He shouldn't have been so short with Obi-Wan. The fact is obvious—the sort of thing that clings to Anakin, nagging—always nagging—until he can't ignore it, and, Force, he certainly does wish he could. A conscience, Obi-Wan would call it. And, anyway, Obi-Wan was right: if he'd wanted to betray Anakin, he's smart enough to do it in a way that's less obvious than what Anakin accused him of.
Of course Obi-Wan has a reason he picked Padme Naberrie. He always has a reason. But it was foolish to think it was entirely because Obi-Wan wanted him occupied and distracted. That's probably just a convenient benefit, and there is, no doubt, a better reason, and one that, in Obi-Wan's mind, will probably aid Anakin. Anakin may disagree—of course he disagrees—but he can still recognize that it was unfair of him to accuse Obi-Wan of stooping so low as to suggest he marry someone who would be detrimental to him. Obi-Wan wouldn't do that. He's not that cruel, and suggesting otherwise was, in retrospect, a fairly serious error and more than a little unkind.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Anakin tugs a hand through his hair and sighs. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And telling Obi-Wan he couldn't see his wife—that was… it was petty. Obi-Wan needs to see his wife—it relaxes him, and Force knows he needs it. No, it was a spiteful decision—a kneejerk one. Obi-Wan had gotten him angry—or he'd gotten himself angry with doubts about Obi-Wan's motives that never really had any basis—and he'd just said it, because he knew Obi-Wan would hate it.
And he didn't let him eat dinner either.
Petty.
He should have learned to control his temper better than this. He knows it. He does.
Sighing again, Anakin reaches over for his comlink on the side table and calls down to the kitchens. They'll be closed by now, and they never really bother to feed the Jedi well anyway—without his intervention anything Obi-Wan will get at this point wouldn't really be worth eating. And it would be Anakin's fault.
He glances at the half-full plate of food on the table. Stupid. He'd ordered extra for Obi-Wan anyway—he always does—and it had been completely childish not to let him eat it.
Whatever. He'll make it up to him. Maybe get Satine the whole day off work sometime soon so that Obi-Wan can spend it with her. Or something. He'll find something better than a call down to the kitchens that he can use to apologize.
In the meantime, he's got other things to worry about.
Mainly, his new wife.
He's married.
Setting his comlink aside, Anakin pushes himself up off the couch and pads over to his desk, calling for a cleaning droid to come get the mess from dinner before he settles himself into his chair and reaches for a holofile. A couple of pokes to the right buttons pull up the information he was looking for.
The information he hacked into. In other words, the real information about Padme Naberrie Amidala, or whatever her name is. Not the information Palpatine saw—the creative piece of fiction that Obi-Wan wrote.
Padme Naberrie. Or Amidala. Or something. Apparently Amidala is a royal name, back from when she was queen. Naberrie is her family name. Parents. One sister. A couple of nieces. From Naboo. There's a lot more there, and it gets more in-depth as he goes—exact records of how she's voted in the Senate, how many tries it took her to get her speeder license, people she's known to associate with—but the more he looks at it, the more the information just seems… like words in a file. Nothing more. Her voting record—it's clearly not in favor of the Empire, but she's not a radical either. Not the kind that shoots people, at least. And he wouldn't really say her views against the Empire are unusual—lots of people hold them. It's just that most people aren't as bold as she is—and they take pains to keep their views to themselves. And her associates—many of them are like her. Not pleased with the Empire. Again, nothing particularly odd there. She's the sort of person who, eventually, Palpatine would probably have silenced if she kept being vocal. There are a good many people like that.
But Obi-Wan must have seen something. Gritting his teeth, Anakin shoves his elbows down onto the armrests of his chair. He will not be annoyed that he can't figure what Obi-Wan saw. He won't.
She's pretty, at least. And smart. He's got her standard test scores from Naboo. She's really smart, apparently. He did tell Obi-Wan he didn't want someone idiotic. Nice to see that he listened. About the only thing Obi-Wan listens to, he thinks, huffing out a short breath and utterly failing to suppress the nagging voice in his head that points out how he could have just done this research himself. But, no, he hadn't wanted to get married at all, and anyway, he trusts Obi-Wan. Tonight's outburst was just an irrational slip. He knows better. Obi-Wan has taken care of him since he was nine, and he's not going to stop now, even if he disagrees with just about everything Anakin's slated to become.
