Oof, this one has been a long time coming! Endless thanks for your ongoing patience awaiting this update. I have been so, so, so excited to write this one down now that we've finally arrived and dang if Life didn't decide to demand all sorts of things from me! So, after a new car, fighting through a case of the writing yips, a pet emergency (spoiler: he's doing A-Okay now!) to mention a few, I managed to wrench time back for all things writing and finally got this installment FINISHED!
A couple of shout-outs to give credit where credit is due:
1) Dayalillies is the creation of madame dot alexandra on FFN and madame_alexandra on AO3. She has kindly granted me consent to use this beautiful flower name in my own works.
2) A massive shout-out and hearty thanks to Isabella Ainsworth for indulging me in a decidedly silly brainstorming Tumblr game. When asked a very specific question regarding a favorite Jedi of ours, she sagely bestowed upon me the descriptor of "leather"... which I instantly face-palmed when realizing I had overlooked that very obvious and apt detail. I will not elaborate further to maintain the suspense... But rest assured, gentle reader, you will know exactly what game I requested that she play and play so very WELL, she did. ;P
As always, reviews are so greatly appreciated and give me the life blood to sacrifice sleep to bring you the next update as swiftly as possible! Thanks in advance!
Chapter 9
PADMÉ AMIDALA
"What happened on Naboo, Padmé?"
Her lips part, but whatever responses Padmé's subconscious had evidently been preparing for this exact moment falter, tripping and crashing into each other in their haste to defend her besieged heart. All that remains to disrupt the smothering silence is a heaving hiccup of "I don't know."
A relentless pressure builds between Padmé's ribs, making it impossible to breathe, impossible to hide how visibly heartbreak rips her apart at the seams. Over and over her eyes scan the slips of paper strewn across her desk like wilted petals, her vision blurring with each pass until the angled scrawl becomes impossible to read. Not that she needs the Aurebesh to hear Anakin's message; it echoes between her ears, each word underscored by her pounding heart.
From now on, I'll be dying a little bit each day too.
Was this Anakin accepting their last conversation? Or was this him trying not to? Why did she feel like either answer would be her undoing?
Patient, wary, and still expectant, Dormé's question hangs in the air, but when Padmé tries to answer it again, her throat closes, misery spilling forth to leave behind an aching mess for anyone to see.
Her fresh wave of grief spurs Dormé into motion. With swift, confident strokes, her handmaiden keys a command across her datapad's screen, pausing to mutter, "Come on, come on," to its glowing surface. A confirmatory beep halts the impatient tapping of her toe, and she exhales once in sharp relief, discarding the device and all formality.
"I had Typho switch to dark protocol," she explains, reaching across the desk to still Padmé's shaking hands. "What happened, Padmé?"
Dormé's touch is an anchor and Padmé clings to it, grateful for any stabilization in the maelstrom. Gulping down ragged gasps, she searches for words, but they spin and bob beyond her grasp. Helplessly adrift in heartache's undertow, she bows her head. "I don't even know where to start."
Cool fingers tighten around hers with a comforting squeeze. "How about the beginning?"
At her Dormé's encouraging nod, the past week pours out of Padmé like water breaking through a dam. She leaves nothing out, can't stop the flood even if she wanted to. The more she talks - fledgling feelings, stolen kisses, fireside declarations, cavernous confessions - the more Padmé realizes a scary truth. She had wanted to tell someone, had wanted to share how the sweet little boy who had saved Naboo a decade ago had grown into a mercurially mesmerizing man who wanted nothing more than to save her solitary heart. When it came to Anakin, bottling up every emotion had wrung her so completely dry, there was no pretense left to keep afloat.
"And now, I'm a wreck. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can't focus or do anything without thinking about him and…" Padmé trails off at a loss for more than just words. "You must think I'm crazy," she whispers.
Somewhere amid her torrential outpouring, Dormé had found a seat at Padmé's side. Sliding a comforting arm around her trembling shoulders, her friend waits for a shuddering afterquake to pass.
"I don't think you're crazy," Dormé soothes. "Though I know it might feel that way." She smiles when Padmé looks up again. "That's why it's called falling in love. You're not supposed to feel like you're in control."
Padmé's mouth twitches in a feeble attempt at a return smile. She knows her friend is only hoping to lift her spirits, but the tears streaming down Padmé's cheeks bathe her in crushed dreams rather than discovered bliss. One drop leaps from its cascading rivulet landing with a splash in the center of Anakin's message.
Dying.
She certainly feels like she is.
"You know," Dormé says, smoothly rescuing the rest of the jostled slips from their own watery graves. "Being heartbroken can feel the same way too."
The soft curve of her smile thins with sympathy.
"Is it possible to be both?" Padmé asks.
This time, Dormé's nod is solemn. "Isn't that what Anakin's trying to tell you?"
Padmé's gaze falls back to the angled scrawl, not really seeing the words so much as imagining Anakin's agony as he had written them. The suffocating pressure in her chest migrates to the backs of her eyes, squeezing out another tear that she swipes at in frustration.
"It doesn't matter," she mumbles. "We can't!" she affirms louder to phantom cerulean eyes continuing to plead their case.
Dormé jumps at the sudden increase in her volume, but Padmé shakes her head angrily, still arguing with Anakin's ghost.
"It's forbidden," Padmé says between gritted teeth. "He's a Jedi and I… I'm…" Swallowing hard against the knot in her throat, she lifts her head, gesturing to her surroundings and trying not to see Anakin's flowers decorating every corner of her office. "I have this."
"Do you want this?"
Startled, Padmé eyes her friend warily, but Dormé ignores the glowering accusation staring at her and steers their conversation into the abrupt bend.
"You've been in public service since you were ten. You've dedicated over half of your life to people you will likely never meet," she says, pressing tissues into Padmé's curled palm. "It's commendable, to be sure, but is it enough anymore? What do you want, Padmé?"
As if the answer is etched into her office's walls, Padmé glances around and tries not to fidget. Despite having confessed the deepest secrets in her heart, her handmaiden's question leaves her feeling bare and vulnerable in the morning light. This is Amidala's world and Padmé wonders if she still belongs in it.
"Remember the cams are off," Dormé says. "It's just you and me."
