Chapter 8
ANAKIN SKYWALKER
Side-eyeing the dash chrono, Anakin runs the mental calculation once more just to be sure.
Yep, definitely mid-morning on Coruscant. Unless some unforeseen circumstance had kept her away from the Senate, Padmé should have found the flowers by now.
Cascading through him, the realization tingles in his blood as does the thrill of envisioning her reaction. All too easily, Anakin remembers the way joy first sparkles to life in her soft brown eyes, slowly curving her delicate lips into her sunbeam smile before rushing outward from her to envelop bystanders in her radiance. One delirious taste of such sweet wine and Anakin was smitten. Every opportunity thereafter, he had used to coax out Padmé's happiness. He had become quite good at it too, enough so that even with only his recollection picturing her delight, he still anticipates her comforting wave of warmth to stir in the Force.
But no such pleasure is forthcoming.
Space is cold.
Sighing loudly, Anakin slumps backwards into his seat, discontent reverberating through the cockpit and his pilot's chair. He would give anything to revel in her warm embrace again. Tangible or spectral - he wouldn't be choosy. Just something to fill the hollow ache creeping around his soul. Even if only to catch a glimmer of her in Force, he would…
At the notion, an exhilarating energy trembles in his veins.
Would it even be possible this far away? To stretch out across several parsecs and feel her beautiful existence? Would she know it was him checking in? Could she answer him?
Would she?
"Won't know if I don't try," Anakin mumbles.
Closing his eyes, he takes a deep centering breath and reins in his frenetic thoughts. Before wading into the deep, Anakin pauses to gauge Obi-Wan's awareness. While his master nagged him to practice meditation more often, it went without saying that this endeavor was likely not what his mentor had in mind. But finding Ob-Wan preoccupied in the ship's aft, Anakin concentrates and sinks into the void.
The Force rushes to greet him, buffeting him with friendly ripples as if to wave hello. Too bad, he's not here for small talk.
Show me.
Obedient to his command, the undulating motion around Anakin stills. Like water receding over a cliff's edge, the Force parts, revealing a long path that disappears into the ether. From afar, Padmé's signature twinkles at him, a distant star captivating in her brilliance but still mysteriously indistinct. Having spent the past week in close orbit, the lack of her emotional gravity is disorienting.
Frustrated, Anakin growls, his eyes snapping open to land on the swirls of hyperspace in the forward viewports. No matter how many times he traveled the galaxy, the endless spiraling of blue and white never failed to captivate him. That is, until Padmé had shown him far more spectacular shades of indigo.
By the gods, he would die if he could never see her again. Summoning all his concentration, Anakin stretches out, determined to touch her faint presence. But she remains beyond reach, and he's left wanting.
When Obi-Wan returns from his in-flight systems check, Anakin is still debating whether the sheer physical divide or his lack of power are behind his tether's failure. No doubt detecting a brewing storm, his master studies his Padawan warily.
"You seem a little on edge."
Anakin's lip curls before he can banish the tell. He supposes he could lie. Try to play off his rising irritation as boredom. But if Obi-Wan already caught onto his dejection, it would be smarter to leverage that awareness to his advantage.
"Just feeling a bit disconnected is all," Anakin says. As the last vestiges of Padmé's far-off beacon fade to black, he rolls his right shoulder uncomfortably. It's not a total lie - his prosthetic still feels foreign and strange - but to claim his arm is the disconnect bothering him isn't the truth either.
Nodding slowly, Obi-Wan shifts his weight, a bit uncomfortable himself. An introspective look passes over the bearded face, and Anakin doesn't flinch when a familiar withdrawal turns the master and apprentice bond momentarily into a yawning chasm. He's used to it by now. After a decade of learning to harden against the resentment, Anakin barely tastes its sourness anymore. Even if he could, he's still too distracted trying to chase a far sweeter flavor.
A minute passes or maybe two before Obi-Wan returns to their brief conversation. "That's understandable," he says. "A prosthetic arm…"
Anakin bites back a snarl of anger but can't stop the dark whispers drowning out his master's platitudes. Since when was Obi-Wan an expert in prosthetic limbs? How can he possibly think he can understand what Anakin was going through? His master's arm wasn't lying in some Geonosian hangar. His master's mother wasn't lying beneath Tatooine's sands. His master's soulmate wasn't pretending she could just walk away from her other half!
