A/N: Hi guys. I'm really sorry it's taken so long for me to update. My original goal was to have this chapter completed by Christmas—obviously that didn't happen.
Without getting into detail, the last ten months of life have started to catch up on me, and my mental health has taken a nosedive. Lately it's been hard keeping up with projects I usually enjoy, this being one of them. I'm working on it when I feel up to it, but many days it's become difficult.
I don't say that to garner any pity, just to let you know that despite appearances I am still working on this story and will finish it, but my brain health has slowed its already-slow progress. We'll get there one day, so help me!
Out the speeder window, the Legislative District of Galactic City appeared a gloomy shade of blue. Rain was not common in the capital, where the weather operated on the whims of its stewards, but every once in a while, Weather Control unleashed carefully calculated downpours to balance the atmosphere. The precise nature of the operation did nothing to keep Yan Dooku dry as he ducked out of the speeder and strode purposefully toward the shadow of the stratotower, where he could remove his hood and brush water off of his hair. There was a human man standing near the main doors, huddled in a richly dyed overcloak. He perked up upon seeing Dooku.
"Good morning," the blond man called, beginning to smile as Dooku strode toward him. "Or perhaps midday. It's hard to keep track of the hour with all this rain."
"I've not been outside the Temple grounds in nearly seven months," Dooku told his nephew, "of course they would choose today to unleash the heavens. It's good to see you, Adan," Dooku gave a rare smile and gripped the shorter man's shoulder. Adan smiled back.
"I'm glad to see you, Uncle. Come. It's warmer inside—I've taken the liberty of selecting a table for us near the fireplace."
The fire was old enough to lend both warmth and dryness to the room, both a mercy. Dooku was not as young as he once was, and he was privately glad for such worldly comforts. He watched in silence as their waiter poured their wine—a very fine vintage, Adan had inherited his mother's good taste. When Dooku reached out to take his own glass, he was momentarily jarred by how the firelight illuminated the age spots on the back of his hand.
"Last time you were here, you had a well-dressed Kaminoan next to you," Dooku said to distract himself. "Echo, I thought he called himself."
"Yes," Adan smiled as he set his glass back down after a drink. "Echo is on planet, but I gave him the day off. Several of his brothers live here on Coruscant, and it's rare that he gets time to see them."
"How very generous of you," Dooku commented, eyeing the menu and pretending as though he hadn't known what he would order since the moment they sat down. "Personal leave is a kingly freedom for a Count's aide on Coruscant."
"Yes," Adan said, also looking at his menu to avoid eye contact. "I admit I have other motives. I thought it best that we speak in private, should we speak of Jedi affairs." Dooku flicked his eyes up over the menu to look into his nephew's face. Adan clearly saw him looking but pretended not to. Dooku looked backed down, eyes hovering aimlessly over the seafood menu.
"Are there Jedi affairs on Serenno?" He asked airily.
"There were, briefly," Adan told him, flipping his menu to look at its reverse side. "And disastrously. A Sith training compound two kliks outside the capital district. Housed and operated out of the old Trade Federation complex." Yan set down his menu and reached again for his wine. He savored the taste before speaking.
"The Trade Federation?" he asked.
"I thought you knew they were allies of the Sith," Adan said.
"To know is one thing," Yan set it his wine glass back down, watching the legs of the alcohol slink down the sides of the glass. "To hear confirmation, another. And so longer after they disappeared from Republic trade routes, as well. I suppose the Jedi responded to such an affair," he said, knowing exactly where this was headed.
"They did," Adan confirmed. "But not before the Sith cleaned up shop and ran away, to gods only know where." The Count took a generous gulp of wine and swallowed it quickly. "We had intelligence on the matter, a new report almost every hour. They had no idea we were coming until the day we asked the Jedi Council for help."
"Which Council?" Yan asked, already knowing the answer.
"Reconciliation," Adan confirmed his fears. "Neither I nor senator Chancius enjoy the privilege of accessing the High Council," he shrugged. "You know how it goes."
"If you've come to me expecting that I enjoy this supposed privilege, I'm afraid I must leave you disappointed."
"I've not come to ask your help, uncle," Adan said, managing the rather difficult task of surprising Yan Dooku. "I've come to warn you."
"Warn me of what?"
"That your Council, the Council of Reconciliation, is very likely corrupt."
With the inopportune timing of the galaxy's worst farcical play, their waiter reappeared and was irritatingly chipper as he took their orders, which they both rattled off without having to consult the menu. Only once the man was well out of earshot did Yan say,
"On what basis do you make such a claim?"
"The intelligence we had on the Sith before they evacuated was not unique, Uncle. You cannot convince me that no one in your Order has seen the pattern. Local authorities spot the Sith, we track the Sith, we monitor the Sith, but as soon as we notify the Council, following all the protocols and deference that our positions demand, the Sith evaporate. It happened on Serenno, and Savereen, on Champala, on Naboo." The Count leaned back in his chair. "You may put this off to some aspect of your mystical Force, but I say it can hardly be a coincidence." Yan stared into the fire, watching the tongues of flame lick the artificial coals in orange-blue patterns that defied prediction.
"You do know what you are suggesting," Dooku began.
"I'm suggesting," Adan said, voice firm, "that your Order has been infected with the very enemy you seek to destroy."
"My Order," Yan asked carefully, "Or this Council?" Adan shrugged.
"Is one not a part of the other?"
"One is more a part of the Senate than the other," Yan replied. "And should you be implying that the Sith have infiltrated the Senate, that is another accusation entirely."
"It is an accusation I'm not unwilling to make," Adan spoke cautiously, staring into his uncle's eyes to spot even the slightest hint of misgiving. He detected none. "And I'm hardly the only person to think so."
Their food arrived, and the two continued to stare at each other in silence even while the waiter distributed their plates. Neither picked up their silverware for a long pause after.
"Is there anyone else who shares your sentiments?" Yan asked. Adan at last took up his knife and fork. He began to cut into his imported scallops with delicate precision.
"There are a number of senators who've begun to suspect something is not quite right, including Serenno's own Senator Chancius. I know she's spoken with one or two others, but to what ends I have not heard. I cannot say who, exactly, is truly corrupt, but the growing—if quiet—sentiment is that the Council of Reconciliation's word is a harbinger."
"Of?"
"Of failure," Adan said, taking his first bite. He swallowed and took a sip of his wine before adding, "Specifically, the failure of the Jedi to contain the existential threat they've been selling to the galaxy for the last decade."
"I see," Dooku said, tucking into his own meal with significant reservation. "These one or two other senators, who are they?"
"I could not tell you."
