A/N: I am SO stoked to finally get this post out to you all! The Universe threw a LOT at me these last two months (I'm in a very demanding time of year for my job, the holiday season is bearing down on everyone like a freight train, and somehow I still had to stay afloat while battling walking pneumonia for seven or so weeks!) but I wrote every moment, I could and here we FINALLY are! SQUEE! Without tossing out any specific spoilers, please be advised, that there is a LOT that goes down in this chapter, so pay careful attention. Things are really heating up now! ;P One minor tip: This is where Interlude starts to tie-in with From A Certain Point of View and Revelations, and if you squint, Afterglow. I hope you have as much fun unraveling the clues as I had writing them.
As always, reviews/comments/kudos are greatly appreciated! I'd love to hear what your theories might be and what you think of the journey thus far!
Last but not least, to give credit where credit is undeniably due, dayalillies are the original creation of madamealexandra. She has graciously allowed me to use her beautiful flowers in my own works.
Chapter 10
ANAKIN SKYWALKER
Anakin Skywalker is no stranger to perilous situations. He's been shot at, shot down, strung up, chased, captured – a few times on purpose, a few times not - and survived so many other calamities, that now Danger usually just winks at him and strolls right on by.
Usually being the key word there.
This time though? No, this time Danger takes one long look at the handmaiden fastidiously watching their approach and immediately about-faces, pulls up a chair, and reaches for a freshly made bag of bang-corn.
To any other curious onlookers, nothing would seem amiss. Hands folded in the front of her gown, posture impeccably straight, Padmé's handmaiden is the portrait of calm, cool, and collected. But beneath the serene façade, Dormé fumes, her tranquil Force pool taut with unbearable surface tension.
Padmé recognizes her friend's seething first, slowing at Anakin's side just enough to snap his senses into high alert. Even had he not been trying to memorize – surreptitiously, of course – every detail of Padmé's dazzling smile, it would have been impossible to miss the sudden shift. One moment he's basking in her scintillating blue current, still effervescent from their clandestine rendezvous; the next, he's gasping and shaking from an abrupt plunge into her polar waters.
Warily, Anakin's gaze flicks between the two women squaring off outside Naboo's offices, at once fascinated and terrified of their mirrored ability to transform into physical and ethereal blank slates.
"The Supreme Chancellor requests your immediate presence, milady," Dormé says, only a subtle tremor threading through the words of her direct greeting.
"Did he say what for?" Padmé inquires, just as evenly.
"He did not," Dormé replies. "Just that it was urgent."
Like a cloud eclipsing the sun, Padmé stows the remaining radiance on her face behind Amidala's aloof mask, vanishing into the Force without a trace despite her very real presence at his side. The last time Padmé had disappeared from him like this, Anakin had found her barely breathing and sprawled unconscious on the floor of the Endeavor's infirmary fresher. He almost shivers as the bleak memory drags its icy fingers along the back of his neck until an errant indigo flare zaps him out of his reverie.
He just manages to catch Dormé's line of sight rove him from head-to-toe, the movement so quick he almost thinks he imagined it, but then an uneasy silence settles among their group. Anakin knows Padmé's handmaidens are virtuosos in the art of politics and subterfuge, but it takes him much longer than he cares to admit to recognize the inaudible conversation they are having right in front of him.
"Later," Padmé murmurs.
In the Force, Dormé bristles a brief yet brilliant teal, but she only nods, "Yes, milady." Motioning the Senator forward, Dormé returns to business, smoothing tangled curls and tugging gently at Padmé's crown of braids until the woven strands appear purposefully disheveled.
"Thank you," Padmé mouths, bestowing her loyal friend with a lingering grateful smile. Then, not even checking to see if he's following, Padmé tosses a curt "Let's go" over her shoulder, her pace brisk. Anakin throws Dormé an apologetic wince that earns him a sideways glare, and hurries after Naboo's Senator.
In less than three strides, Anakin catches up with Padmé's rapid yet much shorter steps. Three more after that, and he's drowning in her growing unease. He hadn't been blind to the three words at the end of the short exchange carrying more weight than the entire looming summons from the Chancellor. However quickly the bursts of color had been smothered, Anakin had sensed the rift shimmering in the Force between the two women. All he can hope now is that his spectral insight might settle Padmé's inner turmoil.
"I get the sense she was more frightened than angry," he says, after a few more strides of strained silence.
Padmé shoots him a quizzical look, before Amidala directs her focus forward again. "Even so, she has every right to be upset," she mutters. "We were gone too long. That was reckless."
Anakin flinches at the harshness in her voice. True, they had lost track of time and there would undoubtedly be hell to pay for it later, but he would be damned if Padmé got it into her head that their moment of heaven in the hallway had been anything but worth it.