Oh. Oh.
That is how Obi-Wan probably chose Padme Amidala.
Gripping his fingers down into the armrests, Anakin bends back forward, studying the file with new purpose. Oh, it's nothing blatant, but, yes, it's there—all the indicators he could want. Clever of Obi-Wan-he must have picked someone he thought would aid him in his never-ending quest to show Anakin the failings of dictatorship, the morality of the Jedi, and the virtue of democracy. That again. Yes.
Tossing the datapad aside, Anakin lowers his head to the desk. He asked for this. He did. He told Obi-Wan to help him out, because he just didn't care, and he hacked Palpatine's files, and let Obi-Wan have full access. Of course he got someone who's going to aid Obi-Wan's cause. And why should he be surprised? In Obi-Wan's mind, that's what's best for Anakin.
And now doesn't he just look entirely stupid for his earlier accusations? Force, he ought to bang his head against the desk, try to beat out some of that sheer idiocy. Or something. So stupid. Really, he should have known better than to think that Obi-Wan picked this girl to try to cause him harm. He's trying to help him. He's always trying to help him, even if what Obi-Wan considers help is what Anakin calls a major annoyance.
So annoying. He closes his eyes thinking about it, trying not to sigh—failing, of course—and wondering just how in the world he's going to survive when Obi-Wan has gained an ally. One he has to sleep with too.
Clearly, this situation is spiraling off into complication.
He's—he'll do something—something… and he'll just open his eyes to do it…
When he wakes up the next morning, head still down on his desk, and an unbelievable kink in his neck, he's no closer to solving any of his problems. Actually, it seems pretty clear that he has more problems than when he started: Nine Corellian Hells, but his back hurts. His neck doesn't feel all that great either, and his face—compressed meat probably looks better than he does after being plastered to the desk all night. Worst of all, he's supposed to have breakfast with his wife. He could just refuse, of course, but he was pretty cruel to Obi-Wan last night, and Obi-Wan wants him to do this. Kriffing requests.
No, he'll go, because it's not like he needs another thing to apologize to Obi-Wan about.
After a short internal debate about what he ought to wear—what does one usually wear in a situation like this?—he dons a casual gray tunic and some black pants. He's not dressing up for this meeting. They're married. She had better get used to his lack of formality, because he has neither the time nor the inclination to learn how to tiptoe around her.
Mind made up, he trudges out of his room, smoothing his mussed hair down as he tries to mentally prepare himself for what he's sure will be a rather awkward encounter—and the beginning, at least, is.
She answers the door when he knocks, and as soon as the barrier between them zips open, he's left staring at her… and she doesn't look particularly pleased to see him. Quite the opposite actually: crossed arms and etched lines on someone's forehead do not, in his experience, indicate sincere welcome—not that it's ever really mattered. People give him what he wants regardless of whether they favor having him in their presence. Most people don't, actually, since close proximity means there's less distance between them and whatever displeasure they may incur from him.
But this woman—she doesn't look intimidated, not by any means. She actually looks more like she's caught the scent of something undesirable. And whatever view she's getting—that doesn't seem to be pleasing her too much either, which is rather problematic, considering she's staring at him.
"Nice of you to come," she says icily.
Right. Funny how the sound of that really seems to skate more along the lines of, "Oh, hello. How unfortunate to see you this morning: I was not-so-secretly hoping that you would have somehow suffered a painful death before we met." This discrepancy between tone and words—it's the kind of thing Obi-Wan does when he's insuring that he's technically polite while still letting Anakin know that he is Very Displeased. Lovely. Exactly what he needed this morning—because it's not like he'll get the exact same thing from Obi-Wan later on today.
"Certainly," he answers, giving her a slight bow, which is about as much solicitousness as he can manage at this point. Probably he shouldn't spend the entirety of the motion considering all the very unpleasant things he can do to Obi-Wan to pay him back for this inconvenient new situation, but, well, to do otherwise at this point would take a great effort that he frankly doesn't want to make. He'll deal with the inconvenience in front of him before creates another.