The tumult of emotion barrels out of Anakin like blown compressor. Mercifully, Obi-Wan doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he opts to ignore it for the sake of continuing his instruction.
"… can't force it," Obi-Wan is saying. "I'm sure the more opportunities you have to use it, the more natural it will feel."
Right. Natural.
Anakin almost rolls his eyes when the sensation of silk sliding under his fingertips rips him out of the chilly cockpit and drops him onto a shaded terrace where recycled stale air gives way to an intoxicatingly fragrant summer breeze. The feeling rises again, intimately foreign and yet sinfully familiar.
Skin, he realizes. Her skin.
Soft.
And smooth.
And real.
Except it can't be real. Padmé's flesh beneath his fingers is just a memory, one his alloy hand never had the luxury of knowing. Nonetheless, sun-kissed warmth radiates up his right arm's sensors as clearly as if his hand was stealing another forbidden touch. Like then, the moment is fleeting, the phantom feeling fading into the periphery.
"You alright?"
Like being dunked in the deep end of the training pool, Obi-Wan's question cuts through the fog of Anakin's enchantment. He blinks rapidly, flexing the metal digits and eyeing them suspiciously.
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Yeah, I just felt… good for a second."
"Don't keep pushing it. You'll only exhaust yourself."
"Right." Anakin frowns, still wondering at the bereft twinges in his fingertips.
A sonorous chime disrupts the awkward silence settling between the cockpit's only two occupants. Obi-Wan leans forward, a bit too eager to consult the nav computer. "Looks like we are on final approach."
Anakin had already presumed as much.
As if it had been awaiting his master's permission, the hyperdrive disengages with a soft whine. In the forward viewports, swirling space shrinks until all that remains is a pale blue speck of a planet floating in a sea of stars.
They had arrived at Ilum.
Reflexively switching off the autopilot, Anakin swivels himself behind the control yolk, then hesitates.
"Don't tell me you've forgotten where to go," Obi-Wan says, amusement glinting in his blue eyes. "This is what… the fourth time we've been here?"
"Only the third, Master," Anakin corrects, tightening his grip around the steering column. For fingers coveting smooth skin, the smooth metal is a poor substitute. Swallowing down his dissatisfaction, Anakin earns himself a pointed look from Obi-Wan.
Well, if Padmé was going to haunt him for eternity, he may as well allow her to.
I said I'd given up trying to argue with you.
"Huh, maybe Padmé was right…"
Obi-Wan raises a brow. Through their bond, Anakin senses a prickle of unease at the seemingly casual namedrop, but just as quickly as it came, his Master stows it away.
"How so?"
"She said you seemed old." Obi-Wan scoffs, but Anakin ignores his audible affront. "I tried to tell her it was just a side effect of your beard, but if your memory is failing you that badly then…" The Padawan shrugs. "Maybe she was right."
"She really called me old?!"
Well, older was the word Padméhad used,calling them all out on their advancing ages, not just Obi-Wan.
"It's unbelievable how much time has passed. How much older we all are." Bemused, she shook her head, softly laughing to herself. "My memory refuses to let me catch up."
During the long freighter flight to Naboo, Anakin had felt something shift between them, but before the recollection dredges up feelings he'd rather not explain - nor is he supposed to harbor - he slams the door shut on the memory.
Besides, what Obi-Wan didn't know wouldn't kill him.
"Her words," Anakin shrugs. "Not mine." He's proud of himself for keeping a straight face.
"I'll make sure to remember that the next time we see her."
And just like that, the levity of the moment dies. Red rising in his peripheral vision, Anakin bites his tongue hard enough to taste blood. While he manages to lock the words in, they ricochet like blaster fire in his skull.
Will you even let me see her again, Master?
It was bound to happen whether Obi-Wan tried to control their future interactions or not. The Jedi and the Senate served the same galaxy, and with a full-scale war now in existence, Anakin can practically count down the minutes to their next meeting. The dozens of flowers scattered about her office would probably only expedite the inevitable.