With a quick glance around them, Anakin boldly bumps her hip with his. "Don't mistake bravery for recklessness."
Padmé's determined pace falters ever so slightly, a soft smile tugging appreciatively at the thin, hard line of her lips. He's basking in the warmth returning slowly to her edges when she startles, realization suddenly freezing her mid-stride.
"Wait," Padmé says, turning to him fully, her face confused. "That's not how the expression goes."
Anakin's brow scrunches. "Really?"
She nods. He shrugs.
"That's the only way I've ever heard it."
Tilting her head, Padmé searches his eyes, narrowing them when Anakin can't feign his perplexity any longer, his mouth twisting into a perfectly stupid grin. For a moment, her small hands raise as if to shove his shoulder, but she remembers their public playground just in time, and turns away, resuming their trek.
"Somehow I seriously doubt that," she teases.
"You know, come to think of it…" Anakin says, hot on her heels. "There's a good chance I have been hearing it backwards this whole time since…" He pauses on purpose, dangling the end of his thought like bait. "Master Yoda is the one constantly saying it to me."
Amusement dancing in her eyes, Padmé rolls her lips to keep her laughter contained. They've arrived at the Chancellor's receiving chambers, and it would be a bit uncouth to enter a professional setting doubled over in giggles. A bit conspicuous too, in all the wrong ways.
Nevertheless, the warmth blooming in his chest continues to grow even as Padmé's mirth sobers. Surprising him given their current location, she takes a step closer, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. Despite the levity still simmering between them, fear slithers coldly down Anakin's spine even as her proximity makes a dangerous heat lick upward.
"I need to say something before we walk in," Padmé says softly, pausing when a colleague walks past and only pulling her serious brown gaze back to him when the diplomat travels beyond earshot. "I'm going to do my best to completely ignore you."
"Ignore me?" Anakin tries not to sound affronted, but admittedly he is. "Why?"
"You're supposed to be my security detail, nothing more." Padmé hesitates, and Anakin practically watches the words roll around in her mind before she bravely steals another quick surveillance of their surroundings. "Apparently," she explains through gritted teeth, "I'm incapable of not blushing when anyone so much as mentions you."
And that was a story he intended to ask about at another time. For now, Anakin winks devilishly, stepping back and gesturing gallantly to the chamber door.
"Activating invisible mode now, milady."
"Stop," Padmé whines, though her rising Force silhouette sparkles in vibrant violet. Anakin doesn't have a chance to tease her further when the doors slide wide, revealing the crimson interior of the Chancellor's offices and Amidala takes over, all elegance and composure. Her Jedi bodyguard follows, dutifully and silently.
Amidst the expansive room, the small gathering of Senators and advisors seems insulting given the obscene numbers of delegates usually clamoring for the Supreme Chancellor's attention. But Dormé's panic implied this meeting hadn't been a scheduled one, so the mysterious air circulating the chambers isn't wholly unexpected, even if some of the beings present are.
"Do you know what this is about?" Padmé asks softly at Anakin's side, though her question is not directed at him. Turning her back to him completely, she stops beside another tall human on the outskirts of the gathered group.
"I haven't the faintest," Bail Organa answers, watching their colleagues mill about in front of Palpatine's broad desk. "Anymore than I know how to review our new fleet." The Senator from Alderaan tilts his datapad towards her, his smile a touch wry. "I'm from a pacifist planet for star's sake."
Over Padmé's shoulder, Anakin gleans what appears to be a bullet-pointed dossier next to the rotating image of a starfighter whose make and model he's unfamiliar with. Intrigued, Anakin peers closer, and Padmé stills with razor-edged calm, the sharp glance she gives him threaded with brown warning and something else he only recognizes highlighted in brilliant aqua.
But before Anakin can decipher their glimmering any further, Palpatine clears his throat.
"Thank you all for coming on such short notice." The Supreme Chancellor surveys the twelve faces with appreciation, his somber expression lightening considerably when his blue-gray eyes find Anakin's. Briefly, Anakin wonders if he should jockey them nearer. Knowing Palpatine's fondness for him, he can't imagine his mentor and ally would unwelcome the up-close position. But Padmé had asked him to be inconspicuous, and if she wanted to station herself in the periphery, it was his obligation to obey her wish.
"I'm afraid I'm in need of your sage counsel on a problem before I use the Emergency Powers Act to resolve it."
At this, everyone straightens, several gazes drifting boldly towards their little trio. Padmé's spine stiffens, her Force energy stirring as if readying for a fight but thankfully no one seems stupid enough to add snide remarks to their judgmental stares. Even still, Anakin inches closer. Not enough to raise eyebrows, but near enough to remind the onlookers of his Jedi presence.