"You sound like my sister."
"Ah, and what did Sola think of Anakin?"
Padmé scowls which only earns her the same sly grin her sibling had sent across an afternoon lunch table. "She adored him."
"And clearly, so do you."
The knowing twinkle in Dormé's eyes, however, isn't warm enough to thaw the icy sting of reality. A quiet sorrow laces Padmé's instinctive protest. "That doesn't change the fact that we can't…"
"Permission to speak freely, milady?"
At the bold interruption, Padmé sits back. Instantly on edge, she ducks behind the Amidala mask, trying to steal her hand back to her side, but Dormé tightens her hold. Nervous tension coiling along her shoulders, Padmé bites her lip and nods her tacit allowance.
"Is that really what's stopping you? The whole forbidden part?"
Padmé gapes incredulously. "Should it not be?!"
"I only mean…" Heaving a frustrated sigh, Dormé slumps a little in her chair, the first rent in her handmaidens' otherwise steadfast strength. "Goddesses, Cordé would have been so much better at this."
For a moment, the silence between friends turns poignant, and Padmé's heart aches with a different sort of anguish. As Dormé gathers herself as well as her thoughts, Padmé bestows a grateful commiserating smile to her only remaining handmaiden. Straightening in her chair, a fearless gravity returns to doe brown eyes so similar to Padmé's own.
"What if Anakin wasn't a Jedi?" Dormé asks.
Unease slithers its way up Padmé's spine. "I'm not sure I understand where you're going with this," she replies guardedly. Or maybe it's not unease, and the source of the shiver Padmé fails to contain is best left unnamed.
Recognizing her body's betrayal, Dormé's confidence soars. "I only wonder if the restrictions make it easier to avoid acknowledging how frightening this all might be," she implores gently. "If it wasn't forbidden, would you give him a chance?"
When put that way, her handmaiden sounds eerily like Anakin.
Why won't you even try?
He had begged her, and Padmé had thrown excuse after excuse in their path, had burned the tenuous bridge that she herself had flung at him in what she thought were their final moments, had listened to her panicking sense try to walk it all back when her panicking heart thought she'd be crazy enough to try to walk away at all. Sensing her withdrawal, Anakin had used every offensive he could to tear down her walls as fast as she was trying to rebuild them. Even as she had left their negotiation table in smoking ruins, he had sent her Naboo's flowers of peace, if only to let her know that she was the key to his own.
You are in my very soul, tormenting me.
Seemingly of their own accord, Padmé's fingers stretch for the solitary paper still lying face up in the center of her desk. Tear-soaked ink bleeds toward the edges as if to convey the bleeding in Anakin's very soul.
"I am scared," she admits, her voice hoarse and cracking. "I fear I'm doomed no matter what I decide." Reverently, she strokes the smeared Aurebesh with her thumb, eyes quietly leaking again from her seemingly endless reservoir. "Every moment I'm away from Anakin feels like I'm dying, but to love him shrouded in shadows and deceit would be a death sentence, too."
Her tears come thick and furious, waterfalls of pain and regret. She feels Dormé's weighted gaze more than she can see beyond her blurring vision.
"Which death would you rather live for, Padmé?"
Heart stuttering, Padmé swallows past the welling in her throat and blinks. "What are you saying?"
"What I'm saying," Dormé replies slowly, "is there are far worse skeletons for a Senator to have in her closet."
Astonishment raises Padmé's eyebrows and her handmaiden's growing smile flickers with mischief. "Besides," Dormé continues, the blithe shrug of her shoulder belying the scandalous notion she's flirting with. "It's not like we're talking about marriage. Why not just see where it goes?"
Inexplicably, Padmé bristles at the casual suggestion, but she's afraid if she inspects her indignation too closely, she'll discover a far more dangerous reason underlying the prickling sensation.
"Well," she says, clearing her throat. "After our last conversation, I effectively destroyed any hope for us… Why are you looking at me like that?"
Dormé's grin has turned a touch wry.
"Padmé, look around you." Not unkindly, her handmaiden laughs, eyes sparkling. "He sent you two dozen bouquets of your favorite flower and basically wrote you poetry. I'd wager Anakin will be more than willing to strike up the conversation again."
With a myriad of dayalillies surrounding her, daring possibility blooms in Padmé's heart. For one moment, she allows the dream to take root, imagines how love could thrive in shadows and secrets and subterfuge, lets herself believe it could defy all the odds stacked against them. But then she blinks, her delusions of grandeur withering at the thought of a less formidable if no less real hurdle currently standing in her way.
"If only I knew when I might see him again."
Before Dormé can reply, a sudden knock bursts their private bubble, both women turning in tandem as the insistent staccato rapping against durasteel. From her seat, Dormé stretches for her datapad, waiting for Padmé's permissive nod before keying the unlock code. Padmé swipes a solitary tear from her red-rimmed eyes just as Typho sweeps into the room.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, milady, but - whoa." In an uncharacteristic lapse in professionalism, Typho gawks, his eye patch stretching wide to cover his surprise upon seeing the veritable garden in Padmé's office. "What's all this?"
Deftly, Dormé rises, pushing the rest of the scattered papers into Padmé's hands and deflecting Typho's attention away from her desk.
"Sola's efforts to bring Theed to Coruscant. She sent them in case the whirlwind trip left the Senator feeling homesick."
Her handmaiden rolls her eyes playfully, and Padmé's breath catches, hoping Typho doesn't squint too hard at the ruse. Mercifully, her head of security's only attempt to secure evidence to the contrary is a short perusal of her person. He deems whatever he sees in Padmé satisfactory and straightens his back to explain the reason for his own interruption.
"The Chancellor is requesting you via holocall," he reports. "Should I put him through?"
With more confidence than she feels, Padmé nods. "Go ahead, Captain."
Quickly, Dormé removes the vases blocking her desk's holoprojector, as if it was standard procedure, allowing Padmé several deep breaths and Typho time to retreat before powering on the display. Only when the Supreme Chancellor's image coalesces to life does Padmé remember Anakin's notes still clutched in her lap.
"Good morning, my dear." Palpatine wastes no time dispensing his greeting and fixes her with a friendly smile. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything."