Whatever Obi-Wan dwells on in the resurging silence, it's not wholly focused on Padmé, though his muttering does betray the Senator from Naboo is still on his mind. "Thirty-five is barely middle age," he grumbles and this time, Anakin doesn't even try to hide his smile.
The Jedi Temple on Ilum looks just as Anakin remembers it. Tracking his approach with their blank stony stares, sculptures of Jedi past stand guard around the largest mouth of a vast cavern system, immutable against the mountainside and constant icy winds. Despite the mercifully short walk from their landing site, Anakin is all but frozen when he enters the main cavern. The dank gloom isn't much of a refuge from Ilum's hostility, but he sighs in welcome relief as warmth, or something like it, seeps slowly back into his frigid muscles. Just beyond the massive stone doors, the wind snarls furiously against its declined admittance, and Anakin backs away deeper into the shadowy cave.
Not all of Ilum's harsh climate can be kept at bay. Barely illuminating the expanse, stubborn rays of light stretch through imperceptible cracks, their diamond footprints flitting about the large focusing stone suspended in the grotto. When bent by intense Force concentration or naturally angled by Ilum's distant setting sun, the beams coalesced through the protectant diode to grant access to the Crystal Caverns.
Noting their earlier than anticipated arrival, Obi-Wan had offered to assist for quicker entry, but Anakin had declined. For one, he didn't really need help - his second trip here had taught him that much when he had bowed the light on his own. For another, he wanted complete isolation.
During his Gathering, his fellow Padawans had raced pell-mell into the maze of tunnels, bursting with excitement to find the kyber that would power their first lightsabers. Always a bit of an outsider among his peers, Anakin had hung back from the frantic fray. The Force was strong here, amazingly strong. So, when it whispered to him slow, steady, patience - Anakin had done a most un-Anakin-like thing. He listened.
Now, memory as much as instinct drives him across the natural stone foyer, boots treading louder in the expanse. Four years had blessed him with additional inches, but even at his full-grown height, Anakin still feels inconsequential among the grandeur. Reverently, he folds his long legs beneath him, ignoring the cold bite of the rocky floor.
From experience, he knows he won't need the Ilum's remaining hours to hunt kyber; time is of no real consequence when one has a reliable guide. Slowly, he inhales and exhales. Steadily, he waits. Patiently, he allows the oblivion of meditation to take hold.
Beams of daylight focus. The Great Doors rumble aside. And she comes to him just as he knew she would. Subservient to the spell underway, impassable stone grinds to a halt, and Shmi stops in step with the monstrous slabs.
In his previous Force visions, his mother glowed in a halo of translucent light. Amidst the cavern's darkness, Shmi brought warmth, love, and comfort to a desolate structure designed to mold and challenge. With her by his side, the daunting search for kyber crystals felt more like the treasure hunts they used to play together in their slave hovel, their map only shifted from sweltering sands to shadowy tunnels.
But this time, Anakin's vision is different. Blue, deep and cool, outlines her floating figure instead of the usual white. While he's never had an experience with a Force ghost, Anakin wonders if the color change is meant to reflect her recent loss from the galaxy. His chest aches at the thought, and suddenly it's a struggle to breathe.
"Hi, Mom," he greets, voice wobbling on emotion balled up in his throat.
Shmi doesn't speak. When he realizes she isn't going to, sentiment turns bitter on his tongue. She's always spoken to him in the past, happy to entertain him even if he knows on some level it's only his subconscious providing the conversation.
"Mom?"
Still, no answer. Oblivious to his reigniting anguish, Shmi gestures toward a tunnel at the far side of the cavern. Through his blurring vision, Anakin thinks a faint green glow winks back at him.
"There?" he asks, hopeful to hear just one word, any word.
But Shmi just smiles in that soft, sad way of hers, dipping her chin in brief acknowledgement, then disappears into the gloom.
Without his mother's light to keep it at bay, the darkness encroaches. She had always led him directly to his crystals, so he assumed this time would be no different. Sure, the paths they traveled were never easy, but she always stayed by his side, guiding him through his crucible, lighting his way through the dark. Never had she abandoned him at the outset of his journey before. Is this iteration a cruel test meant to torment him when he's already been stretched to the breaking point?