"You should find out." They both took a few bites in silence, before Adan asked,
"To what end, uncle?"
"To the end that it may help us understand who are our allies," he said, looking up to share a meaningful look with the Count. "You ought to find out what senators have seen the 'pattern', as you say, and which of those suspect their Jedi colleagues."
"Are you saying you agree with me?" Adan seemed eager to confirm. "That the Council of Reconciliation is corrupt?"
"I cannot possibly," Yan said immediately. "Not out loud."
"I will see what I can find out," Adan said quietly, sensing that their conversation was nearing its end—for now. "Thank you for the advice."
"What advice? I only hear a Count telling me what I ought to believe, and should anyone ask, I've steadfastly ignored him." Adan smiled.
"Mother was right about you."
"How so?"
"You're shrewder than the gods."
Yan decided to take it as a compliment, and they turned to their lunch in a lighter tone of conversation. At length, after much discussion of home and politics, they set their napkins on the table and Adan waved down a waiter to bring out the check. A droid came over to adjust the fire, turning the flames to burn higher as the afternoon grew darker and more dreary.
As they walked out to the skycar lane outside of the high-rise tower, Dooku glanced at his nephew and asked,
"What do you think the Chancellor makes of all of this?"
"Of what?"
"The Council," Dooku asked carefully, "of the Jedi's campaign against the Sith. Is he for or against it?" Adan hesitated in his step, eyebrows tugging his forehead into worried creases.
"Truly? I could not say. The man guards his opinion with his life. I only know that he has been put into a hard position of late. He has defended the Jedi's movements against the Sith since the beginning, but his patience is growing thin. Public opinion of the Jedi—and thus, approval of The Chancellor's relationship with the Order—wears razor thin. He has been holding the Senate together through the crisis with sheer willpower, but sooner or later, something is bound to snap." The Count dared a look at his uncle, but the master was, as ever, unreadable. "It won't be Palpatine's fault when it does, and though it pains me more than I can say, I will hardly blame him if he chooses to turn his back on the Order."
"That being so," Yan stopped short of the line where the shade of the building ended and the deluge of rain began. "It may be best not to mention our misgivings," he said. "Neither the Chancellor nor the Jedi Order can take another blow to public opinion. Investigate these rumblings you've mentioned, let me know any pertinent details, but do it quietly."
"Of course, uncle," Adan gave a shallow and familial bow. "It was good to see you again."
"Likewise, Count."
Sore, hungry, and still stewing in the sour mood brought on by the afternoon's class, Obi-Wan's footfalls were loud and interruptive as he strode across the residential halls. A few masters and padawans gave him sharp glances a few decibels short of shushing him outright, but he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice.
He could have taken this journey in his sleep. Every turn, lift, and snag in the carpet was familiar. Clee Rhara had lived in the same apartments as long as Obi-Wan had known her, and the trek from the dojos to her door was one he'd taken thousands of times. Out of courtesy, he knocked before opening the door, but he'd had Clee's permission to enter freely since he was sixteen.
"Ah, Obi-Wan," Clee smiled at him immediately. She seemed to be in the process of tidying up the kitchen, dishes loudly clattering against each other as she piled them into the sink. "Do come in. Shut the door behind you, would you?"
Obi-Wan did, and as the door closed, the apartment dimmed almost entirely, the only light coming in from the setting sun behind the slatted windows. Obi-Wan frowned up at the lights, wondering if there was a short, but Clee continued cleaning countertops in the dark.
"Master, do want me to turn on the—"
"No no," Clee answered quickly, tucking a tuft of silver hair behind one ear, "best not." She gave Obi-Wan a pointed look and jutted her head backwards. Obi-Wan turned to see what she was indicating.
"Ah," He said, expression falling.
"Mmm," Clee was distracting herself with work, keeping her eyes trained on her task.
Garen Muln was standing by one of the tall windows of the apartment, frozen in place, staring into the hallway with a glassy expression. His lips moved in minute, voiceless murmurs, eyebrows and eyelids twitching in microexpressions no one could parse.
"How long has it been?" Obi-Wan asked, eyes not leaving Garen's face.
"About six minutes," Clee reported. Obi-Wan felt his eyebrows rise. It had been a while since Garen had had an episode longer than a minute. He glanced back at Clee, who was tending to a pot of something that smelled delicious.
"Would you like me to set the table?"
"No, I'm going to have him do it, once he's back. He'll be upset, best give him something to do."
"Of course." Obi-Wan wanted to ask if she thought Garen would be 'back' in time for dinner, but a manic sort of sadness was emmenating off of the petite master and made him bite his tongue. The thought must've already occurred to her. Obi-Wan took a quiet seat in the sitting room and continued to watch his old friend from behind.
Garen had never and likely would never fully recover from the torture he'd experienced on Alderaan. The Temple's mind healers were by now all closely acquainted with Garen, but none of them could fully describe his condition. Little was known about thanatosine's long-term effects on anyone, let alone force-wielders. Thanatosine prisons hadn't been in use for thousands of years, not since the great Jedi Civil Wars. Few records remained regarding their use, and fewer still on the condition of anyone who survived them.
Since his recovery, Garen had recovered much of himself through diligent training and meditation, but his blackouts and flashbacks persisted, interfering with his memory and sense of time. Obi-Wan doubted any modern healer truly knew how to treat him. For this reason, he'd spent the last two years living with his old master, who'd also become his primary caretaker as he re-adjusted to life as a Jedi.
Clee had her back turned when, seven minutes later, Garen started and looked down and around himself.
"Interesting hallway?" Obi-Wan asked after a moment. Garen turned to see Obi-Wan, and Clee looked over her shoulder to see her former apprentice. Her tense posture melted in relief, and she quietly flicked the lights back on.
"Obi," Garen said, and glanced at the front door. "How- how long have you been here?"
"Just got here," Obi-Wan lied. "You want to sit down?" Garen was flexing his knees, obviously stiff after standing frozen for so long.
"No, that's alright, I…" He glanced back to Clee. "How long was I...?"
"Thirteen minutes," she told him plainly, and he winced. As his shoulders began to sink, Clee maintained a frank tone when she said, "now come over here and help me set the table. You boys had better be hungry, you know I can't measure pasta to save my life." Obi-Wan joined to help his friend, and quietly laid a hand on Garen's shoulder in unspoken support. Garen gave him a nod but said nothing more. As the men gathered up dishes and flatware for the table, Garen stole a look up at his friend's face.
"What's got you so glum this time?"
"What?" Obi-Wan replied, having no idea that he had been frowning. "I'm not."