He could be imagining it, but he swears Padmé shifts backwards ever so slightly, as if silently seeking his support. When their overlapping Force currents glow golden, Anakin finds it impossible to curtail his smile, letting it curl pridefully upward at Senator Wallis' growing scowl.
A flicker of movement over Palpatine's desk commands his unwitting rival's attention again, and Anakin tunes back in only when Wallis redirects his wandering eyes to the holoprojection of clone troopers now on display.
"Over the next few days, we expect two hundred thousand units to arrive from Kamino," Palpatine explains. Murmurs of approval ripple throughout the room, and Anakin finds his own emotion rising to join them until Palpatine halts them with a raised hand. "While I can appreciate the relief this should bring for our newly-at-war Republic, their arrival on Coruscant ironically is the problem."
At Palpatine's nod, the projection enlarges, focusing on the clone at the center of the troop line. Unlike his now shrunken and stationary comrades, his gleaming white armor displays dark red lines and symbols with each slow rotation.
"Despite their rigorous training, the highest ranked clones are only captains," Palpatine continues. "It seems whoever placed the order for this army did not intend for it to lead itself. Which is why I need your collective intelligence to furnish solutions."
"What about the Jedi?" Ask Aak's guttural tone reverberates loudly throughout the otherwise stagnant office.
"Of course, they are the obvious choice," Palpatine agrees. "However, with recent losses sustained on Geonosis, there aren't currently enough Knights ready and able to lead."
"We could recruit leaders from local planetary defense forces," a female voice chimes in. Even with the advantage of his height, Anakin still has to crane his neck to find the short Senator from Uyter on the other side of the room. He locates her just in time to see Lexi Dio frown at the Anselmi who cuts across her proposal with scathing dismissal.
"We'd never be able to get agreement among the people," Darsana protests. "Too many would worry about bias and ulterior motives, especially in the inevitable event some are stationed over worlds historically at odds." His blue skin deepens fervently. How would we trust them to set aside inherent prejudices and work for the greater good?"
"Which is what got us into this colossal mess in the first place," Bail mutters darkly. Padmé hums softly in agreement, and suddenly, the roar of distant waterfalls fill Anakin's ears as does a meadow discussion on politics.
"The trouble is people don't always agree."
Not to be outdone by her colleague, Lexi steps forward to challenge Darsana. "We'd avoid any potential conflict of interest by assigning recruited leaders command exclusively over their home worlds."
"Even if that weren't a managerial nightmare," Palpatine gently interrupts, "we still wouldn't have the numbers we need to eventually take hold of the additional million units still in development."
The memory of Padmé's impromptu picnic lesson dovetails masterfully with Anakin's front-row seat in the Chancellor's audience. With one sentence, Palpatine deftly tables the brewing discord while inviting more constructive solutions. He was lucky to have such powerful influences in his life.
Up until now, Padmé had been quiet, digesting the information being tossed about in discerning rumination. Had he not been standing right behind her and keeping a careful pulse on her Force fluctuations, Anakin would've marveled at her own almost invisible presence.
"Senator Dio's plan could work," Padmé says, returning Lexi's proposal to the forefront.
Palpatine's mouth pinches, but he lets the Senator from Naboo continue her counterargument.
"With half of the Republic's worlds militarized," Padmé reasons, "the remaining half could be covered by Jedi. I'm sure we could raise a committee to oversee command assignment to a million troopers…"
But Palpatine is already shaking his head. "It's far more than a million, I'm afraid."
At the Chancellor's correction, bewilderment turns Padmé's spirit downright chilly, and Anakin almost shivers from proximity.
"I'm not sure I follow, Supreme Chancellor," Bail intervenes, his tone measured and leading.
"A unit does not equal one soldier, Senator," Palpatine explains, patiently. "A unit equals one battalion."
Shock detonates throughout the room like a seismic charge. While it wasn't an integral part of Jedi training, Anakin had studied enough galactic battles and planetary conflicts to know that a battalion was a fighting force typically consisting of five hundred seventy-six soldiers. Five hundred seventy-six soldiers in a unit with one million two hundred thousand units meant… Anakin doesn't even attempt to calculate it himself; a kriffing lot is sufficient enough answer in his mind.
Glancing around the room, Anakin spies several minds exploding from the staggering computation.
"That many men?" Padmé gasps.
Of course, she would see the numbers in terms of sentient life and not a total on an invoice. Padmé's endless consideration for others was just one of the many things Anakin loved about her.
"Hence my conundrum." Palpatine sighs wearily. Despite the ominous dread stifling the air, Anakin thanks the gods that two of the most selfless people he knows are at the Republic's helm.