Because, clearly, this situation is going to be quite inconvenient. He doesn't have much experience with disobedient people that he can't kill; usually, if the person he's talking to is still alive, they're unquestionably doing what he wants. But this woman—he can't kill her, and he can't really treat her like Obi-Wan, because her social standing is quite obviously different. No… he'll have to think of something else.
Regrettably, at the moment, a solution isn't exactly springing to mind.
"Come in," she says finally, stiffly stepping back from the door. Her dress rustles with the movement, and for the briefest of moments, he's tempted to reach out and touch it, just to see how it feels. Like his mother's clothes, maybe? He used to cling to her skirts sometimes, back when he was very small…
But, no, his mother would never wear something like this. She was far more conservative, always keeping her clothes as simple as she could while still insuring that they befitted her station—or, rather, that Palpatine considered them to befit her station. This girl, though—her dress is a couple of different shades of blue, and the skirt of it, which is of a lighter shade, swishes around her legs as she moves. Actually, the only part that's really dark is a sort of vest-like thing with an odd shaped piece of decoration stretching from her stomach up to her bosom. And her sleeves—they look kind of puffy, soft too, but with little metal loops around her upper arms. Strange. But… she looks good. Did she look like this when they got married? Hard to tell—he wasn't really bothering with anything beyond how irritated he was to have to get married in the first place. But, now, really looking at her, it's hard to deny that she's very attractive.
More importantly, he can't quite ignore the spark of interest he feels somewhere down inside his gut.
Perhaps having to sleep with her won't be quite so unpleasant, just as long as she doesn't try to talk.
"You… already called for breakfast," he notes as they head further into her quarters, stopping at the large dinning table. They could eat in the smaller breakfast nook, but given the fact that she chose where they'd eat and that she's set their places on opposite ends of the table, it's entirely clear that she wants to be as far away from him as possible. Plus, she already called for breakfast—no doubt she's telling him she couldn't care less about his preferences.
"I'm sorry," she says, not sounding very sorry at all. "If you'd like something else, you're welcome to call down for it."
He feels his lips thin. "This will be fine."
It's fleeting, but he doesn't miss how satisfaction tugs at the muscles of her face, drawing them up into something smug for less than a moment before she's again wearing that blank, entirely neutral expression. "Well then," she says, sweeping her hand in the direction of the table. "Should we eat?"
You know what? No. He's not letting her do this. He will not be manipulated this easily, and maybe it's true that he's used to getting what he wants by force, but he's also very good at subtly getting his way. Obi-Wan has taught him that skill, both by modeling it and by forcing Anakin to use it—and he'll be damned if he lets that training go to waste now.
"Yes, let's," he agrees, plastering the biggest, fakest smile that he can possibly manage onto his face as he saunters to the end of the table, retrieves his plate, and returns to her end, settling himself in the chair directly next to hers.
She frowns. Excellent.
"This looks quite good," he lies, spooning some fruit onto his plate. He doesn't mind fruit, but he'd like something more substantial for breakfast. She can't possibly have known that, can she have? No, he's over-reacting: she doesn't know enough about him to plan even the menu so as to annoy him.
"I'm glad you think so."
Do her cheeks hurt from holding her face so stiffly for so long? "I do."
"Good."
Right… and what now? He spears a piece of melon and pops it into his mouth, just to stall for time. She might be perfectly content to sit here in silence, but he's certainly not. It's a profound waste of his time, and he's never much liked silence anyway.
"So… what exactly is your last name?"
Her hand stills, fork halfway to her mouth; she lowers it slowly back down to her plate, studying him out of the corner of her eye. "Didn't you think to ask before you married me?"
He just shrugs. "No. I think we both know I didn't choose this."
She follows up a particularly acidic sigh with a pause in which she raises the fork again and takes a bite. When she finishes chewing, she mutters sharply, "As flattered as I am that our esteemed Emperor saw me as a way to prove his remaining non-existent loyalty to his home planet of Naboo, I would have at least thought you would have been briefed on my name."