"You are. It's not because of me, is it it? Stop it."
"What? No, it's not…" Obi-Wan sighed. He took his seat at the table as Garen did the same. The dark-haired man fixed his friend with a knowing stare. "It's this damn class Master Drallig has me teaching," Obi-Wan relented. They're horrors, the students."
"Oh?" Clee piped up, hoisting a herculean cauldron of pasta and carrying it to the table. "I thought you enjoyed teaching Mikashi."
"Ah, it's those preening initiates again, isn't it?" Garen teased, helping his old master distribute their dinner. "Has the fame and flattery finally got your tabards in a twist?"
"Garen, stop," Clee chided, but Garen only smiled.
"No," Obi-Wan grumbled, "They're not initiates, they're all apprentices. Flattery would be a relief. It's outright abuse. I've one student who's insulted me to my face and called me a liar multiple classes in a row, now. I think the others find it all very funny." At this, Garen seemed genuinely shocked.
"What? Have you told Master Drallig?"
"I haven't the chance, he's been off-world in preparation for his apprentice's trials next month."
"Who's apprentice is it?" Clee asked, finally sitting down and spreading her napkin across her lap.
"I'm not entirely sure—the roster has her listed as a Corps trainee, but doesn't specify any master." Garen and Clee glanced at each other. Garen had trained in the Starfighter Corps for the entirety of his apprenticeship, but it'd always been clear on his record that he was Master Rhara's apprentice.
"What's her name?" Garen asked.
"Ahsoka Tano. A moody little togruta who's determined to get on my last nerve."
"Ahsoka Tano," Clee broke in, setting down her fork to look at Obi-Wan in surprise. "Apprentice Tano? Red skin, white markings, scowling all the time?"
"Yes, that sounds like her."
"Oh," Clee sat back up, expression clearing. "Well yes, she is an apprentice of the corps—the Starfighter Corps, actually, I had her in my astronav courses last quarter. She doesn't have a master, she's bound for corps work, not knighthood." This casual comment brought Obi-Wan's thought process to a screeching halt. He felt his indignation bubble up.
"Then why the hell is she taking lightsaber courses?" he wanted to know. Clee shrugged, picking at her dinner.
"Corps trainees at the temple get to take one elective class every quarter. It sounds like she chose to enroll in saber courses. Is she any good?"
"Mediocre at best," Obi-Wan said, stabbing at his food, "She's far too combative."
"Hmm," Clee scooped up a forkful of pasta and chewed thoughtfully. After she swallowed, she said, "From what I recall in my classes, Ahsoka is likely not cut out for the Starfighter Corps, either. She lacks focus and patience. As you said, she's very combative. It's really no wonder she aged out of the creche without a master. I'm sorry she's been giving you grief."
Obi-Wan froze mid-bite, and could feel rather than see Garen Muln staring at him intently over his mountain of pasta. His old crechemate, the only being alive who'd been there to see him crack and crumble when he'd turned thirteen, now watched him with a laserlike focus.
"Will she stay there?" Obi-Wan found himself asking, "in the Starfighter Corps." Clee shrugged.
"I suppose it's possible, but doubtful. She's been there not even a year and, at least when she was in my class, had developed a reputation as a straggler and a rebel. The Council may yet see fit to reassign her elsewhere, or she could choose to leave the Order altogether."
"Leave?" Garen said, at the same time Obi-Wan said,
"Leave? She's fourteen."
"Listen," Clee spread her hands, glancing between the two men who looked equally aghast, "I know how you boys feel about it, but the fact of the matter is that the Order is not Ahsoka's parent. She remains in the custody of the Republic, and if she chooses to file for emancipation, there is every chance the Republic will grant it without a second thought. There is very little we can do to keep her here, if she chooses such a path."
"She's a child," Obi-Wan reiterated.
"I am not disagreeing with you, Obi-Wan," Clee told him, eyes sad. "I am only telling you what may happen. So perhaps now you see why she is so combative. She may yet have to grow up quickly." Obi-Wan huffed and stared at his pasta. Garen was doing the same and was, Obi-Wan had no doubt, remembering the fifteen year old girl they'd found dead on Savareen.
He felt horrible for being so cross with Ahsoka, now.
His mood lingered with him well past dinner, clear across the residential halls from Clee Rhara's dining table and into the apartments he shared with Qui-Gon Jinn. The older master had been sitting in a serene lotus pose on a cushion in the corner of the room for nearly an hour when at last he finally sighed, unfolded his legs, and opened his eyes to glare at his former apprentice.
"Alright," he said, slouching in an annoyed posture, "out with it. What's bothering you?"
"What?" Obi-Wan said from the couch, holobook falling in his grasp.
"If I were blind, deaf, and mute with nothing but the Force to guide me, I would find you from the other side of the planet from the stench of your mood alone. You've been moping."
"I-" Obi-Wan began to deny it, but Qui-Gon fixed him with a look Obi-Wan had seen hundreds of times, and he knew it would be fruitless to deny it. "I've had a lot on my mind, that's all," he mumbled, looking back at his book with spiteful determination. Qui-Gon hoisted himself to his feet with minor grunts and groans—a prerogative of age, he'd told Obi-Wan more than once—and went to join his apprentice on the couch.
"Tell me," the master said, and Obi-Wan hated how easily he gave in. After a moment of silence, he asked:
"What did you think of me?" He was glad for Qui-Gon's stoic and patient expression as he attempted to find the words. "All those years ago, when I was still an initiate, trying desperately to get your attention, soon bound for the Agricorps. What did you see in me?"
"Before or after Bandomeer?" Qui-Gon asked.
"Before."
"Hmm," Qui-Gon adjusted his sleeves and looked up in thought, casting his mind back. It was difficult to reconcile the Obi-Wan of today with the Obi-Wan of decades ago. So much could change about a person over the years, and Obi-Wan's life was a masterclass in growth.
"I thought you were angry," Qui-Gon said eventually. "Angry and stubborn. And scared, when I looked close enough. In short, I thought you were more than a handful. And as you know, I was in no mind to take on any apprentice, to say nothing of a difficult one."
"And what did you think of my going away to the agricorps? Did it bother you?"
"Bother me? No, I suppose not. At the time, I supposed that it was the Force's will. Of course, we know better now." Obi-Wan found the answer unsatisfactory.
"Yes," he said after a while, looking off into nothing. He still remembered the exact moment he was told he'd been assigned for the agricorps. It'd never crossed his mind to leave the Jedi order at the time, but perhaps if he'd stayed on Bandomeer, gotten over his shock, allowed disappointment to turn into resentment…
"What do you think would have happened to me," Obi-Wan began, leaning toward Qui-Gon slightly as his scarred right side began to ache, "if you hadn't taken me on? If I'd gone back to the agricorps and continued on there. What would I have done after a year, two, ten?"
