"Lord Vader."
Sidious's distinctly harsh voice was sharp with displeasure.
The recipient of the Dark Lord's ire didn't so much as shift in his pilot's seat, observing the hologram displayed on his control board with an expression he hoped was respectful.
"Yes, my Master?"
"It is my understanding you have left Mustafar. The droid army has been dismantled, and for this you are to be commended. But it seems in your...celebration of your success, my young apprentice, you stepped ahead of yourself."
Vader said nothing, waiting for the Emperor to cut to the chase of his message.
"I informed you to await my orders. I don't recall giving you leave to deviate from our mutual agreement that you were to standby until I contacted you," Darth Sidious rasped with a faux patience that bordered on mockery.
"Pardon me, my Master. Our agreement hinged on the safety of the Senator, which would have been compromised had I not extracted her."
Vader couldn't prevent the touch of impudence that may have stolen into the latter half of his statement. Padmé came before his allegiance to any other cause, and that did not exempt his new apprenticeship—not by any stretch of the imagination.
The response wasn't immediate. A slow smile spread across the half of Darth Sidious's unnaturally decrepit face unconcealed by shadow.
Somehow annoyance would've put the younger Sith more at ease than amusement, but his own face remained impassive as he tilted his head ever so slightly in the heavy confines of his hood. A silent dare to the static blue illusion of consequence.
How much this exchange deviated from their usual interactions, in guile and in duplicity. Vader's sixth sense crawled with the intimation of nefarious intent sifting through his most recent Force bond. Not for the first time since his decision in the Chancellor's office that turbulent night, the thought flickered that he was being used as surely as he intended to use.
Either way it was true his estimation of Palpatine had altered considerably since those days of unlikely comaraderie between battles.
"Your insolence precedes you, Lord Vader. Know that I will not tolerate disobedience. Notify me of all future decisions, or I will be forced to take more proactive measures to ensure your loyalty." That drawling voice paused delicately, added, "Remember who it is that will aid in sparing your lover from her fate."
The projected visage vanished before Vader could reply.
A robotic squeak of metal joints signalled the turn of C-3PO in the co-pilot's seat.
"I have set the course for the coordinates you provided Artoo, Master Ani. We've exited the atmosphere entirely. Which lightspeed would you prefer?"
When the answer wasn't forthcoming, he started, "This skiff is outfitted with-"
"Set the hyperdrive to Class 3 and power down once you've run a post-lift check of the ship," Vader ordered, preparing to rise.
A quick staccato of beeps and chirps made R2's puzzlement known.
3PO's head tilted in dismay as he addressed his creator. "The slowest setting? Excuse my inorganic nerve, but I am compelled to agree with my greasy friend. We could cut our journey by several standard hours if we made full use of the altered propulsion system on this skiff. As you know, very few starships in existence are capable of such a low hyperdrive rating."
Class 0.5 and a Sossen-7 sublight engine, not that anyone is keeping track, R2 added.
No reply.
Watching his master leave the room, the protocol droid shook his head in bemusement. "Bless my circuits! And he was the mechanic who modified the hyperdrive to begin with! Humans can be such peculiar creatures."
From his spot in the corner, R2-D2 whistled an enthusiastic affirmative.
Padmé's first waking thought was that sterility only served to make space colder.
The white walls that met her sleep-fogged vision should have seemed familiar, given the fact they comprised one of six living compartments aboard her own ship. During the handful of instances she'd used the Nabooian star yacht so respectfully bequeathed to her by Queen Apailana, however, Padmé had never spent the necessary time between piloting to properly familiarize the details of the ship's quarters.
She blinked, absorbing the feeling of a firm cot beneath her back and the artificial lighting's glaring demand for wakefulness.
The next instant Padmé jerked upwards.
Anakin had laid her on the sleeper after they'd boarded the skiff; she recalled stumbling on the ramp, the hard shape of his shoulder against her cheek as he'd carried her, the beckoning tide of darkness which had pulled her under almost immediately when he pressed her to the bed...
