A/N: I sincerely hope all you Anidala fans are ready for this one! I've been on the edge of my seat waiting to post this chapter for quite some time. There's quite a bit to dive into, and I hope beyond hope that you enjoy the "lore" that has been marinating in my head for-errr, don't make me do the math!-twenty plus years now! A gentle reminder: I use the movies and novelizations of the movies as the written-in-stone canon, pull largely from the Legends EU for most else, and cherry-pick for the various other timelines now in SW existence.
To give credit where credit is due, the dayalilly flower is the creation of madame alexandra, and she has graciously consented to let me use her genius name in my works.
As always, reviews/thoughts/comments are GREATLY appreciated! Don't be a stranger out there! :D
Chapter 12
PADMÉ AMIDALA
What in the green meadows of Naboo had she been thinking? Grabbing Anakin's hand like that? Intimately intertwining their fingers?
It hadn't even crossed her mind to consider her audience, let alone that she had one.
No, wait. That wasn't true.
Padmé had thrown one surreptitious glance over Anakin's shaking body, registered Obi-Wan sitting in the front row, and decided she didn't give a flying shaak what he saw. Anakin needed her, and so Padmé answered—everything and everyone else be damned.
But pursuing a forbidden relationship is one thing; flouting the choice is entirely something else. Even if she had been the only one to recognize Anakin's distress, Padmé couldn't lose her complete grip on reality for the sake of helping Anakin find his.
"Did I hurt you?"
Startled, Padmé surfaces from her troubled ruminations only to fall into an azure abyss. Anakin searches her intently, narrowing his eyes when she tilts her head, struggling to catch up.
"Hurt me?" she repeats. Her confusion bounces off him like a blaster bolt ricocheting across a deflector shield. "Why would you—?"
"You keep flexing your hand."
Deep blue eyes flick down to her lap before sliding back up and locking into hers with an intensity that makes Padmé's knees weak even when sitting. Indeed, her right fingers curl and uncurl in her lap, the ache in them not at all Anakin's fault.
At least, not in the way he fears.
Even now—heedless of the ever-watchful perimeter cams—her traitorous fingers yearn to thread again with his. Balling her hand into a tight fight offers little help to her dangerously slipping self-control.
"I'm fine," she assures him, but Anakin only frowns at her white-knuckled restraint, his full mouth pinched into a silent, unconvinced line. Before Padmé can allay the doubt swirling in his eyes, Dormé bustles back into the room.
"Here," her handmaiden says, stopping in front of Anakin. "See if these fit."
Padmé instantly recognizes the gleaming black and brown leather she holds out for Anakin's approval as two pairs of standard issue Royal Naboo Security Force gloves. That explains Dormé's sudden disappearance only a moment ago. Her handmaiden must have taken off to search for spare sets in Typho's wardrobe.
As Anakin reaches for the darkest material, Padmé's not at all surprised by his selection. She watches him work his metal fingers into the ebony sheath, wiggling about and studying their stiff movement with abject uncertainty.
"When Gre—Typho began wearing his eyepatch, he said the counterpressure was initially a bit distracting," Dormé explains. "Once his nerves adjusted, he barely noticed he was even wearing it."
"Thank you," Anakin mumbles, though his polite smile looks more like a wince that Padmé suspects has nothing to do with any ongoing discomfort and everything to do with his struggling self-consciousness.
"How does it feel?" Padmé asks gently.
"Different."
The soft admission is all the leash Anakin will allow his unease.
Clenching her fist tighter, Padmé suppresses a hiss of pain, her nails biting further into her tender palms, but Anakin whips his stare back to her like he heard one anyway, a question burning out at her from the cerulean depths. Padmé's breath catches and before she knows it, she's drowning in those welcoming pools, her cheeks and face ablaze.
If Dormé notices the ratcheting tension in the room, she's merciful enough not to comment.
"Your first conference call is in a half hour, M'Lady." Somehow, she keeps her eyes from sliding to Anakin, though the sparkle in them turns to a full-on glow when Padmé practically jumps out of her skin as Anakin props himself from slumped to sitting, his thigh grazing along hers with the shift. "Would you like me to set up here?"
"Here is fine," Padmé squeaks.
But here is not fine.
Not when her entire focus zeroes on the glancing point of contact. Not when her thigh feels like it's been branded, the cool air seeping in to fill Anakin's void barely enough to staunch her heightened awareness.