Qui-Gon frowned and watched his protege's face for several long moments. The master was clearly taken aback by such a line of questioning, but he took in Obi-Wan's existential mood with a roll of his shoulders and a comforting hand, which he laid on the man's back.
"It does not do to dwell on 'what ifs', Obi-Wan."
"No," Obi-Wan looked down at his lap. "I know." After a moment, his lips twitched into the tiniest of smiles. "What can I say, I once met a time traveller, and questions have plagued me ever since." This drew a smile out of Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan's poor mood remained, but he leaned in a bit more toward Qui-Gon, who kept his hand steady on his friend's back as they lounged together.
"What brought this on?" Qui-Gon ventured quietly. Obi-Wan shook his head.
"Oh, nothing much," Obi-Wan was sore from his classes and ready for sleep. "You know me, master. Anything could drive me to abstraction."
"Yes, yes, I know, it's just a little bit further," Anakin cajoled, readjusting the droid parts in his arms with a clatter loud enough to draw stares. "Stop complaining, Artoo, you were built to handle ten times that weight."
R2-D2, laden with a sling of bags that rattled with gears, joints, sockets, and servos as he trundled along, made a rude noise at the Jedi that sounded like a profanity in droid or any other language.
"Oh, can it, you don't need to see, I got us. Turn right here. No, here."
They made it to the apartments Anakin shared with his master and burst through the door in a great rattle of bickering and scrap metal. Anakin opened his bedroom door with the exact sort of frivolous use of the Force that Ben was always scolding him for, and dumped the contents of his arms unceremoniously onto the floor. His bedroom had always been somewhat less of a bedroom and more of a workroom, and was already strewn with so many toolboxes, piles of droid parts, and small mechanical do-dads that it was a mystery he had any space left at all to accumulate more machinery, let alone sleep, but he always found room.
"Here, let me help you with that, you big baby," He hefted the bags off of Artoo and began to sort the parts into piles on the floors. Motors here, motivators there, spare limbs there, a stack of bolts over here. A hydraulic joint spewed synthetic oil all over his hands, and he cursed. Artoo laughed at him while he fled to the kitchen for a towel. As he was attempting to clean up, the door to Ben's room swept open, and his master stepped out. Anakin did a double take. Ben was in brand new, wrinkle-free robes, both his hair and beard freshly trimmed and combed. Anakin gave his mentor a wry smile.
"Damn, master, what's the occasion? You clean up good." Ben, in turn, looked at his apprentice, whose tabards were filthy and stained black with grease. He was horrified.
"And you do not," he said, alarmed. "Anakin, didn't you get my message?" A sinking feeling hit Anakin in the gut. His smile faded quickly.
"Your… message," he said.
"My message," Ben repeated, "three hours ago, I told you I'd been contacted by the—we've been tapped to replace Master Tellius and Knight Yarla Qin so they can quarantine after their reroute from—we're meant to be at the gala in half an hour, Anakin!" Anakin's commlink seemed to burn at his belt. He hadn't touched in since that morning, for fear of clogging the controls with oil and grease.
"The Gala," he said.
"Yes, the Chancellor's fundraising gala—"
"The Chancellor?"
"—we've been assigned as a part of the security detail, now for Force's sake, get dressed! Go!"
Fifteen harried minutes later, when Anakin was packed away into their skycar with freshly pressed robes, combed hair, the darkest, lushest cloak he'd ever convinced the wardrobe office to loan him, and even his saber polished—polished—the apprentice took a moment to be proud of himself. The moment was short lived, however, as Ben seized the opportunity to remind Anakin of the mission brief he was supposed to have read when Ben sent it to him hours previously.
"...fundraiser itself is actually hosted by the Chancellor's foundation, not the office itself. In name, at least, the whole event is non-partisan and apolitical, and you'll see not a few socialites and moguls there from the Republic and beyond," Ben was saying, "however it is no secret that nearly half the attendees tonight will be politicians—senators and premieres, mostly, but some royalty and nobility as well—and of course the Chancellor himself. The SBI will be providing a larger security detail, but it's traditional for the Jedi to have a presence."
"Traditional," Anakin echoed. "So, we're going just because we always do? Is this security, or optics?"
"You had better hope it's just optics," Ben told him, weaving expertly through Coruscant's congested skylanes. A passing speeder honked at him and shouted something obscene, but the wind quickly snatched it away and Ben carried on. "It's a massive event, and they've only sent the two of us—along with a dozen SBI agents and security staff, obviously. But you and I will be the primary security detail on the main floor. Our job is to look the part and keep a watchful eye."
"Look the part," Anakin said. "What, exactly does that mean?"
"It means, my friend, that you should be glad you clean up so quickly. Fix your tabards, they're uneven." Barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Anakin straightened his clothing and watched the horizon as the executive district hoved into view through the smog.
"I don't suppose there will be anyone we know in attendance," he said. Ben side eyed him with a refined sort of judgement.
"I've had no word on whether or not the Naboo delegation will be in attendance," the master said. Anakin felt his cheeks run hot, embarrassed at having been so transparent. "I do know the Alderaanian delegates will be there. A few others you know, I'm sure. Best to keep your eyes open, but I'd ask you not to grow too distracted."
"Yes, master, of course."
Anakin had certainly heard of the Chancellor's Grand Gala before, but he'd never had a reason to investigate beyond cursory news coverage. He knew it happened once a year, that it raised an atrocious amount of money for thousands of charities across the galaxy, and functioned as a parlor room in which the Republic's most powerful people exchanged favors, business cards, and a great deal of alcohol. What he hadn't known was how lavish of a parlor room it was. Anakin had a relatively pedestrian vocabulary, but from the moment their cruiser touched down, the word 'opulent' had been echoing in his head on repeat.
The event itself was being held in the Palace of the Republic, the ancient residence of Supreme Chancellors from the dawn of the Republic up to Palpatine himself. Its mammoth, labyrinthine silhouette was a striking feature of the Coruscanti skyline on a normal day, but that evening, it was like something from a storybook. It's towering walls and balconies were bedecked in lights and illuminated banners, and the stone steps leading up to its multiple grand entrances had been lined with velvet carpets. Rows of floating halo lamps hovered and swayed as attendees filed past to ascend to the main floor.
Ben seemed utterly unbothered by the pageantry. He plunged directly into the fray, and Anakin scrambled to follow in his footsteps, dragging his jaw up off the floor as he did.
