A/N: Standard disclaimers apply, blah blah blah. Don't own it. Really.
Obviously AU. Pointless drabble—I avidly support Ani/Ami…but this kind of wrote itself.
Feedback appreciated. Very appreciated.
PROUD HEART
IT'S ORDERLY CHAOS in the room. There is a buzz of activity, a perpetual motion, unceasing—but it's controlled, restrained. It is the traffic of Coruscant—busy yet regulated—
And just as the Jedi Temple is a place of quiet and peace and reflection in the midst of frazzled nerves and anxious impatience, in the center of this room is an oasis of tranquility, serenity—an eye of the storm.
I'm standing in this oasis, not really doing anything. Well—technically, I am. I'm holding up the train to the Senator's gown. I should be observing how the dress is being fitted to the Senator's figure like a good little future-seamstress-to-be…
But it is so dreadfully dull. How difficult can it really be to turn up the hem anyway? And my surroundings are so fascinatingly…upper class. These people are Senators and politicians and royalty—
And if I don't pay attention to the relationship of the waist measurements and shoulder measurements, I will be walking around the slums of Coruscant with the words "Take me, I'm cheap" painted to my forehead.
In purple ink.
"What do you think, Bail?" The Senator turns around, lifting her arms up for inspection. She glances frankly at the man seated in a chair in an out of the way corner, slightly behind a potted plant, looking rather morose.
"Oh. Um. It's—" The Viceroy of Alderaan flounders for a fitting compliment, "—heavenly."
The Senator frowns. "Well—that's rather vague, isn't it?"
Bail Organa blinks at her. It calls for extraordinary tact to maneuver out of his present situation.
"I—uh—well, it's your dress, Padmé."
The Senator smiles faintly. "And it is your wedding, Bail."
"'S yours too," he mumbles, "Really. Why am I here? I have no advise for you, you do realize that…" He lapses into silence.
"Well," the Senator says indifferently, gazing absently out the windows, "You could always go help Anakin choose the color scheme of the tablecloths and draperies." She smiles. It's not very kind.
The Viceroy looks at her, half-admiringly, half-curiously. "How'd you persuade him to do it? He doesn't strike me as…the type."
The type. Two very small words. Immensely loaded.
The Senator looks rather nonplussed herself. "I'm—not entirely sure. Ever since we returned from Coruscant, he's been trailing me like some silent, black shadow. And anything that doesn't require direct involvement on my part has a habit of accomplishing itself now…We had a wedding planning session yesterday, and he offered me my services, and I said that things were still largely unfinished," she sucks in her breath as one Handmaiden tugs hard at lace ribbon adorning her waist, "—and gave me a very peculiar look—" she demonstrates—"and told me that he'd handle it."
"How?" Bail grins. "Do they teach them in color coordination and whatnot at the Temple along with acrobatics and lightsaber dueling and killing Sith Lords?"
"Actually—" A silence descends on the room; motion stops. There is a collective pause, a moment of bated breath, as everyone turns to look at the door, "Master Lesta'li did offer a very interesting course: Ninety-Three Correct Ways to Pour Tea Without Blaspheming Every Known Tradition and Creating Inter-Planetary Wars--which I had to take twice, but that is really neither here nor there, and a probably a fact I should not have related... We spent two weeks on color schemes, and the logic behind why white must never go with periwinkle."
He's a tall, young man—but perhaps man is too much. He doesn't look older than twenty at most—I would probably have said not even seventeen, but I had long ago learned to distrust large, boyish, blue eyes. The eyes, in fact, are the most prominent feature of his face—they're frighteningly piercing.
The Jedi robes fall voluminously about his lean, lanky frame; his hair—sun-kissed blonde and a little shaggy, like a mane, I think—fall in much the same way about his high-held head. There's an air about him—an indescribable something—a glow, maybe—a peculiar mixture of dignity and command and nobility and honor and majesty and mischievous fun—that gives him something akin to charm…
…But more like charisma.
"Anakin!" The Senator's face lights up, and she cranes her head around to see him.
"Senator Amidala," he bows formally.
Something clouds her smooth brow for a moment, but it clears quickly, and she turns the Viceroy with a pleased expression. "Bail. Bail—come meet Anakin."