"If we presume at this time that civilians aren't a plausible option, let us reconsider your earlier statement regarding the Jedi," Mas Amedda offers. "'There aren't enough ready and able to lead.' Can you elaborate?"
"Certainly," Palpatine concedes. "Ten thousand Jedi Knights actively serve throughout the galaxy. Even if every single one of them were immediately available – which given recent reports from Master Yoda, they are not – " Anakin's arm twinges at the reminder of pain and loss sustained by his brethren. "… to oversee our new army, each would be responsible for more than a legion of troopers. Suffice to say, they still wouldn't be enough."
"How many other their pupils are on the brink of Knighthood?" Senator Corr asks, a definite lead hanging in his question.
Padmé tenses in front of him, and Anakin has to stop himself from reaching for her.
"I'm not sure I know that answer." Openly, Palpatine mulls the question over, then raises his eyes, their light blue sparking with inspiration when they come to rest on the invisible Padawan in the room.
"Ah, Anakin," he beams, as if suddenly noting his presence. "Would you be able to enlighten us?"
Twenty sets of eyes turn to regard him, stripping Anakin of his make-believe invisible shroud. To her credit, Padmé's face reveals nothing though her Force signature practically sings when she pivots on her heel and looks up at him.
"I don't know the exact number, your Excellency," Anakin answers. A sweat breaks out on the back of his neck, whether from the weight of the sudden spotlight or the effort to avoid stealing a glimpse of Padmé's beautiful face he doesn't know. "But on average, about two hundred Padawans achieve Knight status every year, so I think it would a reasonable estimate to answer your question."
"To be clear for those of us not as familiar with Jedi apprenticeship, you mean Padawans such as yourself?"
The flush of pleasure that flows through him at the significant recognition falters when, out of his peripheral vision, Anakin sees Padmé's eyes widen in alarm.
"Correct," Anakin confirms, fighting to keep his voice steady. Even though he can't risk a direct look, he opens himself up to the churning indigo at his side. Like the warning winds of a raising thunderstorm, Padmé's turmoil buffets him in the Force, but it's too late for Anakin to seek refuge.
"I do realize this is a stretch, my boy, but if you would indulge an old man the notion…" Palpatine barely pauses long enough to earn Anakin's distracted nod. "Would you say Padawans at your level of training would be capable of bridging the leadership gap?"
All too easily, an ebony-cloaked figure at the head of hundreds of white uniforms marching into battle materializes in Anakin's mind. He can't make out the face, shielded by a midnight mask, but the Force didn't always like to work in specifics. Anakin has no doubt it's showing him, well… him.
"Absolutely."
Padmé flinches, and their shared golden umbra goes dark. A cold dread seeps in at his edges but Anakin doesn't have time to dwell on the shifting silhouette between them as Palpatine bestows him an approving smile.
"Very good, Anakin."
At this supposed agreement, Senator Wallis, who Anakin had almost forgotten was in the room, almost bursts a gasket.
"Even if we were to consider such unorthodox leadership, surely their youth and lack of experience would be a huge liability!"
Something hot curdles Anakin's stomach, but he wills it down, stretching to his full height. From across the room, Senator Wallis seems to shrink away, as if remembering Anakin's similar intimidation tactic from yesterday, though it doesn't stay his sneer. Anakin's taunting grin turns a bit feral.
"Well, I think that's a bit rich coming from you, Senator. Tell me, what name day did you celebrate this year?" Palpatine chuckles, a few others in the room trying and failing to cover their own amusement. "Lest you forget, standing in this very room, a colleague of yours – and one of Alassa Major's closest allies, might I add – defeated a loathsome and violent invasion of her home world at the tender age of fourteen. Perhaps, when it comes to opinions on young leadership, we should defer to Senator Amidala."
"To protect my people, I did what I had to," Padmé says with careful calm. "But that doesn't mean I condone indulging the notion of subjecting further youth to such heinous experiences."
Unperturbed by Padmé's icy response, Palpatine simply smiles, his expression sliding from warm sympathy to understanding pity.
"I'm afraid you can't keep Padawan Skywalker by your side forever, my dear."
All eyes return to them, and Anakin shifts uncomfortably, suddenly wishing he actually was invisible. The liberties they had taken with each other just minutes ago feel like hot brands glowing for the entire room to see. Anakin's skin burns where Padmé's palms held his face, his lips aflame with the scorching memory of hers dancing upon them. He almost regrets how close he's standing until Padmé's slippered foot, hidden by the wide hem of her skirt, sidles up next to his boot.
"Then send him elsewhere, Chancellor," Padmé says, pressing her foot hard into Anakin's, as if to apologize to him for what this public setting forces her to say. "You may recall that additional security wasn't my idea."