The guests themselves were perhaps even more grandiose than the palace itself. Every limb, neck, claw, scale, tentacle, and any other available appendage was dripping with jewels, furs, and rich fabrics. Anakin had always privately thought that Senators wore overly extravagant styles, but was now dumbfounded to realize that senators were the most modestly-dressed group in attendance. There were billionaires and trillionaires here, Anakin knew, and probably one or two people who owned entire planets.
He found his head turning, almost involuntarily, to ogle a tall female Twi'lek whose naked lekku were plated from crown to tip in gold leaf.
"Focus, Anakin," Ben muttered at him, and Anakin snapped his eyes forward once more.
"Sorry, master," He said for the fourth time that evening and feeling stupider for it. Ben actually smiled.
"Quite a display, isn't it?" Ben asked.
"I'll say," Anakin breathed, looking up and around himself. They were in the main hall of the palace, remarkable on Coruscant in that its ancient skeleton was almost entirely made of marble, reinforced sometime more recently with elegant lines of durasteel. Anakin estimated that it was about as broad as the main floor of the Senate. Wide, sweeping stairwells disappeared up into multiple layers of mezzanines and balconies layered like cakes beneath the antique painted ceilings. Red carpet softened the cold architecture, and everywhere was music, food, drink, and extravagance.
"Does it always look like this?" Anakin asked, head tilted up to gaze upward.
"What, the palace? Unfortunately, yes," Ben said, glancing around. "I often wonder if the Chancellor sees the irony of painting our democracy in such shades of monarchy. It's no matter. Come along now, and try not to look too awestruck. We're here to look the part of enigmatic guardians of the peace."
The Jedi checked in with the chief of security and were given such brief and broad instructions that Anakin had no clue what he was meant to do when released back into the wilds of the main hall. Operating on instinct, he followed a few strides behind Ben, who was picking his way through the throng of aristocracy with expertise.
"Anakin," Ben suddenly rounded on his apprentice, looking annoyed, "why are you following me?" Anakin stared down at his shorter master, as if just realizing that he had been following Ben in the first place.
"What?" He said.
"You're nearly a knight yourself, Anakin," the master admonished in a low voice, so others would not hear him, "there's no need to follow me. There's only two of us an entire hall here expecting us to keep them safe. We can hardly do that if we're staying so close to one another."
"Yes, master," Anakin felt rather silly, and shifted foot to foot.
"Good. Go on, then, we'll regroup half past midnight, as things begin to wrap up. Things ought to be quiet, but… keep an eye open." Ben turned away into the crowd with a small wave of his hand.
"Master," Anakin took one last stride toward him and said through gritted teeth, "I don't know what to do around people like this," he side-eyed a fat human male, who was tipsy and surrounded by rich young ladies, who giggled at his horrible jokes.
"I find aloof flattery works best," Ben told him, which helped not at all, for Anakin did not know how to manage aloofness or flattery, much less the two combined. "If all else fails, have a drink and make polite conversation. But whatever you do, do not get drunk."
"Yes, master," Anakin said, hopelessly. Ben was gone before he finished saying it. With none of his master's diplomatic charms and no other recourse to hide his cluelessness, Anakin gravitated towards one of the many refreshments tables. He was staring intently at the choco-lime twists, trying to decide how many he could take without ruining his 'enigmatic Jedi' appearance, when someone to his left said,
"Anakin? Anakin Skywalker?" He turned, and may have accidentally mastered an aloof expression. "I thought it was you, goodness, it's been too long!" Anakin's eyebrows skyrocketed upwards, but he could not help the smile that rose to his face.
"Chancellor Palpatine," He said, and gave a very shallow bow. The Chancellor smiled back at him, exuding the gentle humor of an old man. He was dressed in the same sort of clothes he would wear to the Senate on a regular day, and in the grand hall looked horrifically underdressed. It comforted Anakin immensely. "It's good to see you here, sir,"
"And you as well," the Chancellor smiled, taking a sip of his drink. "I had no idea you had been assigned to tonight's festivities.
"A bit of a last-second arrangement, or so I understand," Anakin told him, "Master Ben and I—"
"Ah, so your master is here as well?"
"Yes, sir. We were tapped last minute, sir. I'm honored to be of service tonight."
"Well, you would be the first to say so," the Chancellor said, sounding rueful. He shuffled closer to Anakin under the pretense of gathering hors d'oeuvres, and said in a quiet aside, "This gala is invaluable to hundreds of charities around the galaxy, but with so many people, it can be a fraught social experiment at the best of times." Anakin quirked an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised to find common ground with the Chancellor.
"And in times like today?" He asked conspiratorially. Palpatine chuckled.
"Well," he said, and glanced around. "Have you had the champagne yet?"
"No, sir. I thought it best if I did not, while I'm working."
"Nonsense," Palpatine snapped a few times, and a polished chromium serving droid rolled up, proffering a tray of champagne flutes. Palpatine took two and handed one to Anakin. He clinked his glass against the Jedi's and took a sip. "How else do you think I get through?" He asked, and it made Anakin smile.
"Well, thank you, Chancellor."
"And thank you, Master Skywalker, for your service today."
"It's padawan Skywalker still, sir."
"Oh, yes, of course," Palpatine smiled and shook his head. "For now, at least. Surely master Kenobi will see your worth sooner rather than later, I hear nothing but good about your progress." Shocked to infer that the Chancellor had heard anything about him, an apprentice, Anakin's had nothing to say. Thankfully, Palpatine distracted himself in short order. "Tell me, Padawan Skywalker, do you recognize any of these confections? I admit I'm a poor judge when presented with so very many options."
Anakin peered back down at the table, which was large and surrounded on all sides by hovering drinks platforms that circulated slowly like satellite moons. The whole display was overrun with snacks of all shapes, sizes, and flavors from around the galaxy, and Anakin was ashamed to realize he knew nearly all of them. His mouth had begun to water, and he swallowed to hide it.
"These, over here," he pointed, "are an Alderaanian dish. They're savory, but the meat is candied, they're incredibly good. I remember eating them when I was small," Anakin related, giving a half smile, "my mother would hide them from me so I wouldn't eat them all in one go."
"Ah," Palpatine gave a pleasant smile as he plucked up a few. "Is that where you're from, Alderaan?" He asked amicably.
You are him, Anakin almost jumped as the memory of the sith shouted in his mind, as loud as the day he'd first heard it, the boy from Tatooine. Heart suddenly racing, he blinked at the Chancellor, who was still smiling expectantly at him. "Yes," he replied, the word tasting hollow on his tongue. Alderaan, his once-home, a desecrated mountain. "Until I was about three or four."