Shoving all thoughts of Anakin from her mind, Padmé works to keep her face and voice steady. "Not at all," she replies. "I was just settling in to start my day."
"Then I won't keep you long." Palpatine clears his throat, his grin and face falling. "I only require a few minutes of your time."
Recognizing his grave tone, disquietude spirals in her belly, paper corners biting into her tightly clenched palms.
"After yesterday's debrief, I spoke with Master Yoda regarding additional security for you. As you are aware, reports indicate you remain of notable interest to our enemy."
Before she can help it, Padmé's eyes flicker beyond the camera's view to Dormé. Her handmaiden's complexion pales, her features drawn and taut before she schools them into an expression of calm indifference. She pulls a flat hand quickly down her face, inclining her neck towards Padmé. Following her lead, Padmé makes a show of sighing in presumed resignation.
"I see," she says, ducking her eyes in feigned deference. The sight of Anakin's initials cradled in her lap does nothing to calm her jittery nerves. "Am I correct in assuming there is nothing I can say that may change either of your minds?"
Palpatine smiles knowingly at something out of view, and Padmé realizes in less than a blink, it's likely the wise diminutive Jedi he's looking at. "If it's any consolation, Senator," Palpatine replies, "Master Yoda has agreed to send Master Kenobi and his apprentice back to you once they return from Ilum." When he turns his fond smile to her once again, Padmé wonders why his grandfatherly look reads more like a trap. "I assured him recent events had not shaken your faith in their ability to protect you."
And there it was - the snare she had inadvertently set for herself sprung by the Supreme Chancellor's sharp memory. If Padmé were to protest now, her incongruity would only cast further attention her way, a consequence she desperately needed to avoid.
Especially if she and Anakin were to climb back on center stage.
"Thank you, Chancellor." She forces a smile to her face. Even if she wasn't entirely feeling so, it never hurt to offer gratitide. "Do you know when we can expect their return?"
Through Palpatine's translucent form, Dormé nods her approval at Padmé's slide back into the formal plurality. From off screen, the most renowned gravelly voice in the galaxy answers.
"Due back this evening, Master Kenobi and Padawan Skywalker are. Send them to you immediately, I will, Senator."
A thrill shivers along her skin, but Padmé somehow manages a curt "Very well." She hopes the tightness in her voice furthers the illusion of reluctant acceptance, though the glint Palpatine watches her with is hard to interpret.
"Don't strain yourself too hard today, my dear," he says softly before signing off.
After the Supreme Chancellor's image collapses into the projector, Padmé lets her head fall back against her chair. She's surprised she can even hear the soft thud over her racing heart.
"How did I do?" she asks, loosing a tense sigh.
Dormé frowns, an uneasy contemplation on her face that instantly cools Padmé's blood.
"You were doing fine until Master Yoda spoke, and then, well…" Dormé drifts off as she fishes around in one of her gown's hidden pockets. "Let's be glad for holocalls are in monochrome." She slides a compact mirror across the desk. When Padmé looks down at her reflection, she immediately understands the reason for her handmaiden's hesitation before Dormé clarifies, "Your blush would have been far more noticeable in person."
Eventually, the flush on Padmé's cheeks fades, though it leaves a permanent stain on her mind for the rest of the day. Now rife with undercurrents of war gossip, the few committee meetings on her afternoon schedule do nothing to dispel her souring mood; her colleagues' usual squabbling turns petulant, stagnating any chance at productive discussions or means of distraction. By the time Padmé returns to her apartment, her head pounds, and her back aches, and her heart wallows.
She'd been a fool to allow her dreams free rein solely because of Dormé's support. As cathartic as confiding in her handmaiden had been, it didn't change her situation any. Any relationship – wanted or not, supported or not – was still forbidden. Prohibited. Illicit.
Somewhere, the powers that spin the galaxy are laughing at her. How adorable it is that one smitten little girl thought herself momentarily above unyielding and ancient rules.
Then break them, Anakin had argued. You still can, her heart pleads.
But to what end?
When Padmé had allowed herself to dream of a future with Anakin, the fear of discovery had always hovered at her fantasy's edges. Various scenarios had played out in her mind, when and how and who they might be found out by. And if Padmé was truly honest with herself, most of them started or ended with Anakin. But not once had she considered how her own body would betray them so innocently. So stunningly.
Here she is, Padmé Amidala, former Queen and current Senator of Naboo, capable of staring down the hostilities of Trade Federation goons at fourteen and colleagues twice her age of twenty-four without batting an eyelash but the mere mention of a Jedi Padawan sends a scarlet flush racing to her skin that she is helpless to control. Despite rigorous training and over a decade of political acumen, she was left defenseless against her body's basest behaviors.
Padmé grinds her teeth against the mounting irony of it all when a slender shadow stretching along the near carpet draws her attention.
"You've been awfully quiet," Dormé says, setting a vase of dayalillies in the center of the caf table. The white-and-yellow petals bob on an invisible wind, and Padmé wonders if her handmaiden intends to leave them in such a conspicuous spot. Dormé had done wonders finding shelves and corners and tables to tuck away the bouquets they had brought with them from her office, but given Padmé's rising anxiety, she questions the wisdom of leaving even one of Anakin's gift so prominently on display. Especially when his disapproving master was likely going to sit on the opposite side.
"I don't know if I can do this," she whispers. She doesn't mean the flowers.
"Because of earlier?"
Her hands wringing in her lap, Padmé nods. Her traitorous reaction to Palpatine's holocall has been all she can think about.
"What if I give us away before we have even a chance to begin?"
Not unkindly, Dormé's worried brown gaze shifts with perspicacity. A companionable smile starts at the corners of her mouth, but before her friend can bestow any words of wisdom, ascending gears and cables echo loudly in the contemplative silence. A detrimental mixture of panic and anticipation rising witin, Padmé glances towards the turbolift's antechamber, suddenly all too aware of its vacancy slipping away. The purr of motors sends her heartrate into a frenzy until cool palms on her heated cheeks gently redirect her wayward stare.
"Take a deep breath," Dormé instructs, now kneeling before her in earnest. "Stow Padmé away for now and try to remember that the last time they were here, you weren't initially so keen on their presence."
The calm yet urgent advice sends Amidala's icy resolve flooding through her veins, but Padmé's fire flares brightly with one final protest.