Anger starts a dangerous roil in his chest, threatening to destroy his carefully stoked peace. If this was the will of the Force, so be it. He could play by its rules. But he would do so on his terms. Indulging the incensed whispers, Anakin lets ire propel him forward.
The closer he gets to the indicated tunnel, the more intense the green glows. Unlike most of the inner maze's compact entries, the portal towers invitingly before him. Barely ducking his head to pass beneath the rocky archway, Anakin slides a few careful steps sideways avoiding the jagged walls reaching to tear at his tabards.
As he pops out into the awaiting cave, the jade light's source is instantly obvious. Hovering above a stone dais at the center of the room, a green crystal spins in slow display. Apprehension tickling the curls at his nape, Anakin glances around the small chamber, convinced the surrounding serenity is a charade. Kyber never gives itself up that easily.
Yet, the cave remains quiet. Eyes darting around once more, Anakin leans closer to study his prize when he senses no imminent threat.
It's mephite, all right - he would recognize its lustrous signature anywhere. Though five types of kyber could be found in Ilum's caverns, mephite was by far the most common and readily sourced crystal, powering most Jedi lightsabers currently in use across the galaxy, including his previous weapons. This gem is an exquisite example of its kind - symmetrically balanced, crisp edges tapering to perfect points, and brilliantly… green.
Chewing his lip, Anakin considers the hue he's never held before. Like his mother's silence and the ease of his kyber search, the Force worked in mysterious ways, and he would be foolish to question its color choice too. Casting aside his rising bemusement, Anakin shrugs and reaches for the crystal.
"That one isn't meant for you."
Spinning on his heel, Anakin almost collides with Padmé standing right behind him. Defined in soft diaphanous light, she smiles watching him rapidly try to blink incredulity from his eyes. At first, serpentine panic coils in his stomach; the mere notion of Padmé approaching him from the beyond is a reality he never wishes to experience, but then, remembering the power of meditation, Anakin relaxes. As she saunters around the stone dais, she looks stunning in white.
"Forgive me, milady," he quips. "But since when are you an authority on kyber crystals?"
Her smile widens, and he's left aching for the accompanying pink stain that usually adorns her cheeks. Her circular path brings them face to face again, and Force manifestation or not, her beauty is enchanting. "Ever since you came back into my life," she replies, a coquettish gleam in her eyes.
Folding his arms across his chest, Anakin tilts his head. "So, you would know - kyber expert that you are…" he says, playing along, "that it brought me here because it chose me."
"True," she says, drawing out the word as she resumes her slow trek. Anakin watches captivated when she stops on the other side of the spinning gem, something brighter than the reflection of the mephite's green light shining across her delicate features. "But that's because this one is only half yours."
"Uh, I'm afraid that's not really how it works," Anakin corrects her with a regretful frown. Kyber crystals either selected a Jedi or they didn't. Half ownership didn't exist in the universe. It never had and likely never would.
Her eyes sway a shade, a pensive thought stealing her momentarily away from him. He has to lean in to catch her soft reply. "It does sometimes," she whispers. Then just as quickly as the contemplative look came on, Padmé shrugs it off, laughing heartily at his bewildered expression. The beautiful sound lingers in the hollow space between them.
"Come," she says, turning away from the mephite. "Green isn't your color anyway."
For one hopeful breath, Anakin thinks she might reach for his hand, but she only beckons him to follow her towards a hidden tunnel on her right. He tries to hide his disappointment by stoking flirtation's flame. "Oh, you think so, Miss Kyber Expert?"
"Oh, I know so," she says, firing a smirk over her shoulder. All too willing to be burned, Padmé doesn't back away when he strides even closer. "I've seen how a blue blade really brings out your eyes."
Her devilish grin draws out one of his own, and his heart does a haphazard sort of hop that he doesn't think wise to dwell on, nor can he when she suddenly drops to her knees at the miniscule cave mouth, arching an eyebrow up at him. "Do you trust me?"
"To the edge of the galaxy and back."
Padmé disappears into a small space that Anakin recognizes as an old gas vent. Forrmed by ancient ice flows from eons past, over time, the ice melted, releasing pockets of trapped atmosphere that eventually bubbled their way back to the surface creating intricate tunnels and maze's in Ilum's crust. She leads him to a cylindrical chamber, its narrow circumference crowded more so by their presence and acrobatic maneuvers to stand up. Though he knows it's impossible, Anakin swears he can feel her body heat in the close confines of the vent. His fingers ache to touch her.