"Four, that's quite a late age for a young Jedi to join the Order, is it not?"
"I suppose," Anakin said, looking down at the hors d'oeuvres and willing his heart to quiet the battledrum tempo beating in his ears. Obi-Wan, lying in pieces. Red, blue, black, white.
"Nevertheless," the Chancellor was eyeing the food once more, and did not seem to notice the fog of terror that Anakin was certain was visible as he fought off what was quickly becoming a panic attack, "we are all very lucky to have a man such as you in the Order today." Palpatine's voice floated to Anakin as if through water. "Your mother must be very proud."
"Yes," Anakin's own voice was muffled in his ears, a sharp ringing sound drowning out all else. His hand was clenched around a pair of serving tongs and his eyes were beginning to water as if stung by the light of sabers, descending fully into the flashback.
Until a warm hand landed on his arm, grounding him. He looked up, and Palpatine was giving him another smile, soft and gentle like a grandmaster. The ringing faded, and Anakin blinked in surprise as the elegant sounds of the chamber orchestra wafted back to the fore, the chatter of the crowd, the clinking of glasses and rustle of fabric. "-credit to your master's training, as well," the Chancellor was saying, patting his arm.
"Thank you, Chancellor," Anakin said, somewhat bemused, and gave a light bow. Palpatine said nothing, but took a bite out of the round Alderaanian pastries. He gave a grunt of appreciation, and lifted the half-eaten bite to Anakin as if in a toast.
"Marvellous, padawan Skywalker. I shall have to attend your recommendations more frequently. Enjoy the evening—perhaps I'll catch you again before the night is up."
"Yes, sir, good evening, sir."
Mouth suddenly as dry as Tatooine itself, Anakin downed his drink in one desperate gulp, and realized entirely too late that it was not water, but champagne. He choked and coughed, covering his mouth and terrified for an instant that it would actually come out his nose. Thank the Force it did not.
"Oh dear," said a familiar voice, and Anakin's already-exhausted heart gave another surprised jump, "it must be a bad night indeed if our protectors are hoping to get drunk, too."
"Pad-Padme," Anakin stuttered through a cough, and it was all he could say, because when he turned to see Padme Amidala where she stood behind him he choked once more, this time on his tongue. Anakin was willing to bet he'd seen the Senator's entire professional wardrobe over the years, all manner of senate garb both drab and elaborate, but tonight she was bedecked in pure gold, a high-necked, bare-shouldered gown fit for an empress or a war deity. Her long, dark hair was done up as well, braided high and held away from her neck in a net of sparkling sapphires. It was so lovely he almost started crying—but maybe that was just the aspirated champagne. He coughed a few more times while she smiled pitifully at him.
"Would you believe me," he wheezed, feeling his cheeks burn, "if I said I thought it was water when I drank it?" This made Padme laugh out loud, smile broad and blinding, and Anakin immediately hoped he could get her to laugh like that again.
"Well," she said, humor still bubbling over the backs of her words, "I suppose it's an easy mistake to make. Here," she fetched him a drink—actual water this time—and waited for him to take a sip. "I came over when I saw you speaking with the Chancellor, I didn't realize I'd be staging a rescue mission."
"Oh, you saw that? I hope I didn't make an ass of myself."
"I don't think so," She said, in a cryptic kind of compliment. "I'm not used to seeing him so friendly with Jedi—especially nowadays. What did he say?"
"Not much," Anakin sipped at his water, clearing his throat to reclaim his dignity. "He asked for recommendations of food—seems that he's a bad judge of good snacks."
"Oh?" Padme glanced critically over the offerings. "And is there anything good?"
"Depends on what you like, I suppose."
"Hmm," She seemed to have a keen eye. "They rarely have Noobian offerings at these events. At least, the kind I like. I think they're a little too pedestrian for Coruscant." Anakin doubted that anything about Padme Amidala's taste could be described as "pedestrian", but found himself intrigued.
"Such as?"
"Well," Padme smiled in fond memory, her bright lipstick tilting around small dimples near her mouth, "there are a special kind of sweet bean rolls I used to make when I was a child. They're more of a peasant treat than something you'd find in the capitol's patisseries, but… well, they're very good. They're hard to find, this far from home." Anakin had never tried them before, but wished he had.
"I'll keep an eye out for them," he promised. She gave him a kind look, and her big brown eyes seemed to hold the entire world.
"That's very kind of you," she said, and plucked a fresh glass of some blueish spirit that Anakin could not identify from one of the floating drinks trays. "Are you here alone tonight?"
"Hmm? Oh, no, no, Master Ben's here as well, but he's over…" Anakin looked out across the mass of laughing, socializing bodies and was inexplicably glad for Ben's absence. "Well, it's probably better that he wasn't here. I would've hated for him to see me embarrass myself." He glanced ruefully at his empty champagne glass. "You know, he told me specifically to not get drunk." Padme chuckled.
"Your master often has the sensibilities of my grandmother." Padme handed him a glass of something—water, he hoped. "Come on, we'll sober you up over some better conversation than the snacks table can offer."
"We?"
"Yes, come on." Padme led him into the crowd, making it look like a dance as she weaved between bodies and huddles of conversation. She paused to say hello to a few acquaintances, and Anakin awkwardly waited nearby, nodding respectfully at the mingling moguls and receiving skeptical glances in return.
"I never know how to act around these kinds of people," Anakin told Padme quietly as they escaped to a break in the crowd near the stairs. Another throng awaited on the other side. "I have nothing in common with them."
"That's hardly a bad thing," Padme said, and then to Anakin's utter surprise, held out her hand for him to take. "Still, you have a thing or two in common with me."
"Do I?" He quirked an eyebrow at her as he took her hand. The gold bands tethering her dress' billowing sleeves to her wrists jangled as she tugged him forward.
"Yes, including a few friends."
She led them past an imposing group of what looked to be royalty to a more sensibly-dressed circle of men and women huddled in conversation, champagne flutes in hand. A few looked up as they approached, and Anakin recognized Bail Organa.
"Ah, Padme, I see you've found a new friend," he smiled.
"Not so new," Padme grinned. "Most of you must know Anakin Sywalker, I believe?" Most of them did and greeted him warmly, but Anakin still had to be re-introduced to remember some of their names: Mon Mothma, Garm Bel Iblis, Orn Free Taa, Ask Aak.
"It is good to see you, Master Skywalker," Bail said with particular warmth in his voice. Anakin had long wondered if the senator felt some responsibility for what had happened to Anakin on his home planet years ago. "Your mother asked some time ago that, next I saw you, I send her your best." Anakin's eyebrows rose, and everyone seemed quite surprised and delighted to infer that a Jedi had an actual family.