"But Anakin will likely want to speak with me…"
"I'll find a way to speak to him," Dormé interrupts, smoothly rising to her deferential position at Padmé's flank, the lift gears now slowing and faint. "If you feel like you're losing control, channel some of the previous ire you had for his master. Anger can explain away a flush, too, you know."
There's no time for further discussion. The turbolift doors open, the setting sun's rays heralding the Jedi's arrival like a spotlight announcing the stars of the show. Though he leads the way, Padmé barely registers Obi-Wan's presence, working instead to steady herself as Anakin steps forward into the gilded light.
She's no stranger to the artistic term, but suddenly, she thoroughly appreciates the bewitchment of the golden hour.
With considerable effort, Padmé dons Amidala's mask, the unflappable persona slipping into hard-won yet aloof place by the time the Jedi find their seats. Behind the professional shield, she fights every urge screaming at her to acknowledge him, only falling into a hypnotized silence when decorum finally forces her to meet Anakin's eyes. As Amidala performs the banalities, Padmé catalogs every hue dancing in his burning cerulean stare, thrilling at the energy zipping between them. Somehow, she manages not to spontaneously combust, though Amidala wisely excuses herself lest the allure building with tangible threat causes Padmé to tangibly fling herself into Anakin's arms. Unhurried and seemingly untroubled, she bids her protectors goodnight and retreats from the room.
It's not until she's safely stowed away from the watchful eyes of visitors and security cams alike that she discards Amidala, letting Padmé slump against the fresher door. Relieved of restraint's shackles, she thrums with an intoxicating fizz.
Despite fretting over her flushed complexion all day, Padmé smiles shyly at the rosy reflection in the fresher mirror. The girl staring back is incandescently in love and utterly impossible to feel embarrassed by.
Had his eyes always been so blue?
When had the intensity that at first unnerved her begun to feel enchanting?
How was she ever going to learn to contain the simmer in her blood powering the radiant flush now erupting along her skin?
But not all the emotions swimming in the fathomless depths of Anakin's pools had been happy. Shades of cobalt had flickered under the strain of darker moods - uncertainty, confusion, wariness, mistrust. She'd seen the way Anakin's eyes had widened at the countless dayalillies adorning her apartment, only to narrow in suspicion, no doubt recalling her parting words.
"I don't have a choice" must look a little weak when punctuated by white and pink and yellow petals.
Obi-Wan's security proposal hadn't helped her contain the inklings of Padmé anymore than the unrelenting gaze of his Padawan either. On the surface, the alternating schedule seems like a blessing, but she isn't naïve enough to blind herself to the treacherous set of snares awaiting a poorly placed foot. For starters, despite the undeniable moments of fleeting magic between them, Anakin was clearly confused by and distrustful of her sudden change of heart. Even if he was still willing to participate, his festering insecurity would likely take more than one conversation to soothe.
Just behind her head resting against the fresher door, a soft voice startles Padmé out of her reverie.
"It's me, milady."
Impatience powering her ricochet, Padmé pushes off the plastoid, slamming her palm against the internal lock. She swears it takes twice as long as usual for the fresher door to sheathe itself aside.
The portrait of calm, Dormé gracefully slips into the cramped space, only deigning to discard her outward tranquility the moment the door closes behind her, dropping the contents in her arms and all formality.
"Obi-Wan is downstairs reviewing security procedures with Gregar," she explains without preamble, sorting her burden of bandages and nightwear on the counter. "Anakin lingered but is on his way back to the Temple for the night."
Padmé had presumed as much but her face falls with visible disappointment. Some desperate part of her had hoped he'd find some clever excuse to stay.
"Did he say anything?" She's long past fighting how eager she sounds.
Riffling through the sundry of items, Dormé removes a cloth square, thrusting it towards her as if it was answer enough. "He said to tell you he knows it's 'out of order'," Dormé says, her pitch rising along with a curious brow. The gleam in her brown eyes is one that Padmé thinks she ought to become acquainted with. Now that the nexu was out of the bag, she imagines she'll see the knowing glint aimed her way from now on with a fair amount of regularity.
But whatever enlightenment Dormé hopes for is not to be had.
Her own brow pinching at Anakin's cryptic message Padmé reaches for the proffered gray fabric, letting the material run through her fingers like a gauzy waterfall and gasping as a familiar rough spun tunic unfurls before her. When she looks up again, the amused glow on Dormé's face has vanished.
"You know you can't sleep in the living room tonight," her handmaiden whispers despite the sanctuary afforded by the fresher.
"I know," Padmé replies softly, hugging Anakin's tunic against herself like a security blanket. It's not quite shame that makes her retreat, but the concerned scrutiny Dormé watches her with evokes an eerily similar emotion.
"Do you think it'll help?"
There are questions in Dormé's eyes, though she's tactful enough to leave them unasked. Padmé's not sure her truthful denial would sound honest anyway. She knows how this must look – exchanging enigmatic messages and clothing - but all she can do is nod and hope it's answer enough.
Whatever expression Dormé sees seems to satisfy her silent inquiry for now. She gestures for Padmé to turn so that she can help undo the fastenings on her gown.
"Make sure to keep your robe on whenever you're not in bed," her handmaiden advises from over her shoulder. "As far as nightgowns go, that fabric is pretty sheer."
Padmé's lips quiver, trying and failing to keep her budding smile under control as she remembers just how translucent his tunic had been during one particularly misty lake sunrise. "Believe me, that's been noted."
Dormé's hands still at the small of her back, the pause drawing both women's attention back to each other, twin devilish grins reflecting at each other in the mirror. Padmé's giggle is outright giddy. At the infectious sound, Dormé beams, sisterly affection shading her own pale skin more subtly than the riot of color spreading across Padmé's cheeks and chest.
"My stars, you are so gone for him."
There's no point in denying it, nor does Padmé want to. She lets Dormé take it all in, the smoldering embers of her confession from this morning now ablaze in the quiet of the night. Padmé knows Dormé hadn't doubted her sincerity, but to witness the depths in all its extraordinary color was something else entirely.
Several seconds pass, then Dormé blinks rapidly as if awakening from a trance. Clearing her throat and her own emotions, a delicacy threads her voice. "Is there anything further you require of me?"