"Why?"
She doesn't answer. And, yes, when he stops and thinks about it, that was an undeniably bad answer. He should probably care about how cold that was… but, honestly, why? She doesn't mean anything to him. Is he really expected to care?
Surprisingly, though, she just nods after a minute or so. "You know, you're right. I'm just here to give you an heir and to possibly stand beside you at political functions and look nice. You wouldn't be capable of sustaining anything more anyway."
"Pardon?"
Stabbing a piece of fruit a bit harder than she really needs to, she ignores the scrape of her fork against her plate and stares up at him from under dark eyelashes. "In order to have any sort of relationship, you have to be capable of looking outside of yourself."
"Which I am capable of doing."
"Oh?" One eyebrow arches. "And of the people you are close to, which of those relationships gives both parties equal rights to disagree?"
"I'm not sure what you're getting at."
"What exactly is Obi-Wan's position here?"
"Obi-Wan?"
"Kenobi, yes."
"I know whom you're referring to," he breathes out, huffing indignantly. "It's not like it's a common name, and, despite what you clearly think, I do know a good deal about Obi-Wan. I was just surprised by the question."
Has anyone ever cut himself on the sharpness of that look she's shooting him? It seems entirely in the realm of possibility. "Oh? Afraid of the answer? Whatever it is, don't take it too hard—he apparently still has hope that there's good in you, though I have to wonder how much of that is desperation to make things seem less bleak than they actually are."
Obi-Wan. Force, she couldn't have asked for a more complicated answer. "Obi-Wan has taken care of me since I was nine. Tutored me, helped me with lightsaber combat, stopped me from stealing speeders from the hangar, tried to instill proper etiquette, for the most part failed to instill proper etiquette…"
Her eyes widen slightly, and she pushes a piece of fruit to the side of her plate. "I'm surprised by that. Surprised that Palpatine would allow someone who so clearly doesn't ascribe to his philosophy to have such influence over you."
Yes, and that, at least, is humorous. Though, it's less funny in reality, because he's at a loss for how to answer that question not phrased as a question. Would the truth really be such a terrible method? They are married, after all.
"Palpatine let me have Obi-Wan because he thought it would give me a taste of power. Controlling someone else's life—it's a childhood activity befitting of a Sith, yes? His motives were not altruistic in the least."
But that, Anakin mentally adds, is and always has been Palpatine's weakness: he gives almost no credit to the light side of the Force... and Anakin does. Certainly he does not use the light side exclusively or even predominantly, but he does recognize that it has its uses—uses like feeling Obi-Wan in his head that first time.
"And why did you care enough to want him in the first place?" she asks, wrinkling her nose in what looks suspiciously like disgust.
Rather than immediately answering her question, it's easier to simply twirl his fork in his fingers, ignoring her inquiring glare at his manners. Admittedly, one does not usually twirl the silverware when there is a piece of melon still sticking from the prongs, but he is Anakin Skywalker, heir to the Empire, and he can do as he pleases. "His mind—it felt warm. You don't know the Force, so I can't really explain it to you. But it was luminescent… beautiful. The Force danced around him, and I—I wanted to see more of it."
Which is the truth. But, more than that, he had absolutely loathed seeing that kind of play in the Force sliced and cut by the kind of abuse Obi-Wan had been enduring. Palpatine had never understood that. He hadn't recognized what Obi-Wan had in the Force in anything beyond terms of power, and so he couldn't imagine that Anakin was drawn by anything else but the desire to control that part of Obi-Wan.
Eleven years later, Anakin does have to admit that sometimes he enjoys knowing he controls power like that, but Obi-Wan has still, much to Palpatine's chagrin, become his only real friend, and, doubtless, a sort of older brother who cares for a younger sibling. At least, he'd always acted like he had that sort of duty—if he were here at the moment, he'd almost certainly be scolding about bad table manners. Or perhaps that's more like a father. The idea of it nearly makes Anakin want to allow the small smile that's tugging at his lips. All right, yes, Obi-Wan is a father as much as he can be, and more than Palpatine ever could be. The power struggles they engage in are sometimes unbelievable in proportions, but if he loves anyone, it could only be Obi-Wan. And he does love him. His mother is dead: Obi-Wan is the only family he has left.