They don't get to hear Palpatine's response, though Anakin sees his mouth disappear with the demonstrable effort to not engage. Before the mounting tension smothers them all, Wallis, Anakin notes with an internal eye roll, comes to the timely rescue.
"I heartily agree with you, Your Excellency," the insufferable Senator butts in, failing to read the room. "Senator Amidala is a prodigious talent who regularly dwarfs colleagues twice her senior, but we can hardly expect an equivalent standard by even the most trained of the Jedi youth." Wallis' misplaced confidence only grows when he pauses long enough to notice a few of his colleagues nodding along. "How are we to measure their readiness for the demands of war?"
Anakin tries to bite his tongue. He really does. This is not his arena, and he should fade into the background like the obedient security guard he is, but his emotions are starting to boil, and he won't tolerate this fool trying to paint him and his fellow Padawans as mere children any longer.
"It's called The Crucible, actually," Anakin retorts, ignoring the subtle shift of Padmé's foot across his toes. She doesn't weigh enough to elicit any pain, but her slippered admonishment hurts all the same. He'd worked far too hard to prove his adulthood to her as well; he'd be damned to backslide now. "In times of peace, the High Council uses this exceptionally trying simulation as one of the Trials of Knighthood. It's also used regularly to teach combat and strategy in high-stress environments."
"Excellent, Anakin!" Beaming, Palpatine claps his hands, and Anakin feels the approval like a balm soothing his offended pride, even as Padmé removes her foot, pulling away from him with an infinitesimal shift. "Well," he says with poorly concealed excitement, "this meeting was most rewarding. I shall run it by the Jedi Council immediately."
And without further ado, they were dismissed.
Dutifully, Anakin trails Padmé, listening to her soft discussion with Bail as they slowly filter out of the Supreme Chancellor's office after the rest of their departing Senators.
"I have a bad feeling about this," Bail says under his breath, gesturing for Senator Wallis and a few others to proceed before them. Wallis opens his mouth as if to object, then shuts his gaping mouth quickly when Anakin narrows his eyes in pointed warning.
"I, as well," Padmé agrees, sighing heavily. "But it's only a proposal. It hasn't been approved yet."
Anakin wonders if she really believes that but doesn't have time to dwell on it before the Senator from Alderaan's next question lightens the increasingly morose tone of their chatter.
"Are you feeling up to attending my charity gala?"
Padmé gives a little start, then her surprise softens into a droll look.
"I intend to be there," she says, then boldly sends Anakin a conspiratorial smile over her shoulder. "Assuming we can convince Master Kenobi to let me out of my cage for one night?"
Anakin winks back, only too happy to ignore Bail's consideration of them and burn in whatever fire Padmé's playing with.
"It shall be done, milady."
The afternoon whirls by with all the chaos of a Tatooinian sandstorm. Several hours in, Anakin's mind spins, topics of charter redefinition, trade route disputes, and humanitarian crises blurring into a clear-as-mud debrief on the state of the galaxy, yet Padmé weathers the frenzy with diligent dedication and an effortless grace, weaving through the endless holocalls and holodocs as seamlessly as if she were Master Yoda demonstrating lightsaber forms in the Temple dojo.
It's a master class in Senatorial life, and Anakin is left awestruck, a feeling he's fast becoming acquainted with whenever he's caught in Padmé's orbit.
Until he feels what it costs her.
From the moment they met, Anakin admired Padmé's utter lack of quit. As a nine-year-old slave, Anakin could only dream of champions like her, leaders who refused to take "No" for an answer and fought for justice with every ounce of their being. After all, slaves never had voices, and hers was strong and pure and tenacious. When he had asked if she was an angel, Padmé had laughed, amused by the infatuation of a little boy who saw her as larger than life.
But now, the young man sees that even angels get tired.
Especially the one who blatantly disregarded her mortal body's limits.
Sighing heavily, Padmé slumps into the backseat of the speeder and fires up her datapad again. No rest for the weary, it would seem. Anakin doesn't need the Force to read the exhaustion written all over her, but he stretches out anyway, wanting to keep a pulse of just how far Padmé was pushing herself. Her Force light flickers, its feeble purple wavelengths practically begging him to intervene.
"Mind if I sit?" he asks, gently angling himself in front of Dormé before she can claim her expected spot on the bench.
Startled, Dormé draws back to protest, but, when Typho glances over at their exchange, she inquires past Anakin's broad shoulder with a tense smile, "Milady?"
Padmé nods absently, already engrossed in the glowing screen on her lap.
The small flare of pleasure that ripples along Anakin's skin can't be curtailed by Dormé's withering look as he slides into the rear of the speeder. Well, maybe not quite withering, but there's a definite undercurrent of concern there impatiently waiting to be addressed.