You are unhinged, Amidala scolds her, but Padmé doesn't have it in her to argue back. After all, she has no defense. That's exactly what she becomes in Anakin's presence—completely and irrevocably unhinged. The terrifying part is how comfortable she's becoming with that unruly, rebellious space, how willing she is to blindly exist there.
By the time Padmé comes to, Anakin and Dormé are outright staring.
"Come," she says, beckoning Anakin to rise. He fails his first attempt to stand, his grimace on his second attempt solidifying the decision slowly coalescing in her head. "I promised Obi-Wan you would get some rest. Don't make me break that promise before he's even left the building."
Padmé doesn't wait to see if Anakin follows. She doesn't have to. His presence at her heels is a physical, tangible thing. So is Dormé's continuing stare—one that follows them long after they disappear from view.
Maybe it's the way Amidala wrests Padmé's pace into clipped, frustrated strides, or maybe Anakin can no longer fight the unbearable synergy flowing between them when his hand captures her arm, stopping her forward progress. She spins around, Amidala ready to chastise such bold contact, Padmé already melting from it.
"Are you sure you're… Oh."
Anakin trails off when his hand slides down her sleeve, his callused thumb pressing over the soft skin on the inside of her wrist, his eyes widening at her pulse hammering away underneath. There's no point denying the obvious, though he sucks in a stunned breath, as if he still can't believe the effect he has on her.
The space between them goes taut, every inch of it crackling like lightning caught outside a storm. There had been a time when the electricity zipping between them had unnerved her, had set her on a different sort of high alert. Now, it enthralls her, drives her mad with the overwhelming need to bring the arcing energy to ground. She has to remember to breathe, watches Anakin's lips part as if he's struggling to do the same. It's an effort to tear her eyes from his mouth, and yet the pull to meet his burning blue gaze feels simultaneously inexorable.
Completely and irrevocably unhinged.
"Not here," Padmé whispers.
It's more of a reminder to remember herself than a refusal but Anakin drops her wrist as if scalded, swallowing hard and taking a step back. Every fiber of her being whines at her to step closer, begs her to fold herself against him, resurrect his heated touch.
Anakin must see her desperation because a spark returns to his face, his gaze darting just once to the private haven just past her shoulder. "But somewhere?" he asks, his low timbre hiking hopefully.
Her lips curling in silent reply, Padmé forces herself to turn away, barely having the presence of mind to collect towels as a flimsy pretext for why she's leading a Jedi Padawan to her personal fresher. Even more comical is the way she keeps at it, explaining the finicky temperature controls as if someone is hanging on her every word.
Anakin clearly isn't.
The moment they pass through the narrow doorway, he snakes an arm around her waist, gathering her to him and hoisting her onto the bathroom vanity in one fell swoop. She almost sobs with relief when his lips descend to hers, one last coherent thought wondering how Anakin knew when to make his daring move.
I know every room, every corridor, every blind spot…
He had been talking about the Senate Rotunda but Padmé doesn't doubt for one second that Anakin's late-night studies hadn't extended to other building layouts as well. When Anakin put his mind to something, he was excruciatingly thorough. Especially when it came to her.
He kisses her like he had been dying to do so all morning. He slides his mouth against hers, long and slow and deep pressure that has her arching into him like a drawn bow. Something in the slant Anakin demands of her sends Padmé's mind racing. Her hands scale the cool leather of his tabards, search their way across the warm skin of his neck to twist into his Padawan ponytail, and pull him closer. Just like he does in her heated dreams, he growls, pushing possessively between her knees and stoking a blistering warmth low in her belly.
Seeking further leverage, Padmé scoots forward. Or tries to, but Anakin's gripping her hips like she's his only anchor in this storm of desire. Pride has her smiling against his roving mouth, and Anakin pulls back, a little bit thrown by her amusement.
"What?"
"I don't think this is what Typho meant by 'tactile redirection'."
Anakin blushes and a part of Padmé thrills at the sight. His cerulean eyes sway a shade, darkening with a hint of charisma that she's quickly learning precedes the follow-up smirk.
"Well… if it works."
Padmé's giggle erupts out of her, and she buries her face into the crook of Anakin's neck, not the least bit successful at stifling it. She feels him huff a laugh against her crown, almost missing the apology he whispers there.
"I truly am sorry for being late."