Her smile dissolves as she studies him, her angelic glow the only light holding back the surrounding darkness. Maybe it's a trick of the shadows, but Anakin senses an inexplicable sadness wash over her.
"You once told me you were to be the most powerful Jedi ever."
He flinches, angry words emerging to ricochet like blaster-fire between them. Despite the haunting carnage, Padmé steps closer, dropping her gaze as if she can't bear the memory either.
"It seems fitting then that these belong to you," she says.
At first, Anakin doesn't think anything of the deep indigo iridescence surrounding her. Adrift in her melancholy wake, he almost forgets why she's led him there. But when she continues to stare down at what little space remains between them, he reluctantly tears his eyes from her face.
Twin gems float just above the palm of her hand, twirling to showcase their multi-faceted structures and delicate lattices. Like waking from a dream, realization dawns as he counts the number of sides, notices the complexity of the angles, and drowns in the unique siren song.
Looking up, he can't help the grin pulling at his lips.
"These are…" Excitement steals the words from his mouth and erases Padmé's sorrowful spirit.
"Pontite," she finishes, her wistful smile breaking into a beam.
The most powerful form of kyber in the galaxy, pontite crystals were exceedingly rare, and here Padmé had led him to not one but two of them!
His amazement shifts from the rotating gems to the impossible way she defies the laws of her ethereal existence as curls her fingers around his, guiding him to claim his prize. For several breaths, they stand together, hands entwined, twin crystals beating between their palms. The heavenly trick of his mind only pales when she rises to her tiptoes, pressing herself to him and a chaste kiss to his cheek.
"Don't tell Obi-Wan," she whispers softly in his ear before fading away without his permission.
Anakin's retreat through the caverns should have been as cold as his journey to the Temple, but imagined or not, the soft heat of her lips keeps him warm all the way back to the ship.
"That was short."
Whatever comfort Anakin's lingering in from his Force encounter flees at the sound of his Master's shock. Which is just as well, because he's fairly certain that shock would still be Obi-Wan's primary reaction if he were privy to the thoughts swirling inside his Padawan's skull. Shock followed by some serious disapproval.
"It's not my first nerf muster," Anakin replies, shedding his outer robe. Was it him or was this cockpit suddenly tropical again? An electric current sparks to life in the tips of his prosthetic fingers and Anakin chokes it off with a tightened fist, gears whining in protest. He forces his voice to stay light. "Remember?"
Obi-Wan's eyes flick to his clenched right hand, but he wisely chooses only to respond to Anakin's question and not his tense stance. "I do, actually," he nods.
His Master's blue eyes twinkle in the way he'd heard described as charming, but light-hearted Obi-Wan never hangs out for long. "Your haste is to our advantage. We have an assignment."
"Already?!" Unease wends its way into a demeanor still struggling for perfect nonchalance. "I thought we were on convalescent leave," Anakin blurts out, then bites his lower lip.
Nice going. Slow, steady, patient. Where did those things run off to?
"We still are."
Anakin frowns. That seems debatable.
"Our assignment, or I should say reassignment," Obi-Wan cringes, "will let us do both since she is on convalescence herself."
Anakin can't quite believe his ears. "I'm not following. Re-?" Clearing his throat, he tries again. "What do you mean reassignment?"
Sighing wearily, Obi-Wan draws a hand over his face. Belying his comment about Anakin's swift retrieval of kyber, his Master had clearly been stewing with this news for quite some time because he sounds aggrieved when he confirms the dangerous hope brewing in Anakin's blood.
"Yes, Padawan, your feelings serve you well. We have been reinstated as Senator Amidala's bodyguards."
His heart galloping wildly in celebration, Anakin viciously squashes the victory lap taking place in his chest. "Oh," he says, clamping shut his dropped jaw. It comes out glum in the most fortunate of ways.
Obi-Wan's annoyance softens into something that resembles pity, though Anakin can't be too sure seeing as how he's too preoccupied ignoring phantom island breezes and the perfume of dayalillies.
"I'm sorry, Anakin."