Her hand shot to her face to rub the last remnants of sleep from painfully puffy eyes. The fine tremors of the ship betrayed the brilliant speed of hyperspace, and likely had for some time.
A small feeling of dread pooled in her heart. The emotion was almost welcome after the penetrating nothingness she'd felt since the first time her beloved had ever directly imposed his will over hers. The first time she had known there would be no discussion if she resisted.
Padmé frowned at the memory in gradual indignation. She may have acquiesced to Anakin's demands when in shock, but dangerous or not, he had another thing coming if he expected her to submit to being stowed away someplace safe during the height of the galaxy's duress. A large motivation for her reluctance to leave Coruscant was the uncertainty of when she would be back, if ever.
The ominous grief was bolstered with a sense of determination. She was a diplomat. She could compartmentalize as well as the best of them.
Her stomach growled, and she placed a steady hand on it at the reminder. Just as her purposeful gaze settled on the door opposite the bed upon which she was perched, it slid open.
Vader stood in the doorway.
The first aspect of his appearance that struck her was that of dark crimson spotting black and brown Jedi robes. The lighting drew attention to crusting flakes of gore. His soiled clothing was quite normal; her husband had not been a general for the duration of the Wars without carnage. The apprehension the sight brought her as she wondered which Jedi had spilt their blood on him was decidedly not normal. His hair was limp with sweat, matted waves tapering to rebellious curls against the nape of his neck.
Padmé's gaze rested finally on the tray in his hands.
There were quite a few things Vader could've said to her—an apology for the episode outside her apartment, reassurance concerning what Obi-Wan had undoubtedly revealed that they'd both not yet directly addressed, an attempt to explain the numbness pervading his conscience or excuse his desperate sins—but what came out of his mouth at the sight of her pale, tightly drawn features was: "You haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon?"
Padmé stiffened and glanced up to gauge his expression quickly.
"Threepio told me," Vader said flatly. He moved across the room to her with the fluent, easy grace she'd always admired, and proffered the tray of food.
She took it, staring at the contents.
"You brought me first meal. Thank you." To her pleasure, her voice sounded far steadier than she felt.
"Don't do that again," he ordered irritably.
"Excuse me?"
Padmé's artlessly gracious gaze was underscored with shadows. He'd sensed her emotional fatigue before he entered the room, but Vader answered anyway.
"Don't endanger the baby, and yourself, by skipping meals. It isn't safe." A hard note strengthened the directive.
For a moment all she could do was stare. The subtle energy about him was undeniable, its coldness obvious to even the least sensitive Force user, she was certain. How had she missed it before?
A chill ran down her spine. Tearing her gaze away from the stress that shouldn't have lined her husband's young face, Padmé focused her attention on the highly caloric rations in her lap. One finger traced the edge of a plasteel cup.
There was something about his nearness that set her on edge in a way he never had before.
Vader's voice interrupted the hypnotic silence of hyperspace. "I'll be in the fresher."
As the door to the inbuilt refresher unit slid shut behind him with a quiet hiss, she picked up a stick of the food and shoved it in her mouth hungrily. There were three ration packets opened and spread out on the tray, she noted. Three. That was Anakin. Overprotective, concerned, arrogant. Typical, she almost smiled to herself. Padmé caught the thought before its completion.
Was he still Anakin?
She accidentally bit her tongue and almost cursed.
Chew, swallow, drink.
Focus on the routine and reality would wait, she chanted to herself silently. The panic building beneath her façade at the realization of how much Anakin had changed, whether he would come back, was temporarily staved off. And she would not remember Obi-Wan's claims, although her intuition was in the later stages of acceptance now. Her chest twinged.
Chew.
Swallow.
Drink.
At least the nausea hadn't returned, Padmé thought resignedly. The tasteless nourishment helped revive a bit of her old strength.
An hour slipped by as she ate and gathered her wits. When all lingering traces of fear and hopelessness were tamped firmly down beneath a senatorial mask of cool purpose, she set her shoulders and stood.
