Chapter Text
“What’s wrong, Ani?”
She has found him in the garage, tinkering with a broken shifter. Standing amidst scraps of metal and unassembled parts lying around, his back to her, Anakin seems so far away. Padmé would have understood if he has expressed grief, but what she senses from him is rage, and fear. And that same fear trickles down her spine, as well. She stands her ground. Anakin needs her, she thinks. He needs a friend, and she will comfort him in this vulnerable moment, as his touch has comforted her in her loneliness.
And then, he says, brokenly: “I... killed them.”
Her eyes widen. No. She hasn’t flinched when he threw the piece of metal he had in hand at the wall, but she does now.
“I killed them all.” Anakin continues. His voice is terribly steady, but lilting with question and realization, as if this is the first time he has faced the thought. “They’re dead. Every single one of them.” Padmé takes a step back, just the second before he turns around.
She sees the hurt on Anakin’s face. She knows he has seen her recoil, but she also knows that his anger has clouded his eyes to her reactions. To be angry is to be human, she tells herself. Yet every part of her instincts is screaming at her to go, to leave, to let him be and save herself, because this is no longer vulnerability. This boy’s vulnerability has been shattered into a thousand shards of glass; with them he is going make himself bleed, and make the universe bleed with him.
If there is anything Padmé has learned from being a politician and a leader, it is to never promise what she cannot fulfill. It pains her to realize that it is not in her power to offer him the kind of consolation he wants.
His words glide past her. His voice grows in cadence and intensity, and she cannot fathom the truth he bellows. “...and the children, too,” he grits, as though he’s both daring her to challenge his decision and pleading for a reaction. As though the tears aren’t shining in his eyes; as though his conscience hasn’t already told him that it’s wrong. The tremor in his voice is still begging her to say otherwise. She cannot do that for him. “They were like animal—”
“Anakin—“
“—and I slaughtered them like animals.”
Padmé doesn’t wait for the rest. She turns around and runs like she has never run before. She can still hear his howl of anguish, and she has sympathy for him, she really does. But she isn’t repentant as the wind reels through her hair, when she catches herself thinking, You are a wounded animal.
Anakin doesn’t come back for dinner. The Lars don’t ask Padmé any question, likely because she is a senator and they aren’t accustomed to politicians sharing their dinner table. The meal ends in silence, and the family returns to their respective rooms.
Padmé remains, seated on a bench by the door. Though she knows she is no more responsible for Anakin than they are, she feels guilty. After all, they are friends, and they have shared more than most friends do - they have shared a bed. She might’ve even harbored something soft and warm and new for him in her heart. That something is gone.
“Is something troubling you, Senator?”
She turns around at the soft voice. Beru Whitesun is rubbing at a frayed sleeve, fixing her with a concerned look. She has an honest face. Padmé will miss this kind of genuineness when she returns to the Senate.
“I’m alright,” she says. “Please don’t worry about me.”
“You’re waiting for Anakin, aren’t you?”
Beru calls him by first name, even though they’ve only known each other for a few days. Padmé lets out a quiet sigh, and nods. “He might need somebody to talk to when he comes back,” she says. “I don’t want him to feel… abandoned.” It’s a loaded statement, as heavy as the unspoken questions that hung over their dinner.
Beru doesn’t ask a thing. Her eyes soften. “He’s lucky to have you.” She bows curtly, and leaves. He doesn’t , Padmé thinks. But she stays in wait, so troubled that sleep never comes to sway her, not once.
It’s past midnight when Padmé hears footsteps nearing the house. She stands up when his silhouette slips past the threshold. Anakin hangs his head, only glancing up sullenly when her movement catches his eyes. She steps towards him, sharply aware of her own cautiousness. He must be too.
“‘M sorry,” Anakin says, half-hearted at best, and Padmé’s heart squeezes.
“I don’t blame you for raising your voice, Ani.” She coaxes him towards the bench and he numbly sits down.
“What I’ve told you…”, he begins, and can’t seem to finish.
“—was true,” Padmé finishes it for him. “I know. And while it is deeply troubling, I want you to know that I don’t think lesser of you for it.” You are still that little boy on Tatooine. It’s not a lie.
His eyes flashes accusation at her. Then his gaze dulls, and he looks down at his hands. They are still stained with smudges of grease. There’s a weeping cut on his finger that he clearly hasn’t tended to. “I’m a Jedi,” he whispers, clinging to something fragile. “I know I’m better than this.”
Padmé nods, smoothing a hand on his back. Words seldom fail her this way.