The thickness in Padmé's vocal cords mutes her reply to a mere shake of her head.
"Then sweet dreams, milady."
With one more conspiratorial smile, Dormé bids her goodnight and leaves Padmé to her evening routine.
She hurries through her shower, relieved to find her scratches no longer sting beneath the spray even if the steam still coerces redness to her healing back. As her fingers pin unruly towel-dried curls in tangle-taming twists, her bruised head and battered spine bark less than they had the night prior. But her real reward comes in woven rough spun, still warm from Anakin's body heat and worn to a merciful softness that slides decadently along her skin. When she imagines the points of him those same fibers have touched, her swoon almost brings her to her knees, save for the palm that blindly, miraculously finds the cool countertop.
Her head rush fades, and when Padmé leans forward to inspect the iridescent wild expression on her face, her fingers crush into thick, blue velvet.
Right, she remembers. Don't forget your robe.
The weight of her outer garment does more than ward off the cooler air filtering through her bedroom. Though it hides her scandalous nightwear from view, her robe can't entirely hide the radiant smile still threatening to explode across her face. A long steady breath helps Padmé clear her eddying mind, and when she surveys her sleeping quarters, no preludes to nightmares creep through her thoughts.
After departing, Dormé had been kind enough to turn down the comforter and leave the customary glass of water on the nightstand. Padmé's datapad sits at the ready on its charging station, as does R2-D2, back in his corner sentry position.
She aims her smile at the loyal astromech, who whirs softly in greeting then settles into stand-by mode as she pads by.
Glancing at the familiar surroundings, Padmé pauses at the edge of her bed and waits for déjà vu to clutch at her with its vicious claws. An almost perfect carbon copy, this scene before her could easily have been plucked from the prior week, save for one invisible detail.
Slipping the robe quickly from her shoulders, Padmé dives beneath the covers, only allowing herself one final indulgence once ensconced in the safeguard of her sheets. Burying her nose into the worn gray collar, she inhales the warmth of sandalwood and leather followed by the faintest hint of woodsmoke. For one moment, Anakin is there with her. For one moment, Padmé can pretend the shores of Varykino aren't light-years away.
Her slow exhalation is one of exalted contentment.
Then, with Anakin's dayalillies perfuming her bedchamber and his redolence snugly wrapped around her, Padmé yields to the oblivion of sleep.
From somewhere beyond their lanai, someone calls for her. At first, she pretends not to hear. It's far too soon to leave this lakeside paradise. But the voice calls again, the urgency disrupting the veil of bliss enough to rouse her to sitting. But as she turns towards the summons, Anakin's arm tightens across her waist.
"No, you don't," he murmurs, warm breath caressing the shell of her ear. The purr in his voice is more than enough to convince her to stay. Content in the cocoon of his embrace, she snuggles deeper into his chest, inhaling every sleepy inch of his sun-kissed skin.
Padmé!
She shifts and Anakin groans. Or maybe she is the one grunting her protest as her body stirs treacherously despite her desire to linger in this moment.
Padmé, wake up. You need to get up.
Her fingers clutch with desperate grip to his rough spun, and Anakin chuckles at her defiance, nuzzling into her hair and mumbling words she doesn't catch, though she thinks they have pity for her handmaiden laced in them. Sleep still lurking around her edges, she looks up at him questioningly.
"Come find me," he whispers, kissing the tip of her nose before vanishing from beneath her.
Padmé!
Someone shakes her shoulder insistently.
"Come on, Padmé," Dormé pleads, adding with quiet hesitation, "He's already here."
Nearly knocking head with her hovering handmaiden, Padmé jolts upright in bed. She whirls to the chrono on her nightstand, her suddenly racing heart barely slowing upon seeing the time.
Five fifty in the morning.
As she stares at the glowing numbers, several long seconds pass before sleep deigns to relinquish its stubborn hold. Even then, Padmé feels like she's locked in a dream. Peeling away her sleep-added stare, the faintest glimpse of sunrise peeks just beyond her shuttered blinds, but most of the light traversing her room still belongs to the early morning commute. When she turns back to Dormé, her handmaiden tosses her robe at her, gesturing for Padmé to wrap it about her shoulders while she ransacks the closet for more appropriate attire.
"He's here already?" she whispers, trying to keep her voice down as brewing excitement pitches it higher.
Dormé nods, pulling a dark gown from the closet recesses and studying her selection before presenting it to Padmé. Surveying the dress, Padmé wisely decides to keep silent that the he in question probably wouldn't object to seeing her in her makeshift nightgown.
Dormé's look turns slightly wicked. "Evidently, that tunic is the key to a good night's sleep."
Padmé gamely hold her handmaiden's devious stare before her cheeks heat and she averts her gaze. The dress Dormé has selected is rich brown and ornate enough to be worn in the halls of the Senate without being overbearingly heavy. Her spine sighs softly in gratitude, but her scalp throbs the moment Dormé retrieves the matching headband.
Padmé doesn't even need to shake her head in the negative before Dormé recognizes her cringe and returns the headpiece to the shelf.
"It needs something more then," her handmaiden half-murmurs to herself, turning to riffle through Padmé's wardrobe.
Though beautiful in its simplicity, the laced bodice and plain long sleeves would look a bit pedestrian without the intricate headband designed to hold her curls in an elaborate style. But Dormé isn't titled wardrobe mistress for nothing. Within the space of two breaths, she crows in triumph and pulls another ensemble from the closet.
Padmé's blood sings at the sight of the black leather ballgown, though Dormé is already dismantling it and the dress still in her grasp.
"Switch the bodice panels," her handmaiden commands, and Padmé trades the tan silk paneling from the ebony leather twin. With the task complete, Dormé nods once in approval and delves back into the closet. "Put that on."
By the time, Padmé pulls the now chocolate-and-black dress over her hips, Dormé holds out a long sash of black chiffon. She wraps the sheer fabric carefully about Padmé's waist, instructing her to spin so she can tie the fashioned belt into place.
"What do you think?" Dormé asks, a proud gleam in her eye.