"Oh?" Anakin said, somewhat flustered. His eyes flickered to Padme, who smiled. "How is she and the baby? I've only spoken to her once since she sent me the news." Bail smiled at him.
"It's going to be a baby girl, so I've heard," Bail said, and raised his glass towards Anakin's surprised expression. "Cheers to your baby sister," Bail said, and the others were all delighted to join in.
"I didn't know Shmi was expecting," Padme said, stunned.
"Yes," Anakin confirmed smiling a bit bashfully, "Her husband, Tam, is over the moons and back about it."
"And I did not realize Jedi had mothers or sisters or any such things," said Senator Taa, who was several drinks in by the look of it.
"Orn Free," Mon Mothma chided, smacking him gently in the arm.
"It's alright," Anakin told them. "I'm happy for them, truly. Thank you for telling me, Senator," he nodded at Bail, who smiled back. "When next you see her, please tell her I said hello."
"And what is the Jedi Order's business at the Gala tonight?" Asked Senator Iblis, who was also wavering on his feet, comfortably tipsy and as dauntless as ever. "I would not have classed you amongst moguls, Master Skywalker." Anakin chuckled.
"Not at all, sir, my master and I are only here on security detail."
"Security?" said Ask Aak, "is there something here we ought to be secured against?"
"Not unless you count the Supreme Chancellor," said Padme, glancing at Anakin. "He seemed a terror at the refreshments' table, but it appears Anakin was able to assist him without incident." Garb Bel snorted into his champagne.
"A terror indeed," the Corellian said, "any Jedi should shudder to even see the man, these days,"
"Garm," Mon Mothma warned, but Garm did not heed her.
"What? It's true. The man's waging a war against the Order itself." Anakin frowned deeply. There was, of course, constant gossip in and out of the Temple that the Jedi were engaged in a de-facto war, but their quarrel was not with the Chancellor.
"The Chancellor has supported us in our fight against the Sith, senator," Anakin reminded, trying to remain diplomatic. Garm shrugged.
"Yes, as it suits him, and he can do no other. I bet, if he could get away with it, Palpatine would disband the Jedi Order altogether just like that," he snapped his fingers.
"That's quite enough," Padme said, grabbing at the fingers Garm had snapped and steadying him.
"Chancellor Palpatine would never," Anakin insisted immediately, and the assembled group looked uncomfortable at the Jedi's outburst. "He's a kind man, and he believes in what we do."
"Does he?" Garm snorted again, half-rolling his eyes. "You'd better tell him that. The Jedi's war with the Sith is a bad look for Palpatine indeed. He'd just assume to have it all over and done with, even if it means shuttering the Ziggerat itself."
"Garm," Mon Montha said again, firmer this time. Senator Iblis stopped talking, but gave another cavalier shrug of his shoulders before taking another swig of bubbly.
"Chancellor Palpatine is a friend of the Order," Anakin said firmly. The memory of Palpatine's steady, warm hand on his arm in the midst of his panic attack was fresh and vivid. "He is an honest man, and wishes what is best for the Republic and the Jedi." To Anakin's surprise, the assembled senators looked uncomfortable. All except Garm Bel Iblis, that is, who downed the dregs of his champagne and set the empty flute on the tray of a passing serving droid.
"We're on your side, Master Skywalker," Garm told him, causing Anakin's frown to deepen. "The Jedi are true guardians of this Republic, and we stand with you. It is the Chancellor you must look out for."
"The Chancellor has nothing but good to say about the Jedi," Anakin defended, "he champions our cause for the Republic." Garm drew breath to rebut him, but before he could, Mon Mothma spoke up, her voice firm and authoritative.
"Chancellor Palpatine must always speak for his office, not his personal opinions," she glared at Garm, "the line between the two is unintelligible. It does not do well to openly speculate on whatever differences exist between them." She turned her grey eyes to Anakin, whose face was a maelstrom of confusion and frustration. "Of course, the entire Republic relies on the Jedi to safeguard our interests," she said carefully. "Especially against the Sith. We're grateful for your service, Master Skywalker," she said, and her quiet smile was a cool balm on his anger, which continued to simmer as the conversation carried on.
After some time, Padme threaded her arm through his, and all thoughts in his head came to a screeching halt.
"Are you alright?" She asked him, and he looked down at her in surprise. The other senators had moved on to a new topic, and were sharing in lively if tipsy debate about a new bill set to meet the Senate floor the following week. Only Padme's attention remained on the young Jedi.
"Yes," Anakin told her, an odd and fuzzy feeling blooming in his chest and across his cheeks. "Yes, I'm alright. Sorry if I offended anyone."
"Not at all," Padme assured him. "You must forgive Senator Iblis, he is… rather outspoken after champagne."
"A lot of people are, I think," Anakin peered down at the water he still held in his hand. "The water was probably a good call," he casually toasted it to her. "Thank you, by the way." Padme chuckled.
"Careful, I'll replace it with wine and hear what's really going on inside that head of yours," she teased, and it made Anakin smile.
"You don't have to give me wine for that," he told her.
"Oh?"
"No, actually, Ben's told me I'm quite opinionated enough when I'm sober." Padme smiled wider.
"Well, it's a good thing I'm opinionated too, we'd have a lot to talk about," Padme retorted, not missing a beat. Anakin felt a laugh bubble up in his throat, but he only smiled down at her.
"I like talking with you," he said, before he could think to stop himself.
"With opinionated people?"
"With you."
Padme had no quick reply, and whatever she might've said was curtailed when a breathless usher jogged over to the group.
"Master Jedi, some help, if you please," panted the man, who ignored the senators and went straight to the padawan's side. He leaned in close as though to be discreet, but his breathlessness made it easy for others to eavesdrop. "A bit of a fight's broken out, please come deal with it before it gets too much, I don't want to have to kick anyone out tonight,"
"Right, of course," Anakin gently—regretfully—extricated himself from Padme's hold on his arm and handed her his glass. "Please excuse me Padme, senators." He bowed lightly and was hustled away by the usher, who wiped sweat on his brow. The man was frantically trying to explain the situation—something about a sloppy-drunk real estate tycoon and another man's husband—but Anakin's attention was drawn away by a nearby snacks table, where a serving droid was setting out a fresh haul of confectionaries while guests waited like vultures.
"Excuse me a moment," Anakin said, diverting sharply to make a beeline for the treats.