—
The Geonosian language is full of clicks, glottal stops and guttural breaths. The Archduke’s mandibles flutter in the equivalent of what Padmé believes to be a smile.
Your Jedi friend is waiting for you, my lady. Take them to the execution arena!
Droids and guards flank them down long, dark corridors. The air gets colder as they, presumably, sink underground. They don’t say a word to each other. They don’t look at each other as they reached the cavernous space beneath the spires of the Petranaki Arena. The execution ground lies right beyond that door. Padmé pulls her shoulders back, squares her jaw. It isn’t until they step into the chariot that Anakin breaks the silence.
“Don’t be afraid,” he says. He sounds so earnest that it tugs at her heart. How young Anakin seems, at every turn. He is a dear friend, a brave Jedi no doubt, but he is still a boy, and she has led him straight into danger.
“I’m not afraid to die,” she answers, eyes ahead and chin high. All she sees outside is the light, blinding white. She has been confident she could resolve conflicts with diplomacy, should there be any. “I only regret for your life.”
Anakin seems to pause at that. “Why only mine?” His voice is quiet. It goes unsaid - what about yours?
Padmé only shakes her head and keeps herself from smiling sadly. She was eleven when the first assassination attempt on her played out; thirteen on the second; and the third one has been only a month ago. Death to her has always been a possibility, and she has grown to accept this. The chariots begin to move. She thinks it’s the end of it, until they toe the harsh line between the shade of the cave and scalding Geonosian sunlight, and Anakin whispers into the last wisp of silence, “I love you.” Righteousness shines in his eyes. He has uttered it with the determination of a person who has someone to live for. Someone important beyond words. Someone who will not be her, she knows it. She wishes for him to find that person someday. And so she says:
“So do I.”
They are rolled into the arena in a roar of sadistic cheers. Hard sunlight nearly makes her eyes water. Finding Obi-Wan chained to one of the column is a surprise, and an embarrassing one at that: instead of rescuing him, they’ve only just succeeded to join him in on the arena grounds. There’s no time to dwell on it; not when they’re fighting for their life. And for the Geonosians’ entertainment, she thinks, as the cheers all around the arena rattles her ears.
Perhaps not just my life. She whips around as she swings her chains at the Lexu. Her gaze lands on Obi-Wan, who has snatched a polearm and is swinging it at the Acklay with more grace than a dancer. She ducks, and kicks, and catches Anakin out of the corner of her eyes, clutching the reins on top of a bucking Reek. The arena is suddenly shadowed. When she looks up, she sees Republic ships. Perhaps for more.
All of a sudden, all around her are Jedi. They’re fighting alongside one another, and it matters not that she wields a heavy-duty blaster instead of a lightsaber - in this battle, they are one. She is on their side, she belongs amongst them, and the last thing she needs is her protection at their detriment.
Besides, the brand new troopers - that she doesn’t recognize, yet - wield blaster guns too.
—
Part of being a stateswoman is that you simply do not rest. Padmé remembers being given emergency first-aid while the ship was on its course, and then ushered into the Halls of Healing as soon as they were back at the Temple. She hasn’t slept a wink during the trip. Her nights in the healing ward have been fitful for the entire week; she never seems to manage more than three hours at a time without jolting awake. How can she sleep when a war has been declared right over her head?
It’s another of those morning where Padmé finds it futile to try going back to bed. She leaves her bed and stands by the window. The Coruscanti sky is a uniform wash of blue, the kind where daylight invades darkness rather than dilutes it. Vivid pink peeks at the horizon. The colors are striking, almost too saturated; as sharp as the cut lines of all the buildings. She misses the vast arc of Nabooian skies, the depth in its tameness.
"Padmé."
Anakin. She turns around, plasters on a smile. She almost feels bad that she is too worn to even smile genuinely; she mourns the time when she would simply, naturally relax at just the sight of him. Now he is tangled with her fragmented guilt, and he is yet another, very tangible, reminder of her limited power in dealing with other people’s suffering. Anakin is dressed in a hospital shift, as is she. He seems slightly unmoored, reminiscent of how he has looked on that fateful day on Tatooine. He stands in the doorway as if he's not sure there is a way in, despite the determination no etched in the line of his mouth.
“Ani.” She tilts her head, and shifts to the side, wordlessly inviting him to stand beside her by the window. He clearly wants to talk, that much she can see. He takes her offer and steps in. His elbow brushes against hers, and there’s a gaping emptiness below his bandaged forearm. She doesn’t mention it. Shoulder to shoulder, they look on the Coruscanti sunrise.