Later, Padmé had said. But as Anakin watches Typho navigate them into the throng of rush hour traffic, the setting sun glinting off the myriad of speeders crawling among the skyscraper sea, he wonders exactly what she had meant by later.
Patiently, Anakin bides his time, waiting to make his bold intervention. It's not a far reach to Padmé's wrist but his left hand slowly crosses the small gap of leather only when convinced he won't attract any unwanted attention. He needn't have worried. Both the captain and handmaiden's eyes are preoccupied monitoring the bobbing and crisscrossing speeders all around them. A particularly stupid swoop-and-squat maneuver that leaves Typho cursing under his breath at the renegade driver now in front of them lends Anakin the perfect distraction to close the remaining distance.
Padmé jolts when his fingers gently wrap around hers, alarm sounding silently in her wide eyes that dart between him and their oblivious front seat audience, but Anakin holds firm.
"Take a break," he mouths, raising his eyebrows pointedly when she narrows her own at him. They lock eyes, neither willing to back down, until Padmé recognizes kindred obstinacy. Sighing softly once more, she relents, setting her datapad to sleep mode, and, to Anakin's delight, leaves her fingers threaded with his, even when his thumb traces soothing circles over her skin.
About fifteen minutes from the Senate Apartment Complex, Padmé's hand goes slack in his. As her head lolls onto his shoulder, Anakin smiles into the top of her tresses, carefully sliding across the seat and letting her settle against him however her exhausted body deems fit.
When the worst of the stop-and-go traffic is behind them, Dormé dares a glance at them, her mouth dropping then abruptly shutting when Anakin presses a finger to his lips. He half-braces, expecting her annoyance to sour the content atmosphere, but Dormé's teal signature glows with appreciation the rest of the way home in the darkening cab.
Expertly, Typho steers them through the narrow aisles of the parking deck, making straight for the speeder races reserved for members of the Naboo Embassy. Anakin can't tell what rouses Padmé – the lot's lighting flashing intermittently or the random pings denoting cleared security checkpoints – but she eases herself off his pillowing support with a shy smile and blinks herself back into the realm of the awake.
Relative silence accompanies their little group as they journey up to the penthouse floors. Dormé confirms dinner arrangements. Typho's comlink chimes simultaneously with Anakin's, and both men glance down to see the message from Obi-Wan, apologizing for running behind. Padmé's eyes light up, a smile threatening to match the one on Anakin's face, when Dormé chimes in to douse the rising temperature in the turbolift.
"Your master's delay is actually an advantage," she says, drawing Anakin's reluctant attention away from a now fully roused Padmé. "I could use your help with her bedroom security cam. The feed's been fritzing in and out all day."
"Not again," Typho groans. "We should probably just replace it."
Dormé shakes her head. "That would take too long, and I doubt you'd be thrilled to go without a cam overnight."
Typho's grimace is answer enough.
"Besides, the Senator tells me you're quite adept with electronics," Dormé says, turning to Anakin with a glint in her eyes that speaks of something other than hope.
"I'm fairly skilled with droids," Anakin admits, watching Padmé's incandescence dim despite the light-hearted conversation. It's not quite worry casting a long shadow over her, but the vein is similar. "Though those skills don't always translate to other technologies."
"Would you mind taking a look?"
Anakin already is, and for some reason, Padmé looks extremely on edge.
When the turbolift doors open, Typho peels off to monitor the situation from the command center while Dormé beelines for Padmé's bedroom. She wastes no time, grabbing a chair and climbing onto it to fiddle with the camcorder, as Anakin steps aside to let Padmé pass into the room ahead of him.
"There's nothing wrong with the camera, is there?" she asks, when Dormé yanks the plug from its socket.
"No, I've been making it glitch all day so I could have a plausible reason to talk to you both in private," Dormé answers. Her hands on her hips, she hops down from the chair, fixing her sights on Anakin.
"What about the audio?" he asks, before Dormé can launch into whatever lecture she's been preparing in conjunction with camera troubles.
"There's no audio in this room, Ani," Padmé says gently. And it's her soft tone as much as the affectionate way she speaks his childhood nickname that cuts the simmering tension. "Senators are allowed at least that much privacy." Then, she turns to her glowering handmaiden, "Look, about earlier…"
Oh, right… About earlier. As the gravitas hits him, Anakin straightens. Evidently, later has arrived.
"…it's my fault. I lost track of time, and…"
"We," Anakin corrects. Twin brown stares catch him in their crosshairs. "We lost track of time," he repeats. The crux of this discussion might be between Padmé and Dormé, but he won't let his love martyr herself when he was just as complicit.
Padmé's eye shine with gratitude, her cheeks coloring a delicate pink.
