, crumpling to the floor.

"Oh, yes, she's dead," Great-Aunt Agatha's knife-slash of a mouth curved into a smile. She laughed, her mirth bubbling to the high ceiling.

"Angel!" Anakin gasped, throwing himself across the room. He flipped in mid-air, landing gracefully next to the hearth. He crouched over Padme. "My love?" He asked gently, face etched with the utmost care and concern.

She clutched his tie, tightening it until he couldn't breath. "You need to…brush your hair…and tell little Jimmy I won't be home for Life Day…"

Obi-Wan assessed the situation.

Uncle Ken was caught between taking pictures of Anakin and bugging the communications systems.

Ruwee, Padme's haggard-looking father, was shuffling through the Skywalkers' mail, ripping open and peering at the bills and credit card statements.

Jobal was studying a picture of Anakin and Padme that had been taken a few days after the Battle of Naboo, with tears in her eyes.

Ryoo and Pooja were beating the crap out of each other, as Sola yelled at them.

Sola's husband – Ob-Wan couldn't remember his name – was looking at some art on the wall for "insurance reasons." He had already "insured" several small statues and champagne glasses in a large sack he'd pulled out of nowhere.

Luke and Leia had linked their handheld game systems and were having a battle royal, pausing occasionally to insult each other or whack the other over the head with a Game Boy.

Padme was unconscious, bleeding from the side of the head, and Anakin…

Anakin was trying to give her mouth-to-mouth, though that wouldn't explain why he was groping down the front of her dress, and muttering about Pirates of the Caribbean.

And there were three bulldogs tearing apart a couch cushion.

Obi-Wan did what any sane, red-blooded Great Negotiator™, who had trained The Chosen One™ would do.

He sat on the couch, put his feet up, and opened a beer.

…To Be Continued…

Author's Note: If you've read this far, thanks! rubs neck I don't think many people read the whole way through last time. Anyway, I have come to love reviews!