The occasions on which they get to go somewhere together are too, too rare. Sometimes, while he's away fighting yet another battle in the endless collage of conflicts and skirmishes that have become their entire lives, Padmé thinks she might just explode with longing.
Only when he comes back, on those precious days, too few and too far in between, does she feel truly alive. Like she has finally woken from a horrible dream, like an invisible veil separating her and everyone else has lifted, and she can see the world clearly.
That first time she sees him in gods know how long, every time, without fail, it feels like something has unlocked in her chest, and she can breathe again.
And for Padmé there is nothing worse than when, on those rare occasions they can be together, she is wrenched away from his side, or he from hers.
Fortunately, some of it can be remedied.
Tonight's occasion in particular, is something she is … well, not actively looking forward to, what she would be looking forward to was staying inside and watching Anakin cook her favourite dish, occasionally stealing bites … then having a romantic dinner in candlelight, that manages to be ruined by some terrible joke he tells, but she doesn't care, because she would rather have him, with all his quirks and oddities, than anything else … but she doesn't dread it either. Not if she can bring Anakin with her.
Tonight, she has been invited to purely a social gathering, no politics attached (though, if she knows her colleagues, there will indeed be a lot of politicking), so normally, Padmé wouldn't think twice before refusing an invitation, but it's being organized by Mon, and she'd already called thrice to confirm Padmé was coming.
Sometimes, she really, really hates that Anakin's arrivals are always so sudden … but then again, she's always liked surprises, and she would rather have him appear unannounced than not at all.
The idea came to her a couple of weeks ago, alone in her cold bed.
Considering her track record with assassinations, would it really be all that surprising for her to bring a Jedi protector along to an event? Especially if said Jedi protector is someone everyone knows to be an old friend that is ever so rarely on Coruscant these days?
When she'd first thought of it, she'd dismissed the idea as ridiculous. It would require the amounts of subtlety he (nor she, if she is being perfectly honest) isn't capable of.
But it's been weeks, and she's grown desperate. So that's why she's currently sitting on her bed in her full regalia, Anakin dutifully pinning her hair into place.
"You know," she tells him, "you're really lucky Jedi robes are appropriate for all functions."
And really—he can come to this sort of party in his usual black synthleather, with no guarantee to anyone that the same attire hadn't been worn to a battle a week ago, whereas she can't appear in the same custom-made, extremely elaborate and even more expensive gown in public one too many times, unless she wants the HoloNet reporters going wild with stories of Senator Amidala, apparently, letting herself go. The hypocrisy of the media sometimes really astounds her, even after so many years in the spotlight.
"That's why I joined," he deadpans, carefully inserting a pearl-tipped pin into the ornate bun at the top of her head. "A lightsaber and the Force are just a bonus."
She snorts, but takes care not to move too much, as not to disturb the hard work he's put into it all. "I'd have an easier time believing that if I didn't know how bored you get at parties."
"That's because you're not usually there," he replies, and Padmé's heart melts.
Once the last pin is in its place, he floats one of her many jewellery boxes over to them, plucks out a pair of simple pearl earrings she had picked for herself earlier today, and hands them to her.
"You know," she drawls, after she's finished putting the earrings into her ears, "there's something I've been meaning to ask you."
"Ask away, Angel," he says, motioning for her to turn around so he could add the matching pearl necklace to her assemble.
"Why black?"
"Huh?" he huffs, gifting her with the most adorable sight of his brow scrounged up in confusion.
"Why do you wear black?" Padmé elaborates. "I know that Jedi robes aren't technically uniforms, and that you don't have to wear them, gods know I see Ahsoka running around in a tube top all the time … but why the same design, only black?"
"Well," he says, wringing his hands together, while his cheeks turn a deep shade of crimson. "I … I get cold, okay? Coruscant is freezing, and black keeps me nice and warm."
Padmé looks at him for a second before bursting into a fit of chuckles.
"I'm glad you're finding my misery funny," he huffs, crossing his arms.
"Sorry, sorry," she says, placing a hand on his forearm and struggling to keep her laughter contained. "There was this article in Coruscant Daily a few days ago, you know? They speculated on the topic, offered a multitude of increasingly ridiculous theories, and, in the end, agreed that you simply have a sense of style that the other Jedi lack."
"I do have a sense of style," he mutters, the corners of his lips turning up.
"I know you do, Ani. But I'm just imagining how astounded they would be if they found out that the real reason for your … unique attire … is because you're not used to Coruscanti temperatures, even after a decade."
"You love my unique attire," he says, flicking her nose.
"Did you use your very attuned Jedi senses to tell you that?" she asks, winding her arms around his neck, and giving him a peck on the lips.
"You'll ruin your makeup," he protests, though there's no fire in it. "And, we'll be late."
"I didn't think you'd care," she tells him. "I thought you'd much rather stay here."
Anakin rolls those blue eyes of his, and pats her on the cheek. "True, but I've spent the past half-hour on your hair, Angel. We are going out."
She knows his arguments are empty, he loves playing with her hair. But he's right. She's made a promise to Mon.
"Fine," she sighs.
He drives her to Mon's apartment, only five minutes away, grinning like a little boy when he flies into the restricted military lanes.