"We lost track of time," she amends, "and it put you in a bad spot. I'm – We're sorry."
Dormé deflates, and her response is less venomous than Anakin had anticipated. "You two do need to be more careful, but it's not me I am worried for, Padmé." The two women lock gazes as Dormé approaches, taking Padmé's hands in her own. Dormé swallows hard against rising emotion, but Anakin sees the watery gleam rising in her gaze. "I don't want to fail you."
Padmé's face crumples and she crushes Dormé to her in a desperate embrace. "You are not failing me. Do you hear me, Dorothea?" Dormé's bun bobs in understanding, then shakes vehemently in denial as Padmé continues, her voice thick and struggling. "I have been unfair to you. I've been selfish and careless, forcing this secret upon you without your blessing. I've neglected your needs for support staff because, because I can't bring myself to…"
Like surf crashing against a rocky shore, grief breaks through the room. The Force stirs mournfully around the sole survivors of a shatter sisterhood, and Anakin freezes, terrified to disrupt the sacred moment. Despite her best efforts to hide her heartache, Padmé hadn't been as successful as she had perhaps thought in keeping her pain from him. But her melancholy trailed behind them their whole stay on Naboo, taking up residence in Varykino like an uninvited guest. In the mornings, she pretended she hadn't been weeping at night, and Anakin was willing to pretend he hadn't heard her, if that's what Padmé truly wanted.
But what Padmé truly needed was to grieve the loss of her sisters with another.
Eventually, Dormé steps back, smearing tears from Padmé's cheeks even as hers continue to stream down her own. She smiles, the sad undertone lingering just beyond the warmth intensifying their bond. "I am more than willing to keep your secrets, milady, but I can't cover for you all by myself. Neither of you is any good at hiding your feelings, but especially…"
Dormé tilts her head teasingly in Anakin's direction. He takes the well-meant slight in stride, recognizing Dormé's unspoken acceptance of him for what it is. Padmé's relationships with her handmaidens were as holy as the one he hoped to someday build with her. They would need as many allies as possible to guard that intimate future.
"Guilty as charged," he agrees.
Padmé laughs wetly, fighting back another wave of emotion, and he can't help but open his arms to her, a safe space she willingly dives into. "That may be," she says, looking up at him beneath dark lashes. "But you're still going to have to work on it."
"I doubt any amount of coaching or self-discipline will change that," Dormé cautions.
"Ouch!" Anakin exclaims. "Blasters fired!"
Burying her laugh, Padmé snuggles closer to his chest, one hand pressing soothingly into his mock-wounded heart.
"But I've come up with an idea that might help."
Curious, Padmé peels herself away from him, and Anakin has to admit his own interest is piqued.
"For the foreseeable future," Dormé starts, "Anakin is to be your bodyguard, correct?"
"Correct," they answer in unison, drawing out grins on everyone.
"So literally lean into that as your cover," Dormé says. "Anywhere you go, he goes. Anywhere you are, he is. Eat lunch together, walk the hallways together, wait outside the fresher door for her or for him if you must, for Gungan's sake, but make it so normal to see you together, that it becomes normal."
There was merit to it, Anakin has to agree. Dormé was using a very well-known truth to hide a must-stay-hidden unknown truth, and it was the perfect time to let his assignment do the heavy-lifting while they all adapted to their new situation.
"That could work," Padmé says.
"All too easy," Anakin agrees, his heart stumbling when Padmé unleashes the smile she reserves just for him.
Dormé considers them, fondness and trepidation flashing through her teal signature, then seems to remember the excuse she had sold Typho and climbs back onto the chair she had abandoned.
"I'm going to reset the system," Dormé says, plugging the camera back in. "It will be offline for five minutes. But only five minutes. Beyond that…" She throws them each a very pointed gaze, then jumps down into view of the re-activated cam, her fingers dancing across her retrieved datapad.
"Thank you," Padmé whispers. Had he not just been witness to the moving meeting himself, the thickness in Padmé's voice would have taken him by surprise.
"Truly," Anakin adds.
Dormé tries to treat them both to her best matronly-scolding look, but her own grin bursts through just as she takes her leave. "Five minutes," she warns again.
The moment Dormé disappears around the corner, a detrimental tension blankets the room. The Force crackles with electric wakening, and Anakin swears it whispers things in his ears no Jedi has ever heard it speak.
"So, here's where the rest of my flowers went," Anakin says a little too casually when the silence stretching between them begins to feel like a calamitous void. Watching him stroll among the floral splendor, Padmé doesn't immediately reply. Under any other circumstance, Anakin would have delighted in the way she seems unable to take her eyes off him, but in the fragrant perimeter of her bedroom, her ravenous scrutiny is more than a little unnerving.