"For what?"
"I realize this is probably the last thing you both wanted right now."
On the contrary… but Anakin shrugs, shutting off his emotional spigot before it can flood their Force bond with damning revelations. Drawing himself up, he summons as much calm as he can to his voice. "It's fine, Master. It'll be a great opportunity for us to put what we last discussed into effect."
Obi-Wan raises a curious eyebrow. Anakin fights not to fidget in his seat and is rewarded with a proud nod for his efforts. "Do you want to take us home?"
Home.
The tremor that shakes his hands has nothing to do with returning to the capital and everything to do with how Coruscant could only carry the honorific of home as long as Padmé was planet-side.
With the promise of her once again on his horizons, Anakin eagerly awaits the final calculations from the nav computer.
He had pushed the hyperdrive to its brink, but in what can only be construed as digital flippancy, their arrival time had refused to budge even one standard minute. Glowering at the console hadn't helped either, though it did earn Anakin a bemused inquiry from Obi-Wan.
"What did the nav do to you?"
More like, what hadn't the nav done for him? Between its lackluster response to his tried-and-true sweet talk, Anakin is beginning to think that this stubborn ship may have been the same one that had ignored him on the return trip from Ansion.
"Nothing," he growls, which may have been the most truthful word Anakin had spoken all trip.
Several scowls and a few shortcuts through Coruscant's busiest traffic lanes later, Anakin finds himself once again arriving at 500 Republica in the evening's early hours. Like last time, he strides across the lobby with his master and precipitous anxiety by his side. Unlike last time however, Captain Typho is waiting for them on the ground floor. With a curt nod of acknowledgement, he gestures to the turbolift and keys the passcode that'll whisk them to the penthouse apartments.
As the trio ascend, déjà vu sweeps through Anakin so forcefully he feels like he's plummeting. He's not sweating this time, though he probably should be, given that Typho's greeting rings oddly around the lift like an apology.
"I, for one, am grateful to see you both again."
Abruptly, Padmé's head of security shuts his mouth, though his shoulders stay inflated with breath like he had intended to say more. Obi-Wan inclines his head waiting for the unborn second half of the sentence then calmly faces forward as if Typho's qualifier isn't dangling in the breeze of their turbolift's ascent. Anakin's angst uses those two words like a springboard.
I, for one- -for one- -for one-
Loathe to imagine an alternative reception, his musings had only conjured joyous reactions to finding his floral overture. But for all Anakin knew, he could be walking into a nightmare of a reunion.
Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he tries to ignore his imagination's wild churning. As if irate to have been suppressed for so long, the images inundate him in clairvoyant color.
Padmé's stunned face morphing into rage so hot it incinerates her Amidala mask. Padmé's hand waving in disgust, banishing the vases from her view. Padmé uttering a beautiful Nabooian curse before loudly declaring she's decided she hates dayalillies.
So entrenched in the spiraling gallery of his mind, Anakin thinks he's stepped out of the turbolift into a flora-filled Force vision of Padmé's living room. As he saunters past, their sweet, clean perfume weakens phantasmagoria's grip and he realizes the white, pink, and yellow petals waving hello are indeed real.
A quick sweep of the residence reveals only half of the arrangements he had ordered, but the ten that are accounted for have been placed throughout the room with care and consideration. Before he can wonder what befell their brethren, his eyes land on another beautiful sight from Naboo.
"It's a pleasure to see you…" Obi-Wan starts.
Oh, here we go again. Gods, even the starting words were going to be the same. Somehow, Anakin manages not to roll his eyes, a task in and of itself given how hard he works to keep them from hers.
"Stop." The icy reprimand draws his attention immediately. In the sudden spike of her ire, Padmé's chocolate stare is molten. Her eyes flicker over Anakin like she can't help it before correcting course hastily. "Let's not pretend the past week didn't happen."
Obi-Wan gapes, taken aback by her unexpected hostility, but he finds no quarter in the room. Even Dormé watches the exchange beneath hardened lashes. Stiffly, Padmé gestures at the couch across from her. "Sit."
Hearing her incontestable tone, Anakin moves to obey without waiting for his master's lead. The couch cushions to his right dip as Obi-Wan finds his reluctant seat.