"I'm a general, am I not?" he tells her smugly, when she first expresses her concern, and Padmé grins, and gives him another peck.
They arrive at Mon's apartment just in time, and like a real gentleman, Anakin gets out of the speeder first and opens the door for her.
"Did you see that in a holodrama?" she teases.
"Read it in a book, actually," he replies, flashing her a cocky grin.
The party is lovely, dignitaries milling about, holding tall, delicate glasses of Chandrilan champagne, server droids mingling among them and carrying silver trays full of those bite-sized snacks that no-one ever eats.
The moment they enter, they're practically ambushed by Mon, looking regal as always, in traditional Chandrilan white.
"Padmé," she says, beaming. "It's so good to see you! And you brought company?" With this, her eyes travel to Anakin. "General."
"Senator Mothma," he says, and bows, Jedi-style. "It appears that Senator Amidala has finally decided to listen to reason and bring a bodyguard along."
Mon's thin, auburn brows rise, and she smiles wryly. "It's about time."
"That's what I said, Senator," Anakin says serenely, though his smirk is matching Mon's.
"I can't believe you two are ganging up on me like that," Padmé complains.
Mon just smiles, and inclines her head. "Do have fun, will you?"
"We'll do our best," Anakin promises, and they're swept inside.
And they try very hard to fulfil that promise.
They laugh like newlyweds at the stupidest of things, be it the Senator of Corellia's ridiculous headdress, a cheesy joke Anakin tells, or the way Lady Yularen seductively and not-so-discreetly winks in the direction of one of Uncle Ono's aides.
("That's Admiral Yularen's sister," Anakin whispers, eyes wide in horror. "Admiral Yularen's—my Admiral Yularen's—sister is being … like that!" Padmé just grins, and squeezes his hand in reassurance.)
They dance on the impromptu dance floor in the middle of Mon's living room, where all the furniture had been moved for that purpose, chuckling every time one of them misses a step. Neither of them has much talent for dancing, but she's been given a more thorough training, while his reflexes and coordination are better, so they kind of balance each other out.
("You're stepping on my toes," Anakin complains.
"You're dancing the wrongs steps," Padmé counters, grinning. "I imagine Obi-Wan had a blast teaching you the proper etiquette for court."
"You have no idea. It's a wonder he hasn't gone grey yet.")
They gossip about the other guests, exchanging the latest stories, and find out that the news that reach the senators and those that reach the GAR officials wildly differ.
("What? No! Mee Deechi cheated on his husband with his brother-in law, it's common knowledge," Anakin insists.
"Well I work with him, and I'm telling you, it was their best man," she explains, very patiently in her opinion.
"Fine! A compromise," he suggests. "It was both. A love triangle."
"What about poor Mr. Deechi, though?" she wonders, warming up to the idea.
Anakin curves a brow. "Not being married to Senator Deechi anymore is his award.")
Anakin uses the Force to pull discreet, innocent pranks on unsuspecting victims, all from blowing someone's hat off their head to tripping Orn Free Taa on his own robes.
(Taa stumbles, and captures the attention of everyone in this room.
"My sabaac face is not good enough for this," Padmé whispers to Anakin, struggling to keep her lips from curving into a full-blown grin.
He just smiles innocently.)
There's a game they think of. Pick a drunk, Anakin names it. Each chooses a person they believe is most likely to get wasted. Padmé chooses a representative from Khorm, a woman who always reeks of cheap alcohol, Anakin a GAR officer he insists regularly comes to his workstation inebriated.
("And what does the winner get?" Padmé wonders. Anakin gets that gleam in his eyes, the same one present when they binge bad romance holodramas.
"A kiss," he answers, biting his lip.)
And when the whole thing has gone on for hours, and guests have started to leave, so do they, making their merry way back to Padmé's apartment.
"Technically," she whispers when they're laying together in bed, cuddling, "neither of us won Pick a drunk."
It was some person neither of them recognized who'd stumbled first among the guests, empty cup of some liquor still clenched tightly in her hand, and then collapsed straight onto Mon's antique carpet.
"True," he says, pressing another kiss into her hair, and she closes her eyes, snuggling up closer to him, tracing a faint scar on his neck with her finger.
"So, the way I see it," she continues, the corners of her mouth turning upwards. it's only right that we both get the prize."
"I may see where you are going with this, milady," he huffs, "but I don't think I need to win a game to kiss you, and I know with utmost certainty that you don't need it to kiss me."
"That's very good to hear," Padmé replies, and props herself higher up, taking his face in her hands.
His eyes go wide, and she can't help but chuckle. "What's the matter, General? Frightened of a meagre senator?"
"There's no such thing as meagre when you're in question," Anakin breathes, and Padmé's heart melts. He doesn't say it in a flirtatious tone, or even flattering. He states it in awe, like a fact of the universe, something that doesn't even need explaining.
She leans down and presses a featherlight kiss to the scar that stretches down the right side of his face.
"I love you," she whispers into his ear.
His breathing hitches, and he buries his head in the crook of her shoulder.
"I love you too, Angel. Always," she hears him mutter.
"Forever," she promises.
"Forever."