Despite the long, solid frame holding her up, Padmé hears an echo of that sweet, little boy on Tatooine who had pleaded earnestly on her—a stranger's—behalf because it was the decent human thing to do.
"I would have commed except…" Anakin hesitates enough that she draws back to see his kiss-swollen lower lip dive beneath his teeth.
"You didn't want Obi-Wan to know," she replies softly.
He nods, seemingly of habit, and Padmé's heart twists. How much was Anakin always keeping under lock and key? She'd caught a glimpse of the text Obi-Wan had been pouring over last night. It had been impossible not to snoop especially when the bold title had screamed Anakin's name. Did he even realize how much his Master worried about him?
"I didn't want you to worry," Anakin corrects, as if reading her thoughts.
Padmé doesn't point out that starship has already sailed. But denying that she was near sick with worry this morning would only be a lie, one that didn't need to be added to the pile they would inevitably accumulate in their future.
Cognizant of time slipping away from them, Padmé reluctantly shifts forward, bracing her weight momentarily on Anakin's shoulders to avoid the counter's edge from snagging on her gown's delicate shimmersilk. He tries to hide his flinch when she slides down, but Padmé immediately notices his discomfort.
"You should probably take some blockers."
"Typho's right," Anakin begins, "they don't help for—Ahhhh!" With a look of betrayal, he shrugs his shoulder away from the tell-tale press of her fingers.
"They might now."
Padmé presses a soft kiss to Anakin's scowl, something falling with her dropped movement off the vanity in a whisper to the floor. Curiosity cutting in on the dance of their lips, she twists in his embrace to discover a folded gray tunic pooled at her feet.
"You brought me another one?" Padmé asks, her smile bursting forth in delight.
Anakin lets go of her long enough so that she can retrieve the fallen fabric, though he's quick to ensnare her waist as she returns to standing.
"I'd bring you the whole galaxy if you wanted."
Padmé crinkles her nose at him, a different sort of warmth flooding her skin. As grandly romantic as the notion is, she doesn't doubt Anakin's sincerity. If she asked him, he would deliver her request without hesitation. Her palm finds his cheek, and Anakin sneaks a reverent kiss to her wrist.
"How fortunate for them that I only want you," she says, her palm finding his cheek.
As Anakin reverently presses a kiss to her pulse point, her head spins, the fresher walls shimmering at the edges of her vertigo. She's amazed she doesn't swoon on the spot as she reluctantly extricates herself from Anakin's anchoring hold.
"Where are you going?"
"We've spent too much time in here. Someone might come looking," Padmé replies, though his adorable little pout has her considering how terrible that possibility would actually be.
Disastrous, and not only for your relationship.
Mentally shushing Amidala, Padmé raises the tunic still clutched in her hand.
"Besides, I know the perfect spot for this."
When she takes a step towards the door, she can practically hear Amidala's sigh of relief. Anakin follows her… closely, and Padmé tries not to shiver as her nerves tingle with heightened awareness. But he's wise enough to ease his pursuit when she reaches surveillance territory. Leaning against the door jamb, the weight of his stare accompanies Padmé all the way to her closet, the disappointment in his eyes drowning in a wild wave of unexpected joy when she cleverly stows the gifted garment in the shadows of her wardrobe.
His blue eyes have never been more brilliant.
"What?"
It takes Anakin a moment to shake off whatever thought had him left him so spellbound.
"What will your security think of this?"
He gestures to the room at her back, watching Padmé collect towels and turn down the covers on her bed.
She shrugs a nonchalant shoulder, though her tone sparks with an edge. "My room, my rules."
"Careful, milady," Anakin chuckles. He rolls his lips attempting to hold back some quick-witted reply though the corner of his mouth quirks up like he just can't help himself. "That sounds a lot like a dictatorship..."
There's nothing of the sunshine and lightness in Anakin's eyes that had twinkled out at her when they were surrounded by breezy grasses and roaring waterfalls. His dark blue stare is bold with a challenge that sends a delicious tremor down her spine.
"And if it is?" Padmé raises an eyebrow, fighting not to mirror his widening grin. "Are you challenging my reign here?"
Anakin ducks his head, the tan skin over his cheeks turning an uncharacteristic rosy hue, before he gamely returns his eyes to hers.
"No, of course not. At least…" His smirk is positively dangerous. "…not today."
The titillating tremor explodes low in Padmé's belly, her veins singing in the wake of Anakin's unspoken promise.