"I can assure you, M'Lady…" he says. His tone carries less chagrin than his words attempt to convey. "that the Jedi had no say in this reassignment. It came from…"
"I know where it came from," Padmé cuts roughly across him. She seems to gather herself, still avoiding Anakin's gaze as much as he struggles to control his. "I'm not here to discuss who's to blame for these unnecessary security measures. What we need to discuss is how to deal with this unfortunate situation."
Unfortunate situation. Ouch. Anakin flinches, pulling his cloak tighter about him and glancing away. A yellow-and-pink dayalilly bobs in the chilly apartment air. And yet you kept my flowers?
Obi-Wan shifts beside him, leaning forward on one knee. "I've been considering several solutions."
All eyes turn to regard Obi-Wan. If his master seems ill at ease under the intense scrutiny, he doesn't show it. "We will uphold our mandate, Senator, but, with your permission, it will look a bit different than before."
Padmé doesn't move, blink, or concede any sort of mannerism that might suggest approval. She seems to hold her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, or maybe Anakin is just projecting his tension onto her. Her Force signature remains as cool as ice.
"As you are aware, my Padawan suffered a grave injury on Geonosis. Said injury requires significant recuperation and rehabilitation. So that he may continue to adjust to his new circumstances and attend his physical therapy, Anakin will stand guard during the day. I will relieve him in the evenings so that he may rest. Would this arrangement be satisfactory?
Padmé isn't the only one working through her surprise at Obi-Wan's proposal. Anakin had had no warning that his Master had been plotting to tighten his control over the unfortunate reassignment. The smoothly delivered idea is still rough around its edges. Guard duty during the day meant chaperones and professional obligations. There was far too much downtime on night watch.
Indignation bristles in his belly, faltering when the slight pinch between Padmé's eyes disappears. Ever the consummate professional, her words sell nothing but pleased acceptance.
"That seems reasonable to me. What do you think, Anakin?"
He has to look at her now. Can't keep fighting the pull or finding excuses for his eyes to stare at literally anything else. Not when she directly addresses him like that.
Anakin.
She had stumbled a bit on his consonants, like she was preparing herself for the jolt that she was expressly asking for. He looks up, blue locking into brown and the final conduit arcs into place. Padmé tries to keep up her icy veneer. Tries and fails. The air crackles with electricity so intense, a purple sheen veils the room, threading lightning between them; Anakin half-expects to be shocked in its wake.
Surely, she feels this. Under the passion building in their connection, Anakin becomes acutely aware of his mater at his side. Any chance Obi-Wan doesn't?
Considering that Anakin had driven his Master through a power coupling less than a standard week ago? Highly unlikely.
Several drawn-out seconds later, it registers that Padmé had asked him a question and the whole room is awaiting his answer.
His lungs expand, startled into action like they had been the ones shocked back into function.
"Works for me."
He swears he sees the slightest curl to the edge of her lips, but then Padmé looks away, and the circuit is broken. The spell fades and everyone can breathe again.
"Very well." Obi-Wan's façade of composure softens with everyone's consent. "Unless there is anything further you need, Senator, Anakin will return to the Temple."
Even though she knew that his departure was imminent, a panicked look whispers across Padmé's face before her features slide behind a bored mask. A soft "No" escapes her, followed by a firmer "I don't require anything more." As if trying to convince herself of this truth, she straightens her spine. Despite the armor she pretends to don, Anakin feels her flinch in the Force. The return of her eye contact is searing.
"Seven tomorrow morning?"
He thinks she means it to sound like a detached command, but her voice pitches higher and the end sounds more like dangerous hope. At least to Anakin's ears, but he clamps down on the crackling reawakening in his veins under her chocolate scrutiny and nods his assent. "Don't worry. I'll be here bright and early."
Nodding once, she dissolves their stare down before it dissolves her icy exterior any further. "Good night, Anakin."
"Sleep well, milady."
They all rise simultaneously, bound together by invisible tension. Even Dormé lifts her head and moves around the couch to flank her lady.
Offering a deferential bow that feels shallow in the midst of the gravity churning in the room, he bids his own fair tidings for the evening before making a hasty exit for the turbolift antechamber. He doesn't even turn to check if his apprentice is at his heel.