"Sir?" The usher stared at him, wide-eyed and affronted, "It's a little more urgent than that, sir." Anakin stuffed his pockets full with as many as he could carry and turned back to the task at hand.
"Of course," he said, arranging his pockets so no one would see the awkward bulges and attempting to reclaim his look of authority. "Lead the way."
"You can't speak that way about the Chancellor," Padme sidled up to Senator Iblis, who was taking a break from wine and was instead nursing the glass of water Bail Organa had forced on him. "Certainly not in public, at an event where he could pop up at any moment."
"It's a free Republic," Garm shrugged at her, taking a huge gulp. "Everything I said was true, and we all know it," he indicated the circle.
"Some of us suspect it, some more than others," Padme said because he would not.
"Semantics."
"Senators have been recalled over less, Garm, so for Force's sake keep your voice down."
"Force, huh?" he smiled. "Didn't realize you were a Jedi too, Amidala."
"Padme is right," Mon Mothma inserted herself into the conversation, folding her arms serenely within her billowing silver sleeves. "You shouldn't say such things so loudly."
"Tell me it's not true," he said, eyes sparkling with both nascent sobriety and anger. "We all know it, we all see it. Just because the Chancellor pays lip service to the Jedi doesn't mean a damn thing about what he could do once he's had enough. Once his majority has had enough. If we don't talk about it now, it'll be too late to do anything to stop him when the time comes. He's going to make a move against them one of these days, and I for one am not going to walk around pretending he's not."
The assembled group exchanged glances, but no one ventured a reply.
"I'm not the only one who thinks so. We're not the only ones who think so," Garm looked around the group. They'd all spoken of their sentiments in whispers, behind closed doors. They knew each others' fears and shared them. He leaned into the circle, and the others followed suit, casting subtle looks over shoulders to make sure they were not observed. This time when Garm spoke, he was careful to do it quietly.
"I've spoken with Adan Dooku about the very same thing. He shares our concerns, and knows of a few others who do as well."
"Serenno isn't a part of any of our caucuses," Ask Aak spoke up, surprised to hear the Count's name. "Are they?"
"No, which makes Count Dooku's support all the more telling. I have a meeting with their senator next week. Off the record. If she's of the same mind we are…"
"What if she is?" Bail spoke up. "We have nothing to share with her but our own agreement. We cannot sway the Chancellor's mind so easily, with so few of us, and if we draft a resolution before we have support, the retribution will be swift for all of us."
"Solidarity is strength," Padme said. "If there are others, we need to know, we need to gather their support."
"A coalition does not emerge overnight," Mon Mothma spoke, and all eyes turned to her. "It happens one spark at a time. Please, relay whatever you learn, Senator Iblis. It heartens me to know there are others who share our concerns."
Padme looked over her shoulder in the direction Anakin had left, but he was long gone.
The Gala wore on at a relentless pace. For Anakin, the pleasantness of the early evening quickly devolved into a never-ending stream of drunken spats, shepherding tipsy millionaires to their taxis, and defending a petrified member of the catering staff from threats of litigation after she'd accidentally spilled wine on a dress worth more than most star systems. There were credit transfers to witness and the transport of valuable goods to oversee, and amid the official business there was always the threat that someone very rich would get very drunk and make proportionally stupid decisions that Anakin would have to clean up in a timely and diplomatic manner.
When the clocks turned to half-past midnight and Anakin sought out his master, he could've melted with relief. Most of the guests were beginning to file out of the halls, some going to their hotels, others to home, and still others to the many high-rise bars of Coruscant where the spirits continued to flow. Soon,
"Well," Ben sighed, and Anakin was gratified to find his master looked just as relieved as he felt. "I think the Chancellor's security has it handled from here. I will go check with security one last time. Make a final check of the front halls and I'll meet you by the speeder."
"Yes, master."
Anakin strode through the vast lobby casting his eyes to and fro, looking for any straggling guests who might need assistance to the door, but found none. His boot heels clacked on the polished floors all the way to the doors, and then out into the crisp night.
The night sky was obscured by a haze of light pollution only achievable on Coruscant. Still, the whistle and howl of the nighttime winds around the palace and the whip of cloth banners lent the night a unique form of quiet and solitude. A few skycars still waited in the porte-cochère, valets standing at attention waiting for their passengers. One such valet was helping his charge into the car, and her shimmering gold dress was unmistakable.
"Oh, Padme!" Anakin called, and jogged toward the car. Now in her seat, Padme leaned out to see him.
"Anakin," she smiled down him from the elevated speeder. Her hairdo was somewhat mussed from last he'd seen it, but he found the frizz complimented the way the jeweled net held her hair together.
"I was afraid I'd missed you," he smiled up at her.
"Oh?" She chuckled. "Did I do something to offend our august security team?"
"Oh, no, of course not," Anakin said, now digging around his pockets. "It's only, I found, um… well, I thought you might like… oh… well, they're a little smushed now, I'm so sorry, but, uh…" Padme frowned while he carefully emptied his pockets into his hands. In the dark she couldn't make out what he held until he held his hands up to her.
"They were gone pretty fast after I grabbed some, I wanted to make sure you got some, too."
Misshapen, smushed, and in one case torn in half, Anakin's hands were piled with Nubian sweet bean rolls, speckled with toasted seeds just like Padme's grandmother used to make. She broke into a grin.
"You remembered," she exclaimed, and reached out her cupped hands for him to receive them. "You shouldn't have," she told him, eyes sparkling as she smiled at him, and he shrugged, looking bashful.
"Everyone should be able to find a bit of home, now and again," he said gently. Unable to put away her own grin, Padme set the bedraggled treats aside and leaned out of the skycar to cup Anakin's cheek. She leaned in and kissed him on the opposite cheek, just by his mouth.
"Thank you," she told him softly, "truly." They did not break eye contact as she sat back into her seat "Have a good night, Master Skywalker." Anakin was dazed, but also warm, and so happy he felt he could float.
"You as well, Senator."
The car pulled away and into the night, leaving Anakin standing outside the palace, slightly stunned and face burning from Padme's kiss.
Oh Force, the horrible thought occurred to him even as he continued to smile, you've got it so kriffing bad.
A/N: The rolls that Padme was craving are based off of a Vietnamese treat, often associated with Lunar New Year, banh cam. Banh cam are essentially fried balls of chewy rice dough wrapped around a ball of sweet mung bean paste, all covered in sesame seeds and fried. They're absolutely delicious, and I was seriously craving them around the recent Lunar New Year. Despite what Padme says about the Naboo version being "pedestrian", the real ones are incredibly finicky to make. To all those that celebrate, happy new year, welcome year of the ox!