"Artoo!" she calls, her blood warming as Anakin saunters towards her.
The astromech's answering tootle echoes down the hall, his low whirring motors cutting through the thickening tension and heralding his arrival. Padmé's still locked in the devastating staredown when he rolls to a stop at her elbow, his dome swirling towards her expectantly.
"Alert me if he tries to get up before eleven," she instructs, then softer to Anakin. "Take some blockers. Get some rest."
"Yes, milady."
His devilish wink remains seared into her mind the whole way back to the living room.
Despite the dregs of adrenaline coursing through her system, Padmé manages to keep her focus through holoconference after holoconference after holoconference. Dormé feeds her the necessary dossiers and relevant notes, clearly having stayed on top of the professional world much better than Padmé had while gallivanting across the galaxy with Anakin.
Well, gallivanting maybe wasn't the right word.
Between Anakin's mother's death, rushing to Obi-Wan's aid and the outbreak of full-scale civil war, the end of their trip had spiraled into the stuff of nightmares. It made the trade skirmish between Roldalna and Kalinda she had been moderating seem childish.
Standing to stretch her stiff muscles, Padmé cranes her neck hopefully towards her bedroom hallway under its enthusiastic guise.
Still silent. Still empty.
Sighing heavily, Padmé slumps back to the couch and reluctantly reaches for the next datapad on the stack.
"You know…" Dormé starts, a teasing grin playing across her face. "You might be even more productive if you just crawled into bed with him."
Padmé balks, eyes going wide at Dormé's audacity.
"Oh, don't fret yourself into a supernova," her handmaiden says, waving off her mistress's look of horror. "I muted the audio feed."
"I am being productive," Padmé says, a bit defensively, gesturing between the two equal piles of completed and to-be completed tasks.
"I never said you weren't. I said even more."
Dormé's grin widens as if preparing to continue her teasing when she glances abruptly past Padmé's shoulder.
"Looks like you missed your chance anyway."
Padmé looks up to see Anakin approaching with R2-D2 at his flank. The astromech emits a series of rapid beeps and clicks before Anakin silences him with a soft pat to the dome, his black leather glove a shadow across the bright blue and silver.
"I won't let you take the fall, pal," he assures the agitated droid. "After all, she can't be too mad at me. I almost made it to eleven."
Anakin levels her with a look that's still sleepy at the edges, yet intent on her all the same. Her heart stammers a protest when her eyes interrupt the lingering exchange to check the wall chrono.
10:56
"I suppose I can let you off easy," Padmé croons. "But just this once."
Anakin smirks at her warning finger until Dormé clears her throat.
"Will you be making an appearance at the Rotunda today, or should I reschedule your afternoon as well?"
Anakin straightens as Padmé frowns.
There's not that much on her afternoon docket aside from document review but Dormé's point is valid—even if she meant her offer in affectionate jest. It would behoove Senator Amidala to grace the Senate with her presence, last the rumor mill begin to circle more viciously.
"You okay if we eat there?"
Anakin looks momentarily surprised by Padmé's request for his input, but she had learned that choice was important to him and letting him have every opportunity to govern his own life was perhaps one of the only gifts she could give him.
"Fine by me."
Padmé returns his grin, the promise of a lunch date as exciting as the surprise she had planned for Anakin this afternoon.
"Great! Then let's collect Threepio, and we'll go."
They make a detour through the Rotunda's food court, selecting sandwiches and drinks, before installing themselves in the offices designated for Naboo's use. Anakin yawns several times between bites of his ronto wrap, waving off Padmé's careful inquiry about his tiredness.
"The blockers make me drowsy," he explains quickly when Threepio offers a rare pause the nonstop vocal wondering and exclamations he had been making ever since his inclusion in their outing. Suddenly, Anakin's reluctance towards his pain medication makes a whole lot more sense to Padmé, though she chooses to file that piece of knowledge away for later use. Anakin's longing glances toward the untouched other half of her sandwich refuse to be filed.
"Here," she says, handing him the stacked club.
"Are you sure?"
Padmé nods.
"Otherwise, you might very well start looking at me like that later."
"And that would be a bad thing?"
She shoots him a warning look that doesn't quite hold any seriousness when her mouth turns up at the corners. Luckily—or perhaps regretfully by the way Anakin scowls—C-3PO interjects with another round of wide-photoreceptor enthusiasm before Padmé can retort.