Soaking in the last moments with her while he can, Anakin lingers. He'll need her light blues to get him through the night, to stave off the encroaching dark that whispers in her absence, to soothe his raw and recent wounds.
"Padawan Skywalker?"
Anakin blinks to find Dormé standing next to him. Her gaze is soft, patient, as if she recognizes she's interrupted his train of thought. He clears his throat, motioning for Obi-Wan that he'll be right there. Obi-Wan frowns, but closes the turbolift doors anyway.
"Please, it's Anakin."
At his allowance, her smile rises like the sun. "Anakin," she agrees, trying out the syllables on her tongue. He wonders at the sudden exuberance radiation off her a little too brightly. "I have a bit of an unusual request."
"Anything."
"Would it be possible for you to 'forget' your robe here?" When his brow furrows deeper, her grin only widens. "Just for the night."
Unease bubbles in his chest. Anakin wants to trust her. Dormé is one of Padmé's closest friends. If she hadn't said as much on Naboo, he would have easily inferred the conclusion based on the warm way Padmé talked about her. The only person spoken of in the same league was Sola.
But the handmaiden's request was still highly bizarre. Inappropriate even. One wrong word could land Padmé and him in hot water.
At his hesitation, Dormé casually surveys the room behind him for any stragglers. Seeing none, she leans in, and lowers her voice.
"She's been having trouble sleeping, but reminders of you seem to help."
Brown eyes so similar in shade to Padmé's drag his to follow her stare. It takes him a minute to recognize the blanket folded neatly across the back of the couch and only one second longer for everything to click into place. As much as he would love to comply, Anakin frowns at the fatal flaw in her plan.
"I can't leave this behind without my master noticing," he says, tugging at his collar. Dormé's face falls before she reigns in her disappointment. Her regretful comprehension would have destroyed him if he were not already several parsecs ahead of her. "But I could leave something less noticeable," he says with a conspiratorial grin. "If you'd be so kind to point me to a fresher?"
Scandalized blood rushes to Dormé's cheeks, threatening to pull a laugh from him. He rolls his lips, managing to stifle his mirth. Even if no one else was around, there were still cameras watching, though he casually disregards that observation long enough to lean in.
"I promise, it's not what you're thinking."
Relief returns the smile to the handmaiden's face, and she beckons him to follow her down the side hallway leading to the attendant's chambers.
"Just through there," she says, palming the control and gesturing to the open door on the far wall that he suspects is her private fresher.
"I'll be just a minute," he assures her.
Knowing time is of the essence, Anakin wastes none of it stripping off his outer layers as soon as the durasteel shuts behind him. When all that separates his bare skin from the fresher lights is his gray inner tunic, he pauses, a realization halting its removal.
Garments played a significant role in Nabooian culture, the exchange of which came much, much further down the intimate line between those locked in the courting dance. Would leaving clothing behind now ruin his carefully prepared plan? Or tip his hand before he even knew her response to his first steps?
The young man standing in the mirror already knows the answer. With movement borne as much of muscle memory as determination, Anakin peels the base layer of his Jedi uniform from his back. Once he redons them, the rough spun of his outer tunics chafes a bit at his skin. But, as long as he's attending to Padmé's, his discomfort is of no consequence.
"Here," Anakin says, holding out the soft gray fabric to Dormé. Her eyes spark with gratitude and allayed understanding. "I don't need it back. But I do need a favor in return."
"Anything." Dormé is as quick to parrot her loyalty to Padmé as he had been at the handmaiden's earlier quest. With appreciation, Anakin notes the quick and conscientious way she tucks his garment out of view. Expectantly, she waits for him to elaborate.
His shoulders itch, and he shrugs them nervously, wondering if he was about to ask too much. Betray them before he and Padmé even had a chance to begin.
"Please tell her I know this is out of order."
Dormé tilts her head, her brow knitting with confusion.
But his trust quota has been exhausted, and all he has left to offer is a slight touch to the shoulder.
"Just tell her."
He moves through the doorway, conscious of the way time ticks inexorably forward. Even still, seven standard feels like it's thousands of parsecs away.
He moves through the doorway, conscious of the way time ticks inexorably forward. Even still, seven standard feels like it's thousands of parsecs away.