But before her feet had taken a step towards their destination, the other door in the room opened automatically—to reveal a much cleaner Vader. His hair was damp, and he'd changed out of his heavy robes to a far less orthodox tunic and pants. Likely an outfit he'd pilfered from her wardrobe; his occupation all but forebade him to hold possessions beyond his lightsaber, so his wife had learned early on that if she were to see him in anything other than full Jedi regalia she'd have to procure several changes of clothing to stash alongside her own ornate gowns.
A flashy metallic gleam caught her sight, drawing her gaze to his bare right hand. He never removed the glove except in private.
As he drew closer Padmé sucked in a silent breath at the dark crescents bruising his eyes—clear, familiar blue eyes that sent a pang of recognition through her heart. He was exhausted. She fought the urge to run to him.
Vader sighed inaudibly.
The anger, his staunchest fuel throughout the horrendous happenings of the last 48 standard hours, had drained like sand in a chronoglass as he showered. Exhaustion fumed in its stead, demanding he give his abused body a reprieve. He'd tried to meditate to no avail. The unrest in his mind transcended even the Force.
At the sight of the person he had done it all for, the charade Vader had cultivated crashed to the floor in a hundred miniscule pieces.
He made no attempt to shield his mind when Padmé's unwittingly compassionate eyes searched his.
Neither of them expected him to reach for her face.
In that solitary moment, however, there was nothing he craved more than the feeling of her skin against his. Almost wary he would soil her despite the outward cleanliness of his body, Vader cradled the silky cushion of her cheek in his organic hand. Watched her pupils dilate at the sweep of his thumb across her jaw.
Padmé's heart palpably throbbed in her neck as she stood, transfixed, before Vader. Familiarity of memories past brought a light flush to her skin. His touch was utterly gentle.
Whatever she had prepared for, it wasn't this.
He took a step closer, leaned forward. Lowered his head until his mouth grazed her temple. Warm exhalations stirred the stray tendrils of hair across her forehead. It was warm, and sensitive, and recognizable, this intimacy. She didn't move to evade his hand as it traveled across the shallow hollow at the base of her throat, collecting heartbeats as if they were precious.
No one had ever made her feel more cherished, more loved, than the passionate young Jedi from Tatooine.
Swallowing, Padmé closed her eyes to the sight of her sterile surroundings and tried to ignore the ache in her heart that yearned to be comforted by the one who had caused it. The politician within dutifully strove to remember the devastation wrought at the heart of a galaxy that had toiled for thousands of years to ensure a peaceable Republic, now thrashing in its death throes in subjugation to an evil that had undermined the political structure of their endeavor from the inside out.
An evil that had used the one she loved the most as a tool to do so. Truthfully, the scalding affront to all she had stood for wasn't limited to politics.
It was personal.
Vader's long fingers brushed her breast oh-so-tenderly. The thought of pulling away was shoved from Padmé's mind in distaste. A confrontation over all he'd allegedly done was the last thing she could bear right now. Not when they were both exhausted, and his touch was making her hormonal body hum in anticipation.
It wasn't a conscious decision. But it was instinctive.
Her head lifted from his shoulder and she turned her mouth blindly, finding his firm jaw with no trace of the hesitancy she'd felt only a moment ago. It was wrong, but she craved this. Yearned for it. Padmé slid her arms around his tense back and shuddered in relieved welcome of that soothing scent.
The response was almost immediate. Warm, searching lips found hers as Vader met her halfway. Their kiss was slow and hushed, as if taking care not to stir the trance that had fallen over the couple by reminding them of their place in a broken world.
The comfort of the simple contact brought an ache to Padmé's throat.
As his cybernetic hand came to cradle the back of her neck, Vader pulled away slightly, savoring the delicate flush of color beneath her downswept lashes. The inbuilt lights in the cubicle switched off at his silent bidding. She gasped quietly, startled but not afraid, and he brought her face back to his to soothe her unrest instantly.