"Please don't look at me like that."
Anakin's wondering if he should apologize at least once more for his insolence when Padmé beats him to the punchline of his own miserable reverie.
"You really thought I would throw them out?" Padmé has the audacity to sound hurt, even though his heart is still recovering from the aftermath.
"I hoped you wouldn't," Anakin admits quickly, hesitating before deciding to pick off the scabs anyway. "But hope was hard for me to find after that… conversation we had." Something that looks like shame lowers Padmé's eyes, but it could be any number of emotions that finally pulls her gaze from his. No, not quite shame, his Force insight corrects, but even with ethereal guidance, Anakin has trouble pinpointing her poignant shift. "You can be very challenging to read."
As if aware of how enigmatic she can be, Padmé glances up, amusement inexplicably sweeping her tumultuous thoughts aside. She tilts her head, playfully considering him, and it takes more discipline than Anakin cares to admit to not add on a petulant "Like now."
"Then maybe you need more practice." Her grin and tone are downright flirtatious – there's no way Anakin is misreading that - though Padmé flutters her eyelashes at him for good measure. "Pop quiz: what am I thinking right now?"
Anakin isn't sure if he consciously takes the first step towards her or if the dare in her dark brown eyes compels him to do so. Either way, Padmé holds her ground, her smile growing with each approaching step, especially when Anakin boldly crosses the line of propriety, leaving nothing but a shared breath's space between them.
"Correct so far," she purrs, and while her anticipation practically begs him to continue, so far was the final permission Anakin had been waiting for.
Gathering her to him, Anakin hoists Padmé up, blindly finding the nearest wall when her fingers thread through his hair and her legs ensnare his waist. Five minutes, you only have FIVE MINUTES! his mind reminds him, but it's too late. Padmé moans against his mouth, and the tenuous hold Anakin has left on his sanity drifts away in the incendiary haze. He wants to devour her, and she's all too willing to let him, rewarding every kiss with equal fervor, her body soft and warm and yielding over and over beneath every dangerous touch. More? his lips ask, and yes, her whimpers reply until he's drowning in her and has no idea how they were ever able to halt the madness earlier in the hallway.
Anakin's beyond rational thought. He couldn't hope to hear his mind over the roaring in his blood anyhow, but the Force whispers and somehow, he manages to heed its warning, manages to pull himself back from the brink. Even then, he shakes with the effort to still his roaming hands and lips, almost forfeiting all of it on the spot as Padmé whines in protest when he finally pulls himself off of her.
Panting, she watches him, desire beckoning to him in those deep brown pools, enticing him to consider what could happen with just another five minutes…
Oh gods, he can't think about that right now… not if he wants to experience this five minutes again - and he most certainly does! - because if he were to forget himself and dive back in, there would be no possibility of this heavenly five minutes ever again.
And that would rain hell on them both.
Struggling to keep hold of his barely found restraint, Anakin grits his teeth against a tormented groan as she slides slowly down his front, relinquishing his grip only when certain neither of them will collapse into a puddle on the carpet.
"Time's up," he murmurs, grateful when his voice doesn't wobble the way his legs do. Padmé's sulking scowl makes his heart laugh, but she replies, "I know," even as the air around them continues to press in with oppressive heat. She had once told him that Tatooine was a little too warm for her taste, but as she gazes up at him, starry-eyed and cheeks still aglow in the fading evening light, Anakin can't help but wonder if she's learning to enjoy the burn.
Reluctantly, Padmé untangles herself, and Anakin forces himself to step back. Can she feel what it costs him? Does she also feel her soul shredding in two?
If you are suffering as much as I am, please tell me.
Judging from the pained gleam in her eyes and her slight nod, she is.
But the cam's indicator overhead is green, and watchful eyes are upon them once again.
Mindful of their returned audience, Anakin bows and bids her a respectful goodnight. He's barely five strides from the bedroom threshold when she emits a soft plea from the shadows.
"Anakin."
All too willing to delay their separation, he turns in an instant.
The Force flares wildly around her, in a shade so violently violet, it's almost scarlet. He's never seen such a dazzling color before.
"A lot of times, in my dreams…" Padmé begins, then pauses, a knowing smile setting her vibrant halo ablaze, "…we don't stop either."
Anakin holds her gaze as long as he dares, trying to see what fantasies haunt her mind, but when his starts supplying its own spell-binding ghosts, he's forced to end this dangerous game with a "Then, sweet dreams, my love."
Force help him, she actually shivers!
Afraid that with every lingering second, he'll gladly sacrifice himself to her bewitching fire, Anakin spins on booted heel.
The long journey back to the Temple does nothing to smother their rising inferno.