Oddly, Padme's face has eased at that description. What? Had she thought him totally incapable of recognizing beauty? The Force is beauty, and he can credit both sides of it with that. Well, only the light, really. The dark side is not beautiful.
But it is powerful.
"I'm still surprised that Palpatine allowed it," she continues, though less hostility this time, "given Obi-Wan's outlook. I can't imagine he agrees with Palpatine on much of anything."
"Saying he doesn't ascribe to Palpatine's philosophy would be putting it mildly."
"Oh?"
And that—it requires an answer, doesn't it? She did ask what exactly Obi-Wan's position is… But he always is, frankly, hesitant to answer something like that. What Obi-Wan technically is and what he really is are two very different things. But if he doesn't tell her, she'll ask Obi-Wan, and that—it's not… Obi-Wan will answer like he always does, stoically, with good grace, but Anakin knows how much he hates saying it.
No, let this woman rage at him—because she will—but he will not make Obi-Wan answer her questions, no matter how well meaning she might be.
"He's a former Jedi."
Clearly, she does know exactly what that means.
A look of disgust twists her face, jerking the muscles back tight; he simply looks away. It's not because the expression pulls at his conscience—he's had plenty of time to feel guilty over some of the things that have happened to Obi-Wan—but because if he keeps staring, he won't be able to retain what little control he has left. She doesn't understand. She thinks she does, and she condemns him based on that.
Arrogant, selfish, little-
"He's a slave." Whatever softening she'd done at hearing his appreciation of the Force—it's gone now. Utterly vanished.
"It doesn't mean I don't care about him. I do. Very much."
"But he still has to obey you, doesn't he? You could kill him if you wanted to. You could do anything to him, and he couldn't stop you."
"I wouldn't." Never. Not for anything. He's not going to lose anyone else that he loves. Not after what happened with his mother.
"And he has, what, your word to guarantee that?" With a furious screech of metal, she shoves her chair back from the table, throwing herself to her feet in a huff of indignation and flowing skirts. "What was his crime? Being a Jedi? He couldn't have been very old when the Order fell."
Anakin pushes his own chair back from the table, but he doesn't rise. Not yet. "Fifteen."
"He was barely more than a child."
"If makes you feel better, I've been told Palpatine took the children to train for his own purposes. Obi-Wan missed the cutoff by two years. And he's lucky for that. At least he still gets to think the way he wants, even if he can't act on it."
"And now? You said he started taking care of you when you were nine. But you're not nine years old anymore! You don't need to be taken care of anymore. I'm surprised you haven't sent him off with the rest of the Jedi. "
Apparently he shouldn't tell her about last night, given that the barracks—with the other Jedi, or at least the few who remain under Palpatine's direct watch—is exactly where Anakin is sure Obi-Wan slept. He does have to utter a bit of a mental apology for that. The barracks are crowed and dirty, and… he'll consider that later. "He usually stays with me… or outside the palace. My apartments have a spare room."
"How considerate," she mutters, crossing her arms and looking away. Her grip is so strained that the threads of the fabric thin and stretch under her nails.
"If Obi-Wan doesn't hate me for it, I don't see why you should."
Apparently that's the wrong thing to say, because she doesn't answer: rather, she turns on her heel, hands fisted tightly in the fabric of her dress as she marches to the door of the room, feet striking the floor hard enough to echo the noise off the walls. And, yet, it's not a temper tantrum—she's controlled, even now.
And the smallest bit of him is impressed by that. But the larger part of him? Is mulling over what to do when walked out on like that. It doesn't happen much, and the people who have done it aren't around to give their perspective.
Perhaps pointing that out will have some effect.
"Exactly what do you think gives you the right to walk out on me?" he snaps, shoving his chair back and stomping after her.
He clears the entrance to the kitchen just a few seconds after she does. Infuriatingly enough, she doesn't acknowledge that—doesn't even have the curiosity to seem surprised. It's like she expected that he would come after her.