Lingering, open-mouthed kisses, softer than that of their pledge in the arena in Geonosis as they'd stared death in the face, passed between them.
Padmé didn't move as he found the hidden zipper against her back and drew it down in one intangible motion. The expensive fabric fell to trap her arms, but still she stood immobile. Vader brushed her lower lip with his tongue softly, leaned into her face in weary requisition.
And suddenly her hands were struggling to his head, holding it to hers with rising urgency.
Eventually the dress was pulled from her arms. It fell past her swollen abdomen into a disgraceful heap on the floor, invisible to her in the pitch darkness.
Cool air wrapped around her ankles, insulating her skin from the delicate camisole that shielded her torso and most of her slender thighs from Vader's gaze. A touch of heat over her breast made her nipple stiffen beneath his palm. Slowly, he brushed the ornately carved japor snippet resting over her heart atop the silk shift.
The gnawing doubt in the back of her mind was pushed back further still, lost to the sensation of talented hands exploring her body with a skill that could only result from the thorough memorization of every touch that aroused her.
Padmé let her knees buckle, clumsily tumbling to the forgotten cot as she somehow managed to work Vader's heavy utility belt off at the same time. There was no harsh reality when it was just the two of them. There never had been—no Senate, no Council, no war, no schedule. Just warmth. And the wrenchingly tender, eager lovemaking shared by those who didn't know when or if their next moment together might be.
If a crucial element in their relationship had drastically changed in the space of the last few days, neither acknowledged it here. The ominous undercurrent of energy scoring their subconsciousness during every interaction was enough to make both strive to pretend it wasn't.
The air was biting. It would've made Padmé shiver against the uncompromising mattress if her husband's large frame wasn't more than warm enough to vanquish the chill of space. How many times had they done this, enroute to a rare vacation on some backwater Mid Rim planet where no one would recognize them?
Feeling the errant need to possess him after that thought, she tugged Vader closer—mindful of the baby, he braced himself over her in a controlled tumble—and hooked a leg over his partially clothed hips. A soft noise of approval rumbled from his throat as he brought their hips together.
Her body sweltered and chafed beneath the light slip separating them. As if he'd read her mind, her hips lifted incrementally in an invisible grip. His hand smoothed up her thigh, making her squirm, and then he was pressing into her.
Padmé cried out softly in pleasure. She was dully surprised at how good such a simple act could feel. A rush of air was expelled near her temple as Vader grit his teeth, letting her know the experience was mutual.
Her heart throbbed in guilty gladness at the sheer relief of being one with him again. Oh, how many cold nights she'd spent, scouring the HoloNet for any news of her husband's whereabouts, sick with anxiety. Too many nights alone for her to deny him—either of them—now. Not now. Even duty was stifled in the wake of her growing fervor, just this once. It felt indescribably liberating to press upwards and catch his lunges.
It felt personal.
Vader slipped the loose strap of her undergarment from one shoulder, following each inch of newly revealed skin with his lips. A hand paused to cover her stomach reverently.
"Padmé," came his pleasure-roughened voice, drugged on sex and conquest. Anakin had always had a distinctive way of enunciating her name. He lingered on the closing vowel in a way she could only describe as devout, as if the syllables comprised a holy word of prayer in some ritual service.
Her arm crooked around his neck to pull his mouth to hers again. More love-starved kisses were exchanged in the darkness as he rocked deeply against her.
"S'been too long, Angel."
Fingers dug into her gently rounded bottom tightly, the only sign that he was close to losing control. Vader's shallow breath filled the cup of her ear as she silently struggled to regain some small semblance of sanity.
It was impossible. Sensation was being wrung from every forsaken corner of her soul.
Electrostatic metal fingertips cupped one quivering breast, sensitive to its new weight, and the next second a hot mouth engulfed the smarting point at its apex.
"Anakin," Padmé gasped.