Bail Organa stands up slowly, almost stiffly. His eyes flicker over the Jedi—"Welcome, Jedi Knight."
The Jedi studies him for a long moment, inscrutably, and finally replies, "Your Highness," bowing with just the degree of respect decorum required.
The Senator is still smiling. "I never congratulated you, by the by, on your Knighthood, Anakin."
The Jedi says nothing—bows again.
It's a rather deep bow this time, though.
It speaks of servitude. Not necessarily demeaning or scraping—but a sort of "as you wish" attitude.
I've seen that kind of bow and attitude before; the Senator inspires it in very many people—her Handmaidens in particular. They are unwaveringly loyal to her, not just because it is their duty, but because they genuinely like her.
And he—judging from the bow—he—he adores her.
Force.
That can't possibly be healthy.
"How is Obi-Wan?" The Senator continues. The Viceroy has returned to his seat—there's a slightly tenser bearing to him as he sits.
I wonder.
"Master Obi-Wan," the Jedi replies gravely, "is in his usual health. He offers you his felicitations on your impending marriage."
"My thanks," the Senator nods in his direction. She's surprisingly casual with the Jedi—
The Viceroy isn't.
"What is your mission this time? I'm curious." His tone—bleak, chilling—is not.
The Jedi looks as impassive as ever. "Doubtless you know that your nuptials is a highly publicized affair."
"I am aware of that."
"The Chancellor fears that things might not run as…smoothly as planned. I am merely a precaution to ensure its…smoothness." He tilts his head to one side, smiles.
He looks more unemotional smiling than not.
Which is rather odd.
"It's very magnanimous of you to help plan the wedding."
The Jedi inclines his head: "I serve."
The Senator frowns at that, and, as the Viceroy smiles blandly back, resuming his seat, and the Jedi returns his gaze to her, she raises a curious eyebrow.
He grins at her—includes his eyes this time.
Smiling, he doesn't look like Jedi.
He looks…human.
A damn hot human.
"What was it you came for, Anakin?"
"The color scheme," he approaches her, hands her a datapad, retreats back, "the invitations have been sent, the menu planned, the flowers ordered—"
"You chose white and periwinkle," she glances up from reading. He inclines his head, eyes laughing. "My, you do work fast."
"I serve."
The Jedi, for all their brilliance and intelligence and resourcefulness, are regrettably unimaginative.
"And the security? That is what you are responsible for?" The Viceroy asks.
The Jedi manages to somehow look bland while giving the impression of glowering darkly. It's very impressive. "The security is taken care of," he answers curtly. "I have backup plans for the backup plans of the backup plans. And then a beta-plan."
The silent hostility between the two dissolves as the Senator lets out a peal of golden laughter. "Force! Is there anything you can't do?"
She's teasing him—he doesn't crack a smile.
He looks solemn. Somber.
A Jedi again.
His gaze is frightening—piercing, direct, intense, unnaturally perspicacious. It burns.
He answers, his voice dreadful. "Many things, milady. There are…many things I find myself incapable of…"
Had he not looked so grim, so awful, we might have that comment as a rather…bawdy suggestion. As it was, eerie silence descended.
He bows, for the fourth time. It's cold—formal, reserved.
"If that is all?"
It's not a question.
"Oh…yes. Certainly." She looks flustered, a peculiar occurrence.
He gazes at her for a very long time. The adoration I—and the whole room, I realize—had previously seen withdraws. He withdraws. There is just a blank kindness, and unrecognizing politesse.
"What was it you came for, Anakin?"It hadn't been for color schemes or invitations or flowers…
He had come for a conclusion to this hopeless romance.
A closure of sorts.
"I—Naboo," she slowly regains her composure. "We thank you."
The formal plural. He notices.
Something dies.
"We serve," he replies, the formulated answer slipping out. "Good day…Padmé."
He has not yet completed his mission—the wedding has yet to take place—he was not going anywhere, or leaving—and yet—
I read in the Senator's eyes—
What he had really said was "goodbye."
Ok. This left me depressed...
So I thought about writing more.
About, maybe, abride-napping.
But that wouldn't really be a one-shot anymore, would it?
Hmm...
Review.