His fingers begin to itch. How he would just love to wrap his hands around something and break—
"What gives you the right to order me to stay?" she counters tersely, circling around to the other side of the island in the middle of the room. She moves fluidly, almost unconcerned, but her eyes dart more quickly, with sharper movements… and as far as he can tell, they're flickering in the direction of the knives.
She wouldn't really try that, would she?
Would she?
"I'm told you served as a Senator. I'm fairly sure you would have some idea of who I am politically?" He pauses then, splaying his hands out on the counter and leaning forward, watching her. The movement isn't meant to be aggressive—fine, maybe somewhat—but her eyes dart toward the knives again.
Seems those are going to have to get taken out of the kitchen.
"Or maybe you don't," he adds, cocking his head lightly. "The Senate is a joke. Everyone knows that. A lawmaking body in name only. They do what Palpatine tells them."
For the most part, that's entirely true. But there are always a few senators who don't conform. She's one of them. But, oh, it's so good to see the effect his words have on her—after she walked out on him, this is that something he's needed.
More than anything else he's said so far, those words seem to rile her: red blooms on her cheeks, and, in a rush of temper, she jerks forward, pushing her hands against the counter as well and leaning forward over it until their faces are only a few feet apart. It's the closest they've been so far.
And she looks as though she'd like to use the proximity to murder him.
Without a doubt, he should recognize that and end the situation here. Obi-Wan would tell him to act his age and exercise a bit of maturity. But, oh, where is the use in that? That rush he gets when he tempts fate just that little bit more—it's so much better; he always just has to keep pushing, just to prove he can. To do so now simply feels natural, and so he leans back away from the counter, walks stiffly around to the other side, and advances on her.
She has the poise not to look cornered. Still, there's no denying that's exactly what she is when he slips toward her, forcing her retreat, back, back, back until she bumps into the counter against the wall. The one with the knives. Which he did on purpose. Because he's going to let her try. Best to show her now that it won't work.
"There are those of us in the Senate who still fight for what's right," she seethes.
"Yes, and you usually end up dead. You'd do best to admit it: if you try to buck the Empire's rule in life, you'll submit in death."
"No. I'll die free."
"But you'll still be dead, Senator. What good does your freedom do you then?"
Sneering, he leans in a little closer, perversely enjoying the rage in her eyes. She is beautiful, and she hates him, but what would it be like if she didn't? In another life, he might have found something he can't see here. Acceptance, maybe. Because he can't deny she interests him, and, in his experience, if someone interests him, he or she is at least worth something. "What does it gain for you?" he asks again.
Her eyes narrow in response. "Something you would never know, because you've never had it. You—you have been a slave to the Empire all your life."
Right. Well. And that's just enough of that. The horrible clenching in his gut makes that perfectly clear, thank you.
He was never a slave. His mother—she was a slave, and he's not like that. Not at all. But Padme-she can't know that, but damn her for not knowing, for saying it anyway, for not knowing when she should have known, even if she couldn't have known, and… he hates her, hates her, hates himself sometimes, hates her…
And Force help him, he is also entirely drawn in by whatever is going on behind those eyes.
"I am no one's slave."
She just laughs.
"I'm not," he seethes, voice dropping in pitch as he leans in just a little bit more, leaving scarcely half a foot of distance. "I'm the one who makes the rules."
Surprisingly, her small hand darts up, planting in the middle of his chest, holding him back. He could, of course, overpower her, but there's little point in that. He has no need to do that. Not yet. Those knives are still in their holders.
"I make your rules now," he continues, liking the play of emotions over her face. Anger. Insult. Worry. Loathing. "How do you like that?"
She doesn't answer.
"I will tear down everything you fought for the in the Senate. Or maybe I won't have to. Maybe the Emperor will finish that before I kill him."
"You'd kill your own-?" She leaves the word hanging, so like her hand on his chest, which is no longer exerting any pressure. Just limply resting.
She thought otherwise? So foolish of her-he hates Palpatine as much as the next person. Probably more. "Of course. And if he's not done destroying those things you hold so dear, I'll finish the job. Or maybe I'll kill him early, just to have the pleasure of doing it myself."