Glancing at the floor-length mirror, Padmé gasps at her reflection. Brown and black were not known to be complimentary color, but the silhouette before her surprisingly works. Dark on dark tones work together to create an illusion of formality and shadow, cutting a striking and impactful figure. But the real magic happens with the asymmetric knot Dormé's clever fingers have tied. Now with a rich brown backdrop, the sheer black fabric wrapped about her middle is boldly opaque, the long loose ends cascading across her right hip to lay freely against the skirt. The effect is unusually attractive and also subtly familiar.
She swears her appreciative inhale is tinted with leather's intimate warmth.
"Thank you," Padmé breathes.
"Even if he doesn't notice, you two will look like quite the pair," Dormé replies. "Now, let's figure out what to do with this mane."
It's hard to say for sure, but Padmé would be willing to bet that Anakin does notice her the subtle statement she makes with her entrance. Both Jedi abandon their conversation – Obi-Wan's "How did this morning go?" fading with Anakin's terse reply "Better" – the moment she appears from around the corner.
The Jedi Knight's eyes sweep over her once, perfunctory and pragmatic, while his Padawan's cerulean stare performs a polar opposite inventory.
"Good morning," she says, taking a seat directly across the table from Anakin. She tells herself the choice is borne from her own strength, and not because she feels drawn to his magnetic allure. "You're early."
"I said I would be."
His lingering gaze feels like a physical touch on her face. Before they fall too deeply into the silent spell, Threepio totters in to place a steaming bowl of overnight oats in front of Anakin. A smattering of berries floats on the surface of the hot grains.
Padmé stops the smile curling her lips and looks to the waiting protocol droid practically vibrating behind his plating to offer her assistance.
"Would you care for some too, Miss Padmé?"
"That would be lovely, Threepio. Thank you."
As C-3PO departs, a weighted silence descends on the three figures seated around the dining table, and all the hopeful bravery Padmé carried into the room quavers.
"Is he coming with us today?" Anakin asks, pausing with a spoonful of oats and berries halfway to his mouth.
"He's your droid," Padmé replies, watching Obi-Wan shift at her words. "Would you like him to?"
She sees the slight tension along Anakin's jaw, but it disappears when he resumes eating. Suspecting she already knows his answer, it surprises her when he defers to his Master.
"Do you have need of a protocol droid?"
Obi-Wan's frown deepens.
"No, I can't imagine how he can help me while I sleep."
"I wouldn't assume that, Master. He can tell quite the bedtime story from time to time."
It's a mistake to look up at Anakin, the boyish twinkle in his eyes is almost her undoing, but Padmé manages to contain her mirth, only acknowledging her amusement by sliding her toe beneath the table to rest lightly on Anakin's booted foot. She drops her gaze completely before his devilish smile does her in.
Obi-Wan snorts softly as Threepio returns with Dormé in tow to place her breakfast on the table. Padmé makes herself dig in despite the Jedi Knight's watchful scrutiny. To his credit, Anakin doesn't take up the challenge, and greets her handmaiden then tucks fastidiously back into his own oatmeal.
"Maybe some other time," he says. Handing his empty bowl to C-3PO, Obi-Wan stands, knuckles cracking as he pushes out from his chair. "If there's nothing more you require of me, Senator, I'll be back later this evening."
Spooning another bite to her mouth, Padmé smiles politely and dismisses him with a brief shake of her head. She swallows the sweet mixture only addressing Anakin when she knows she has control over the buoying excitement in her voice.
"We'll leave after breakfast."
"Yes, milady," Anakin responds, dispassionate and succinct.
As if searching for a reason to remain, she feels Obi-Wan's eyes bounce between them, but he bows once, leaving them to start their day together without further comment. Only when the Jedi Knight is well and truly gone does she feel the boot still lying beneath her foot twitch with glee.
Padmé thinks the ride to the Senate might kill her.
That is, until she tries to focus on her schedule with Anakin seated on her receiving couches, beckoning like the goddesses' temptation all damn morning long.
At first, she blames the jittery pulsing of her blood on the additional cups of caf she downs in an effort to channel her concentration. Then, she re-reads the word embargo so many times that she starts to question if it's spelled correctly which leads her to a fruitless panicked editing search on the entirety of the Enarc Run Trade Agreement to assess every time that word appears in the lengthy document.
You okay in there? Dormé messages from the antechamber when Padmé pings her handmaiden for reassurance in their mutual editing session.
Fantastic she types back. She almost adds how she swears she can hear every molecule of air moving in the room, feel every atom of her being whenever Anakin moves, or breathes, or exists. But that would imply she's losing her grip on reality and even if it's true, Padmé would like to stay in her private oasis a bit longer.
Sighing heavily, she raises her hands to her brow, cradling her fingers to her hairline like a set of blinders. Her sensory deprivation strategy fails miserably. She doesn't even have to see outward to know Anakin looks over to study her with concern.
"Can I help you with something?" his gentle timbre asks.
For a moment, Padmé imagines him bent over her datapad looking for typos in her latest transportation bill, wonders if he would object, knows deep down he wouldn't only because she'd asked. The amusement on her face shifts to something more sly when a better alternative comes to mind.
"Actually, yes," she says, dropping her hands and rising from her chair. Anakin's brow lifts in surprise, his eyes helplessly tracking her approach. She doesn't stop in front of him, instead, tossing her head towards the office door and shooting him an inviting smile. "Come with me?"
He's on his feet in an instant, falling into step beside her and hovering at her shoulder when she halts abruptly in the narrow hall of the office antechamber.
"I'm going for a walk," Padmé announces.
Dormé's eyes dart to the shadow on her left, already knowing the answer to her question before she dutifully asks it anyway. "Would you like me to go with you, milady?"
"No need," Padmé replies. "Anakin said he'd appreciate the chance to stretch his legs."
"Don't be gone too long," Typho says, unfazed by her declaration. It's not unusual for the Senator of Naboo to meander the Rotunda when working through a particular dilemma. Unbeknownst to Typho, it's most unusual for Padmé to take her dilemma with her.
"I'll have her back before curfew," Anakin quips.
Padmé starts to throw the Jedi at her side a warning look, thinks better of it when she sees Dormé's lips roll inward to contain her knowing amusement, and instead spins on her heel to the main Senate thoroughfare. In her haste, she brushes Anakin's sleeve and feels his warmth simmering just behind her. If he notices her shiver, he's kind enough not to mention it, though she's certain he moves an inch closer.