He exhaled at the sound of his name, pushed forward greedily even as dull warning bells rang at its usage. He shouldn't have been Anakin anymore. His mouth clamped down on the tingling flesh he was suckling in reflexive admonishment at the thought.
Padmé jerked. She was unable to so much as arch under his demanding weight as unbearable sensation streaked through every sensitive nerve in her chest, gathering low in the cradle of her hips.
Without warning her entire body seized in a paralyzing rush of pleasure. Her moan sounded distant to the clamoring waves of shameful ecstasy that demanded every ounce of concentration.
Vader didn't bother stifling a low groan at her savage spasms. He kept his movements slow and careful, shaking at the heavenly feel of the soft form pinned beneath him. Padmé's protruding stomach pressing into the flat plane of his own was a reminder of his quest to save her life.
Unlike before, however, the familiar fear no longer held him captive. He had risen to the challenge it posed and was taking the necessary steps to preserve the one person in the universe he couldn't live without. That knowledge brought about a heady rush of capability—an addictive sense of power that had lost none of its savor since he'd seized it.
He pulled out of the tight depths of Padmé's body suddenly. Despite the sluggish aftereffect of euphoria, she rolled to one side automatically at his wordless behest.
Vader's arms were around her from behind before she could protest the loss of heat.
As he filled her again, his flesh palm roamed from the lush curves of her chest to the firm swell of his child within her. Impatient with the flimsy silk blocking the necessary contact of their bare skin, he rent the undergarment easily down the middle and spread his fingers across rediscovered territory. His other forearm crossed the delicate wings of her collarbones to pin her to his far too clothed front.
Their change in positions allowed him to slide deeper. Her spine curved to ease his possession, and Vader bit back a crude Huttese curse. Nothing could ever feel as good as this. His nerves clamored for harder, stronger thrusts, but he turned his head into her hair, denying the urge to hurt her.
Padmé breathed in shaky gasps of air. The pressure was building again in steady leaps, too quickly in her aching core. It had to be the hormones. At least, her conscience would have her believe so, because the way Vader carefully corralled her did the opposite of restrain her mounting desire. He held her so reverently as he took her, but she knew Anakin well enough to sense that the act was as much about dominance and possession as it was pleasure for him. It always had been.
Her free hand shifted restlessly—clasping his larger one over her bare stomach, reaching back to thread twitching fingers through his weathered hair, compulsively touching him anywhere she could reach.
Little whimpers built in her throat as she fought not to succumb so embarrassingly soon again. It was a losing game. Vader's lips brushed the tender lobe of her ear. A rough kiss against her neck contrasted with his controlled surges below. There was a wet slide over the throb of her pulse point, and then he sucked it gently.
She stiffened in surprise, panted. Caution had already been thrown to the wind some time ago-
"Ani! Love you, love you, love-"
With a guttural cry Padmé broke off and shook helplessly around him. The words weren't an endearment gushed in the height of passion. They were a plea. Heartfelt, anxious, and desperate. Her hand shot to his and scrabbled to hold it against her stomach in a gesture as involuntary as it was primal.
Vader jerked upwards in delivery, sealing their contact, following the clinging pulses of her body as his climax washed over him too soon. The bliss was mind-numbing. Purifying. A gratified groan was muffled against his angel's shoulder.
Dazed in the aftermath, he lay still. It registered that Padmé was limp in his hold. Consciously, he eased the bruising grip of his mechno-arm from the smooth space beneath her throat apologetically.
She didn't acknowledge the movement beyond a sated murmur, too exhausted to stir as Vader's broad hand wandered lightly over her body in aimless, soothing strokes.
Her mind was wiped of all worry, all thought.
The pleasure had eased the tight muscles of her nape and loosened her sore spine, an afterglow seeming to spread in a gentle wave from the back of her scalp and belong. A movement resounded deep within the safe confines of her womb—but unlike earlier, it was a subtle and relaxed shifting, one that almost brought a smile to her face as surely as it mesmerized the one holding her.