Snap. Her control breaks. So obvious when it does. Shoving him—and he lets her—she rolls to the side, small, strong body whipping around, twisting, and her fingers close around one of the knives, before she snaps back around and plunges it toward him.
Having expected it, he easily captures her wrist in his grip.
He is interested to note, however, that she was aiming for his shoulder. Not to kill. Interesting. What was her plan? Wound him and run? It doesn't seem like her. More than likely, she didn't have a plan. She was fueled by nothing more than emotion and a devotion to a set of ideals… but devotion or not, she is, obviously, not capable of cold-blooded murder. Not like this. Not when it's not a battle—the kind where both sides know they're being shot at. She won't pick him off with a knife that she doesn't think he sees coming.
Good to know.
"Let it go," he says evenly, squeezing her wrist tightly—and there will be bruises—until she gasps, fingers spasming open. The knife clatters to the floor.
"You are a monster," she snarls, her foreheat wrinling under the force of her glare.
He shrugs. "Maybe."
Oh, but she's not done: with the hand he doesn't have in his grasp, she reaches out, swinging at him. Not a slap, but an actual blow. He likes that—she fights like she means it. None of this damsel in distress nonsense.
He catches that wrist in his other hand, but still, the effort was appreciated.
With a wordless cry of frustration, she jerks against him, twisting her skin red in his grip as she pulls. For his part, he doesn't grip tighter, doesn't move, but just lets her struggle. There's life to it too—a few strands of her hair come loose, scattering down across her face, jerking in time with her struggles. It's as though she hardly cares that she'll have bruises.
When she stops, he lets her go.
"I wouldn't advise trying that again," he intones calmly. And he really wouldn't… although, he can't really say he doesn't find her spirit appealing. He's never liked weak women, and Padme Amidala does not appear to fit that mold in any sense.
As determined as she was a moment ago, the way she rubs her right wrist with her left hand indicates that she does have at least some care for whether she's injured—and already the bruises are rising. "Why? Going to return the favor?"
Really, that's… almost insulting. It takes him by surprise too, and he draws back from her, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing her with a stern glare. The look is returned, which he finds interesting—even now, she's still not afraid of him.
"Contrary to what you obviously think of me, I am not a coward. I have nothing to prove. I am well aware that I could kill you with my bare hands—with my mind—if I wanted. I have no need to prove to you my physical superiority."
Strangely enough, she seems surprised by that. What, did she think he'd be given to bouts of domestic abuse? There's no point. And… he's seen the bruises his mother had from Palpatine. He won't do that. Restraining her when he tries to assault him is something else, but he won't hit his wife—it is, just like he told her, nothing but cowardice.
And no one ever said Anakin Skywalker was short on courage.
"I would suggest you don't try this again," he says casually, leaning down to pick up the knife. Not looking at her, he slides it back into its holder. "Because while I may not physically harm you, you should keep in mind that you do answer to me now. Really, I'm not sure why that's such a problem: I'm told by very reliable sources that I'm better than my father, who, technically, you answered to before when you were in the Senate."
She scowls. "I doubt Obi-Wan means that he's satisfied with your moral state."
"Oh, Obi-Wan isn't the one who tells me that. Usually, I'm informed by the people I kill when they find out I'll make it quick. Unlike Palpatine, I don't get joy out of toying with victims. An execution is an execution—killing is not enjoyable. Just necessary. Palpatine… does not see things that way."
That's enough for now. He's made his point. He'll… maybe he'll tell Obi-Wan to go talk with her. Obi-Wan probably intends to anyway. So, yes, he'll have Obi-Wan pay her a visit, and more the better if he actually wants to. He can try to calm her a bit. That's for the best, he supposes as he turns away and strides out of the kitchen, past the remnants of their breakfast—did this meeting really start out so innocuously as a conversation over food?—and out the door. She does not call for him to come back, and he does not look to see her expression, because why would he actually care what her mental state is at the moment? He's not going to fix it—he's not good at that sort of thing. Obi-Wan is the one who soothes, who negotiates things into a more workable situation when Anakin has the inclination to let him. He's very good at it.
So, Obi-Wan can do that now. Make Padme Amidala Naberrie Skywalker—whatever her name is—see reason.