Mind still fritzing from Anakin's flirtation, she misses the subject of whatever Threepio's now going on about, yet understands every word Anakin mumbles around a mouthful of sandwich.
"Why is he here again?"
Padmé blinks, all the mirth of the previous moment evaporating like dewdrops in the Dune Sea. Anakin's hostility towards his own droid throws her, and she quickly backpedals wondering if she's made some horrendous miscalculation inviting C-3PO along.
Her bewildered expression speaks volumes to Dormé.
"Threepio," her handmaiden intervenes. "Why don't I show you our front offices?"
"I would love that, Miss Dormé! You are far too kind and…"
The protocol droid's continued fawning fades as Dormé ushers him out of the room, collecting Typho on her way. Her captain steals one last glance at the remaining duo, but Padmé nods once in polite dismissal, and he turns to leave without another glance back.
When the door shuts, Padmé takes a moment to study the young man before her. Anakin pops the last bite of sandwich into his mouth, dusting off his hands and looking for all intents and purposes like a fish out of water standing alone in the middle of her empty office. Memories resurface of a sandy-haired boy perched on a landing platform, lost and adrift in a vast metropolitan sea.
It almost makes her not want to push him.
Until Padmé remembers how much damage a bottled-up and brooding Anakin can do.
Clearing her throat, she waits for his full attention. Anakin gives it to her instantly, like he's incapable of anything less. The burn behind his blue eyes makes her mouth go dry, makes the words scratch and hurt.
"What did you mean by 'why is he here again?'"
Anakin's brow furrows in confusion, then anger, then embarrassment.
"He shouldn't be here," he says, an edge to his tone that Padmé struggles to understand.
"How come?" she asks, taking a careful step closer.
Anakin's gloved fingers twitch but he doesn't reach for her, even as his gaze does.
"His programming is pedestrian," Anakin says. "I found his software chip under a pile of scrap Watto forgot about in the back of his shop." An infinitesimal light softens the strife streaking across Anakin's taut features. "To this day, he still doesn't know I stole it from him."
But then he raises those eyes and the blue is dark and stormy and…
Dangerous.
Padmé almost drowns in the intensity.
"All Threepio has known is junkyards and moisture farms," Anakin continues. "He knows nothing of what it means to be a protocol droid working in the employ of an esteemed senator."
"Is that where you want him to be?"
Anakin's frown is perplexed.
"Isn't that why you brought him here?"
"I brought him here because he's your droid, Ani," Padmé says gently. "And I thought you might want something to do while I review bills and chat with dignitaries the rest of the afternoon."
Anakin's brow pulls together, though she sees a bit of light flicker to life in his cerulean stare.
"What do you mean?"
Padmé beams, knowing she has him hook, line, and sinker.
"Tell me, Padawan Skywalker, how much your late-night studying taught you about the Senate's subterranean levels."
It's clear from Anakin's look of awe that he had not stumbled upon the Droid Maintenance Division during his midnight memorizing. As they approach the large warehouse and repair offices, a smile breaks across his face like one of Naboo's brilliant dawns, and Padmé basks in its radiance. She'd been hoping to earn of those rare Anakin smiles all morning.
The Droid Maintenance Division occupies a half kilometer stretch of the Rotunda's lower levels. Maintenance bays and service stalls line one side of the endless hallway while a vast catalog of parts, servos, power cells, and programming discs and chips stand in orderly queues waiting patiently for selection.
Anakin spins a slow circle, blue eyes striving to take in the surrounding mechanical heaven. His lips move soundlessly, whispering over the items that catch his fancy, fingers seeking to touch various gadgets as if he can't quite believe their actual existence.
Anakin never lets them land. Whether drawn by the pull of yet another component or afraid to disrupt the wondrous dreamland before him, Padmé can't tell. Content to enjoy his fascination, she wanders behind her bodyguard in an ironic switch of their usual positions.
They're almost to the far end of the warehouse when Anakin finally stops his stroll in the casing department. Rows and rows of colors and design create a veritable rainbow of droid paneling.
Padmé draws shoulder-to-shoulder with Anakin as he studies a bright silver protocol torso.
"If I may…" she gently interrupts.
His gaze falls to her, a different sort of adoration flickering in the blue abyss. Despite the cool air circulating throughout the depot, Padmé feels her cheeks warm.
She lifts her arm, pointing to a row several torsos above the silver. As her suggestion slowly registers, Anakin sucks in a breath.