Whatever tension Padmé had been seeking to relieve follows them without compunction. The building pressure of it threatens to snap her in two when a strong hand clamps down on her shoulder and pulls her into a dark alcove just meters from her intended destination in the southern wing. She squirms in Anakin's grip, thrashing instinctively against his hold until he tucks her tight into his chest, his warmth soaking through the thin fabric of her dress. His warning whisper caresses the shell of her ear, and the real version shudders through laughing heartily at the feeble imaginations of her dreams.
"Don't."
His forearm presses further under her ribs, drawing her closer to him, completely unphased by the brown fury she sends up at him. Padmé has half a mind to ignore his command when she hears another set of voices approaching their hiding spot. In the dim light, their stares seem to glow with unspoken conversation, neither of them breathing until the chattering fades far beyond their hallway.
"That was rash, Anakin," she chides, nerves of excitement and terror pinching her tone. "Someone could have seen us."
She doesn't appreciate the smirk he gives her. Or at least, she tries not to, but a traitorous thrill courses down her spine anyway. There's no way he didn't feel it that time.
"I studied the Rotunda's layout all night," he says by way of explanation. "I know every room, every corridor, every blind spot…"
He pauses, his grin widening as understanding relieves her tense façade and darts her eyes to the camera just visible past their recess, its aim pointed away from the direction they had approached.
"So…" he starts, aiming for casual and missing the mark. "You kept the flowers."
"I did." Anakin's blue eyes watch with a hardness she decides she doesn't like. Especially when aimed at her.
"Why?"
The one syllable question is harsh, demanding, and suddenly, her muscles coil from a different kind of tension. Her lips part, ready to loose an answer she doesn't quite have, her guard rising as if instinctively preparing for a fight.
Laying her palms over the smooth leather tabards crossing his chest, his heart drums a frantic rhythm beneath her skin. "What do you want me to say?" she asks softly.
Anakin scowls. Apparently not that.
"I sent them to say goodbye."
Something cracks inside Padmé's chest, and the floor of their small alcove seems to slip out from under her feet. She almost staggers from the vertigo, but the limited space between them keeps her upright.
"I see," she whispers.
For all her fears, never once had she ever considered how she might handle Anakin's rejection. It was an unfathomable response. He had begged her, fallen to his knees and pleaded at the base of her unyielding fortress walls. She was the one who had adamantly refused to cave.
Feeling her heart torn asunder, Padmé swallows hard past the lump rising in her throat.
"But that doesn't mean I wanted to say it."
Padmé has to look back up at that, feels the blaze more than sees the way Anakin's eyes scan her face, those dark blue depths seeking the same answers in hers that she's desperately searching for in his. She feels the tide turn in the pull of her cheeks, though later Anakin will tell her the smile started in her eyes, the way it always does.
"Hi," she breathes.
"Hi," he whispers, his lips only a breadth from the tip of her nose.
She pulls back a bit but doesn't move to extricate herself from his embrace.
"Oh Anakin, I've been so worried," she says, her hands alighting over him as if doing their own inventory. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," he says. "Better now. Ah, careful." Her left hand freezes in its descent, hovering just above his right elbow where he winces from her cataloguing touch. "Still a little tender."
Letting go, Padmé pulls back her her hand as Anakin raises his right arm for her to see. The excess length of his robe's sleeve falls back and in the dim light, she sees the flash of gold metal, watches the movement that hadn't been his to use the last time they met without an audience. Hesitantly, she raises her left hand to his right, pausing to gauge his reaction. Anakin looks nervous but doesn't stop her. Gently, she presses her palm to his.
At the contact, his breath rushes out at the same time hers rushes in.
"It works," he breathes.
Padmé tilts her head, her eyes searching his. His cerulean pools sparkle with wonder, the same way they did when she showed him the mountainous waterfalls of the meadow and the sun's dance of rays across the lake.
"What works?" she asks, afraid to disrupt the power of the moment.
"The synth-net neural interface," he says, staring at their splayed aligned fingers.
"Ani, in Basic please." She almost laughs when he curls the tops of his fingers over her shorter ones with a captivating squeeze.
"The sensors let me feel touch," Anakin replies. "I just haven't been able to test it out with another living being."
Padmé's smile rises to her lips, cheeky and unbidden. "You mean Obi-Wan wouldn't let you hold his hand?"
Anakin is silent, unexpectedly so. His warm energy cools precipitously, his face darkening with buried stormy thoughts. He drops her gaze, and Padmé bites her lip wondering if her joke had been that poorly placed. Trying to decipher his mercurial mood swing feels like being swept away in a riptide. She knows not to fight against it.
"Ani?" She tries to meet his eyes again, but he pulls his hand out of hers.
"It probably doesn't feel nearly as amazing to you," he mumbles. "How could it?"
Padmé sees the dark place he's falling into. She's had enough experience to recognize the beginning of one of his descents. She reaches for him again, more firmly, thankful that the walls of the alcove prevent him from retreating further. Her hand grasps his and she pulls it up to press her palm against his cool metal digits once again.
He swallows, letting her but also ready to pull away again at the drop of the hat.
"Anakin, look at me."
His eyes meet hers. She can see the despair shadowing the blue to almost black. Her fingers entangle with his, and she brings them to her cheek, placing a quick kiss to his palm. His eyes widen and he inhales sharply at the new sensation registering through the tactile sensors. When she knows he won't move away, Padmé moves her hand to his cheek in reciprocal touch. She's pleasantly surprised how the metal warms against her cheek.
"Did you think this would bother me?"
He opens his mouth to reply, but then turns away, unsure and uncomfortable.
"Anakin," she says softly, "Tell me." Her voice rises slightly at the end, not making the request a direct question, but imbuing her tone with a gentle plea of trust. As Anakin wars with his insecurity, she strokes his cheek with her thumb, patiently waiting for him to win whatever battle he's waging in his own head.
"The Jedi believe our connection to the Force is rooted in the organic. Some might say I am less of myself because of this."
A cold dread plummets down her spine, a vicious thought that maybe Obi-Wan had implied…
No. That was unfair and unlikely.