Vader absorbed the motion with his palm, pressed back gently in answer. Through the Force he sensed a subdued thread of clumsy inquiry. His brows drew together. It was tenuous, but unmistakable, and he responded with a measured pulse of his own powerful presence, careful to keep it gentle and reassuring.
The fledgling consciousness subsided, calmed. Vader's hand resumed its lazy circling.
The languor lasted for a few more precious moments. But reality, per usual, was soon eager to intrude on the fragile peace of escapism. As the haze of lust fully cleared from Padmé's head in tandem with her decelerating heartbeat, realization of what she had done washed over her conscience like an acid geyser's untimely eruption.
The fact that she had experienced pleasure at the hands of a potential mass murderer didn't catalyze her anguish so much as the outcome of it: the irrevocable loosening of every negative emotion she'd held at bay since falling unconscious in the fresher of her apartment. Clarity freed her chest from the protective constraints of numbness, and the predatory tidal wave of pain was almost immediate.
If only the Senate could see her now. Padmé Amidala: champion of liberty; passion of the people; beacon of hope.
Yet she had failed him.
A sob tore itself from the depths of Padmé's heart—startlingly loud in the dark stillness. Sharp tears stung her eyes, hot and tumbling out of control. Her face twitched convulsively. The onslaught of emotion was far too strong to be held in check.
Vader was pulled from a rare moment of peace by the unmistakable tremors shaking the small form in his hold. Hot liquid slid over his right bicep. An answering pain lanced his being through the Force, agitation he couldn't control at the sound of her terrifyingly desolate sobs. Her utter despair washed over him in waves.
"Don't. Padmé, don't cry. Please."
It came out harsher than he'd intended. Rocking her tense shoulders back against his solid chest, he cradled a wet cheek in his palm. Tried again, "Shhh, Angel. It's not going to happen. I promised you, remember?"
It took her several moments to decipher the low murmur near her ear, what Anakin meant, and once she understood, the irony of the statement only served to double the uncontrollable intensity of her weeping. Perhaps the torrent should've been suppressed at once for the safety of the child she carried, but even an effort to do so was impossible.
And so she cried.
For her husband. For the innocent life they had created. For the fallen Republic. For Coruscant. For the hapless younglings slaughtered in their immolated Temple. For the lost cause of the Senate. For Obi-Wan. For everyone but herself...
The man behind her tightened his grip, hypocritically refusing to let her face grief alone. In a voice too familiar to be anyone but Anakin's, he soothed in soft tones, "You're safe. Everything will be fine. You'll see."
Anakin Skywalker had crawled through hell for her, had committed suicide as surely as he had homicide. The deeds he'd done in Padmé's name may have been too horrendous to be remembered at that moment, but they weren't gratuitous, nor did he let their residual darkness keep him from administering comfort. There was a dark sense of satisfaction simmering in his subconciousness at the proactive measures he'd taken to acquire the power necessary to stop his baby from killing her and ensure his family's safety, overtaking the fraction of himself left that questioned what in Sith hell he was doing...and why.
I'm doing it for you.
"At what cost?" she finally asked in a whisper strangled with grief.
Vader tensed. "An affordable one."
Her face twisted again, and she bit back a reply—Was it affordable for the innocent little children in the Temple?—that she had neither the desire nor the nerve to voice in her current state.
Anguished tears filled Padmé's eyes in lieu of words.
She didn't flinch away at the touch of warm, familiarly calloused fingers catching them as they fell. Not when evil would soon consume his kindness entirely.
"I love you," Vader murmured into her bare neck, as he had before sleep claimed them every night they'd been able to spend together since their wedding. The words were still true. If hatred was what he had to show others in order to keep her alive, that dulled none of his own need for her.
For the first time Padmé's response stuck in her throat.
Vader cupped her petite breast possessively, the gesture more intimate than it was sexual. "Please, stay with me."
Padmé sniffled, hiccupping softly, and turned in the inky blackness surrounding them like a blanket to rest her moist cheek against his.
"I want to," she said simply.
And fell asleep in his arms.