"But that's reserved for protocol droids in service to the Naboo Royal Houses." He shakes his head. "Threepio isn't…"
"He would be if you'll allow him to join my senatorial staff." Padmé's a little surprised—and more than a little delighted—that Anakin was aware of the significance behind the golden plating. While not unique to the Naboo, gold casings were unofficially exclusively used for protocol droids in the employ of the monarchy. She can practically see the wheels turning in his head.
"True, I'm not the Queen Elect anymore," Padmé explains. "However, the populace has allowed me to keep chrome plating on all my official starships out of respect for my previous station."
She decides to leave out the additional detail of her continued allowance as a token of Naboo's eternal gratitude for her efforts during the Great Invasion. It feels a little too on the nose to mention the fact when she had also been on the very first battlefield of galactic civil war.
"Gold casing is also mine to use if I so choose."
She lets the offer linger between them, lets Anakin take as much time as he needed to mull over his decision.
"It would certainly solve my problem of what to do with him."
Padmé tilts her head, a question in her eyes.
"Possession is forbidden for a Jedi, remember?" Anakin's face darkens. "If I brought him back to the Temple, he'd likely be conscripted into the Jedi service droid ranks."
Anakin's word choice makes her chest ache, and though she wonders if something more sinister lurks beneath them, Padmé decides to earmark that conversation for another time.
"Threepio is more than welcome to join us, Ani," Padmé says softly, fighting the urge to touch him. "It would be my honor to watch over him for you."
Casting a glance to the side, Anakin swallows hard, his chest heaving several times against what Padmé suspects are turbulent emotions.
"Only one minor problem with that," he replies, his voice thick and his eyes bright with unshed tears.
"And what's that?"
He pulls a hand across the back of his neck, and Padmé thinks she's witnessing the first ever moment a sheepish grin has crossed Anakin's face.
"I spent all my discretionary funds on your flowers."
Padmé's laugh echoes loudly down the length of the empty ferrocrete hall.
A full golden set of protocol droid casing and several software chips later, Anakin and Padmé return to Naboo's offices and settle in for the afternoon. Dormé is more than relieved to relinquish custody of C-3PO by the time they return, not even offering a clever comment in their wake.
Threepio is beside himself when he realizes his Maker's burden is meant for him. Dodging flailing arms and jerky, little hops, Padmé claps a hand to her mouth, stifling her amusement as Anakin shuffles after his overly grateful charge, finally landing a hand on Threepio's power switch.
Both fall to the sitting couches in various states of shutdown.
"It's such a shame he hates the color," she teases.
Scrubbing his hands over his face, Anakin groans, and Padmé's giggle bubbles to the surface. She grabs her datapad—the screen brightening with multiple notifications—patting Anakin's shoulder affectionately as she rounds the settees, making her way to her Hydenock desk where her gifted dayalillies bob gently in silent greeting.
Indulgently, she exchanges one last collusive grin with Anakin, then tucks her chin and gets to work.
Dormé was only half-right with her earlier observation. Padmé is much more focused with Anakin nearby.
Focused on the cute little scrunch between his eyes as he threads the programming chips into Threepio's motherboard.
Focused on the adorable way his hands flutter through his hair whenever he searches the helter-skelter scatter of tools and parts around him.
Focused on his lower lip's disappearance as he concentrates intensely on a stubborn casing and its victorious reemergence whenever he secures another golden plate into place.
Focused on the increasing length and intensity of his return stares whenever he catches her watching.
"What do you think?" he asks, turning the inert Threepio so she can survey his handiwork.
"Ummmmm," Padmé stammers, trying to will a coherent thought to mind. The protocol droid's photoreceptors stare back at her, just as blank.
Anakin grins, no doubt entertaining a witty tease to toss at the speechless Senator's feet when Dormé barrels into the room.
"Senator Drayk Wallis here to see you, M'Lady." Her brown eyes are wild, strained, apologetic.
Anakin jumps to his feet, a muscle in his jaw twitching as the senator from Alassa Major saunters in.
"Senator," Padmé says, all too willing to let the poised Amidala take the reins. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
Anxiously, she notes Anakin's attentive stance, base wide legs and hands clasped behind his back. Somewhere during his rise, his lightsaber had found its way to his tense grip. Padmé tries not to dwell on the implication behind her bodyguard's overwrought readiness.
Or what Drayk's sneer at the young Jedi might provoke.