"Well good thing I'm not a Jedi then," she says gently, lightly. She moves her fingers against his face, tracing his cheek and lips, smiling as his draw a similar path over her own features. "This doesn't bother me Ani. I don't see this as less, or not enough, or..."
Suddenly, a swell of emotion robs her of the words to explain, leaving her helpless and only able to shake her head. She's not used to feeling inarticulate, but that's the power he has over her.
"I don't see the lack of an arm. I don't see a prosthetic limb. I don't see a mistake." Curling her fingers around his, she lowers their hands, deliberately flattening his mechanized palm over her heart. "I just see you, Anakin. I just feel you."
Frantically, her eyes rove over him, trying to see past their limits in the darkened space, willing him to hear past her words to the truth beneath them. Her heart thunders madly in her chest whether from desperation or the sheer madness wrought on her senses overrun by his proximity in the small space. Somewhere in the conversation, she's stepped closer or he's pulled her to him because when Anakin finally looks up, their noses bump in a tender caress.
Time freezes Padmé and Anakin with it. She knows what happens next, knows that one rise to her tiptoes will restart the galaxy's spin but something stops her from closing the final centimeters. She doesn't know what they're waiting for, only that she has to, and the effort to uphold her patience is devastating.
Three kisses. They had shared three kisses up until now - each hinting at the possibilities while simultaneously mourning them. The terrace had opened her eyes before she had been ready to open her heart. On Geonosis, she had pledged her heart to him for the few final moments they had left to live. In the infirmary, she had sealed their separation in salt and pain.
Maybe it's the heat of this moment they need to understand, that makes fate sit up and take notice, that they need a moment of gravity to steal back the bleak survival forward she and Anakin would be forced to endure. Or maybe it's the pivotal realization that to kiss now is to count the first of many to come, to answer fate's prayers and welcome their intertwined destinies.
She doesn't remember who accepts that journey first, but their lips collide and Padmé's delirious with a volatile wildness that brings everything around to her to blistering life. Finally at liberty to roam, she sends her hands up the smooth leather tabards, singes her fingers against the heated skin of his neck, sinks them into the soft close crop of his hair. Her feverish explorations encourage Anakin to seek his own plunder and when he adds his own hands to their dance, Padmé thinks his touch might be the only thing tethering her to this mortal realm.
Countless times she's travelled across the stars but not even in space had she achieved such dizzying heights.
Skywalker, indeed.
Anakin's mouth whispers promises that sends her heart spiraling, sets heat burning between her hips, the depths of discovering such dangerous descents shuddering through her. The dark corridor shrouds them in a midnight embrace but the inky black can't snuff the point of no return looming tangibly within her reach, almost scorching her into remember exactly where they are, who they are, and what they shouldn't be doing.
With immense effort, Padmé sinks to her heels and steps back from the precipice. She watches his eyes, pupils dilated with desire, dart down to her still parted lips before he manages to drag them back to hers. Their slow deliberate ascent sends smoldering blood all the way to her toes.
"I wasn't going to be able to stop," she says, barely recognizing the sultry tone that disrupts the enchanted silence.
Anakin huffs a quiet laugh, his flesh thumb tracing her swollen bottom lip. "Sometimes in my dreams, we don't."
His admission crackles between them like power coupling gone rogue, the thrill of it zipping over her skin and raising static and goosebumps in its wake. Anakin trembles slightly beneath her fingertips, and she's powerless to stop him from moving away. The moment he wrests back some semblance of control, Anakin releases her, retreating as far as the narrow hallway allows. Cooler air splits the shadows and despite the icy relief on her heated skin, Padmé hates the bereft feeling that follows.
Anakin takes her hand, guiding her out of their secret enclave, when a sudden trill punches through the emboldened quiet. Panicked, Padmé yanks her hand away to silence her screaming comlink, eyes widening when she sees the urgent indicator flashing Dormé's recall.
Anakin watches her process the turn of events and pulls her out into the main hall when certain the coast is clear.
"Everything okay?" he asks, matching her every hurried double stride with one long stretch of his.
"I don't know," she replies honestly, silently grateful for their rapid dash back back to her office. There's no way the flush on her skin isn't still bright red. "She just sent her return stat code."
Anakin nods grimly, using a broad shoulder to politely if forcefully barrel through a group of Senators loitering in the middle of the hall. She presses close behind, resisting the temptation to grab his sleeve like a child tethering to a parent.
When her lungs catch up to their frantic pace, she finds the question she had been wanting to ask ever since discovering Anakin's flowers.
"How did you manage it?"
"Manage what?" Anakin asks over his shoulder. He slows just enough to let her sidle up next to him. Grateful, Padmé remembers to maintain a professional distance between their bodies, even as her skin sings at being so tantalizing near him again.
"How did you manage to get those flowers to my office?"
The smile breaks across Anakin's face like a sunrise piercing the night.
"A magician never reveals his secrets," he replies, boldly throwing her a devilish wink.
She narrows her eyes, nose wrinkling in return, and fixes him with a petulant scowl.
"I didn't steal them if that's what you're worried about." As if to unmoor her concerns, Anakin gently bumps her hip with his, navigating widely around a portly Twi'lek Senator as an excuse for the physical contact. Ruminating on his words, Padmé gently grips his upper arm, ensuring her own balance, and letting go before anyone's the wiser. She hadn't even thought about how he had purchased them. As far as she knew, emotions and relationships weren't the only things the Jedi had forsaken. And yet the galaxy ran on credits, so surely even they needed to offer more than their Jedi credentials to obtain food, and items, and evidently bouquets of dayalillies.
"I had credits left over from my first posting as your bodyguard."
"Ani!" she exclaims, completely scandalized over his inappropriate funds use despite all they had just done in the dark alcove.
"Remind me to tell Dormé to send an anonymous donation to the Jedi once we are back," she mutters. Anakin doesn't even have the decency to look chagrined.
"Why?" he asks rascally.
"If I'm going to have to atone for your rule-bending from now on, I may as well stay on top of the list."
Laughter blossoms out of him despite his best attempt to stay quiet, and she's helpless to the way her own blends in until they round the final turn to her office.
And come face-to-face with her irate handmaiden.