"Trouble with your droid?"
Padmé purses her lower lip and shakes her head. "No, just making a few upgrades."
Resentment begins a cold simmer low in her belly at the snide look Drayk gives the discarded stack of Threepio's desert-battered plating, sloshing into a boil when he plops himself into an uninvited seat at the foot of her desk.
"Can I help you with something, Senator?"
Out of the corner of her eye, Padmé sees Anakin raise his chin at her tone, his blue eyes boring into the back of her presumptuous peer with unabashed dislike.
"Rumor has it," Wallis drawls, his own eyes wandering obtrusively across the Hydenock's dark surface. Padmé doesn't even attempt to hide her efforts to conceal the glowing interfaces of the applications she had been reviewing. Elayne and Moteñia might one day have the displeasure of weathering Drayk Wallis's roving gaze; it was a small mercy she could offer to shield them from it now.
"That you will be attending Senator Organa's shindig after all."
Pausing expectantly, the Senator from Alassa Major steeples his fingers, his ruby family crest glinting from its circlet around his little finger. It takes a magnificent effort to refrain from curling her lip with disgust.
"I am," she replies curtly.
"Excellent, that brings me such joy to hear." Drayk smiles what Padmé assumes is his most valiant attempt to be charming. "Perhaps you will honor me by allowing me to escort you for the evening?"
Anakin shifts forward but Padmé throws him the briefest warning glance, her head barely moving to underscore the subtle command to stand-down. His weight returns to his heels, but his glower darkens considerably.
Then in a risky venture, Padmé turns her attention directly to Anakin.
"Master Kenobi tasked you with my security for Senator Organa's gala," she says. "I assume those plans have already been finalized?"
"They have, M'Lady," Anakin answers. His eyes leave hers only to slide sideways at the target of his next words. "I'm afraid there's no room to accommodate any last-minute changes."
Drayk rolls his eyes, shaking his head in perplexing amusement.
"You know I'm surprised that you haven't filed a complaint with the Jedi Oversight Committee," he drawls.
Padmé scowls.
"I'm afraid I don't understand your concern."
As he rises from his stolen seat, Drayk's demeanor shifts to inexplicable triumph when he levels a predatory look Anakin's way, and Padmé realizes her error two breaths too late.
"Leaving a mere Padawan learner in charge of your safety is tantamount to abandoning his bodyguard post, no?"
To his infinite credit, Anakin doesn't flinch from the Senator's barbed words, though the unadulterated loathing in his dark blue stare is enough to incinerate Wallis on the spot.
Pity, the Force doesn't work that way.
"And to make matters worse, in the hand of a maimed young pup at that. Seems to me a complaint is in order."
Fury boils hot in Padmé's blood, stoppering every respectable response in her throat. Hydenock wood creaks beneath her white-knuckled grip but she doubts—regretfully—that Wallis can hear her body's betrayal over whatever fuels his pompous ego. Regretfully too, her silence only adds to his impudence.
"I see someone else gifted you flowers," he says, eyeing two of Anakin's bouquets that Dormé had left to adorn each corner of her desk.
"My sister," Padmé answers tightly. She hates the taste of the lie on her tongue even when she comprehends all too well its necessity.
"Ah," Drayk says, dragging a finger along a delicate petal of the dayalilly nearest him. The flower trembles along with Padmé's last nerve. "Then it's understandable why you removed mine. Blood runs thicker than water, and all."
Wallis leans over the desk, dropping his voice low enough so only Padmé can hear and unfortunately underestimating how attuned the Jedi Padawan behind him is to his every move.
"Someday, I'll hope you let me change that."
Padmé stiffens, glaring down her nose at Drayk's obsequious bow. Abhorrence rankles throughout the room but Wallis pays it no mind as he departs, leaving her with one last lascivious smile. When the office doors close in front of and not on his leering face, Padmé is left only with sour disappointment.
Glancing to Anakin does little to ease the savage anger wreaking havoc in her heart, especially when she sees the wounded soul standing in his place.
Anakin insists that he's fine, though clearly, he's not.
There's a dullness to his eyes that frightens her, a mechanical monotony to his continued reparations of Threepio that she fears has nothing to do with limitations imposed by his prosthetic.
Making an excuse that her back is bothering her, Padmé moves to the couch, sitting as close to Anakin as she dares. Propriety opens an always watchful eye pointedly in her direction, but she doesn't budge. If the only comfort she can offer is the occasional brush of her elbow against his side, she'll give it.
Her heart leaps with precipitous hope when his head turns once in silent acknowledgement then plummets as he resumes his task without so much as a word or quirk in his mouth.
Anakin's hurting, slipping through her desperately reaching hold for him despite every attempt she can manage with her binder-cuffed hands.
Cursing Wallis under her breath, she viciously shoves down another wave of haunting memories showcasing another version of that lost and adrift boy, albeit an older and more recent one. She'd led him back already once from that slippery brink of darkness, and she'd made a silent vow after Shmi's death to never let Anakin get that close to the edge ever again.
Where the Jedi had failed him in that regard, Padmé would not.
She stays as close as she can, praying for any chance to sneak Anakin away, for any opportunity Fate might deign to give her to soothe his pain privately.
But Fate is deaf to her entreaties all afternoon and yanks the rug out from under her when they return to the apartment for evening.
Obi-Wan and MD-33 already await their arrival.
Forlornly, Padmé watches Anakin follow MD-33 back to her bedroom, noting the barest of nods he offers his Master. Silence drapes around the remaining group, its weight heavy but not at all comforting.
Typho cuts the video feed to the residential wing, and though she'd never snoop, Padmé feels the loss of yet one more connection to Anakin poignantly.
She doesn't have time to wallow when Obi-Wan breaks the still atmosphere.
"How did the rest of the day go?"
"Well," Padmé lies, forcing a smile to her face to sell it.
Sweat prickles along the back of her neck as Obi-Wan studies her contorted expression, but he looks away, keeping any further questions to himself. With tremendous restraint, Padmé exhales in slow relief.
Anakin's examination lasts less than fifteen standard minutes though her locked knees and ramrod spine bark as if she's been standing for hours.
"All good?" Obi-Wan asks, his apprentice re-merging round the bend of the hall.
"All good, Master," Anakin replies. Finally, he raises his eyes to her. For a brief moment, sparks swirl in the mesmerizing indigo, and Padmé's pounding heart scrambles up her throat to meet him.
"Good night, Senator."
Her pulse's staccato rhythm trips over Anakin's abrupt formality and falters completely at his even more abrupt departure. She only remembers to close her gaping mouth when Emdee's vocoder pierces her stunned silence.
"Whenever you're ready, Senator."
Her leaden feet shuffling loudly across the carpet, Padmé barely hears Obi-Wan's quiet request for his Padawan's med report. Nor does she react to Emdee's spate of questions, still reeling from Anakin's apathetic farewell the whole trek down the hall.
"Senator?"
Padmé flinches, but stares in confusion at the small drop of blood welling on her finger. She hadn't even felt the prick of Emdee's needle.
"I'm sorry, can you repeat your question?"
MD-33 squeezes her middle finger, coaxing several drops into his analysis chamber before covering the tiny wound with a dot-shaped bacta bandage.
"Any trouble sleeping? Focusing? Faintness?"
The medical droid practically jumps out of his casing at Padmé's harsh laugh. "Will you fail me if I say yes to all of the above?"
Emdee stares at her with unblinking photoreceptors, either computing the possible diagnostics necessary to order based on her answer or struggling to understand her sarcasm through his specific programming.
"Never mind, strike that answer." She slumps onto the mattress, a deep exhaustion suddenly settling in her bones. "Enter, no to all."
Padmé could almost swear Emdee sighs with relief, and lets the droid proceed with the rest of her evaluation unhindered. She undresses while Emdee queues up her lab orders, shivering from the cold prodding digits that press along her spine. Her blood test still shows remnants of neurotoxin, but Emdee seems pleased by the diminishing values. The droid deems her back healed, tutting a rote apology about her residual scars and offering to prescribe a cream that might reduce their appearance.
"No, thank you."
MD-33 keys in her response.
"Just a few more tests, and I'll be out of your way."
Padmé's mind goes numb, and she lets herself float in the anesthetic tide. Emdee checks multiple reflexes, peers into her eyes, and bobs its rounded headpiece with satisfaction. With one final notation, her caretaker looks up at her with as much warmth as a conglomeration of wires and data processors can muster.
"Is there anything else I can do for you today?" Emdee asks.
Slipping back into her robe, Padmé eyes the long imprint Anakin left earlier in the silken blue sheets.
"Actually," she says, a thrilling resolve stirring in her chest. "There is."