“I meant it,” Anakin says, seemingly out of nowhere. She looks up at him, puzzled but patient. “When we were on Geonosis. I said, I love you. I meant it then, and I mean it now. I love you, Padmé.” When she says nothing, he continues. “And you said...”
“You are very dear to me, Ani. You are one of the few people I can truly call a friend, and I cherish you as such.”
“But I thought...” He falters. He stares at her. He is obviously hurt. Padmé feels guilty again - that she has phrased it ambiguously on purpose. She stays silent to let him continue. “I thought we— could— We could make a family together.”
“Anakin, we’ve talked about this, remember?” She says, gently. “We have both decided that it’s not wise, if not impossible, to maintain any semblance of a relationship.”
“It was different. We stared death in the face on Geonosis and we survived.” Anakin’s frustration is almost visible, like a wisp of steam. “There’s no reason why our love can’t.”
Padmé bites her lip, steels herself. “I’m deeply fond of you, Anakin, but I’m not in love with you.”
“It didn’t seem like so when we were in the arena!” Anakin’s voice booms in the small healing ward. He catches her startled gaze, and he seems embarrassed, but not enough to back off. “You were honest then, Padmé, because you thought you were going to die.”
“No, Ani,” she shakes her head. “It’s because I wanted you to live.”
Silence falls upon them. It’s never easy, isn’t it? Rejection is no easier for her than it is for him, she is sure. She understands how much hardship Anakin has had to face in his life; she cannot claim to know how children born to slavery are treated, how losing a mother might feel like. But she cannot claim to empathize with someone who has committed a massacre on innocent women and children either. It puts a dagger in her to know that the truth in her words has, without a doubt, hurt Anakin. Look at him, the way his shoulders hunch, the way his eyes cast down, the way his lips purse. He is a boy still. They may have lain together, but now he is nothing more to her than a little brother, that she so wishes she could protect. She can’t. It’s not her place, nor is it in her power.
“I understand,” he says, finally. He smiles when he looks back at her, and Padmé returns it. He is in pain, but he will heal. As does everyone.
“It’s for the best. You are a Jedi, after all. And you don’t even like politicians, come on,” she squeezes his arm, and he shoulders her back. Their huffed breaths begin to sound like laughter. Before them, the sun has fully risen above the horizon.
—
Padmé has another visitor the next day.
“Senator Amidala,” Obi-Wan Kenobi greets her, accent crisp, tone neutral, manners courteous. His formality makes it feel like she is dealing in diplomacy, which puts her at ease.
“Master Kenobi,” she dips her head in a small nod. She is feeling far better today, and very much ready to leave Coruscant. There are important matters waiting for her to settle on Naboo - a new draft bill, a public event for which she must writes a speech, and so much more. Which is to say, she is undeniably weary for another conversation.
And from the looks of it, so is Obi-Wan. He is surprisingly kempt for someone who has been confined to the Halls of Healing for ten days: hair combed back and beard smoothed down in a way that makes its overgrown length less noticeable. Then again, it’s not that surprising, considering this is, after all, Obi-Wan Kenobi. But even he can do little about the lines under his eyes and the sickly pallor he sports. It strikes Padmé that perhaps he means to say something important.
“It might be abrupt of me to get to the point, Senator, and I apologize. What I would like to discuss concerns my Padawan.”
“Not at all, Master Kenobi. Please take a seat.” There are chairs and no table. That will have to do for now. “What is the matter?”
“You know as well as I do that Anakin has begun his Jedi training under unconventional circumstances. He has spent far more time in a civilian community as a child than any of the initiates in the Order.” Obi-Wan gives a deliberate, almost rehearsed pause. “His situation is unique.”
“I am aware of all this, Master Kenobi. Thank you for reminding me,” Padmé says, in the gentlest of tones.
“Then you must also be aware that attachment still comes to him easily - which is a failing of mine, as his Master.” He folds one hand over the other. His voice, Padmé notes, is less that of the Negotiator and more of a concerned guardian. “Senator Amidala, your presence in his early childhood has left a deep impression in him. If I may observe… He is fond of you.”
“As I am of him. We have become good friends over the past months.”
Obi-Wan doesn’t appear outwardly doubtful, but his silence can’t be anything but. Whether he is doubting her or Anakin, she can’t be sure. Perhaps both; or perhaps neither. “For that I am glad,” he says, and then his tone of voice slides into something more… quiet. Thicker with sentiments. “Healthy connections in life are both inevitable and desirable. However, Anakin feels deeply, and I worry that he might surpass the threshold of friendship.”
Padmé observes him for a few quiet moments. “You are perhaps afraid that Anakin has fallen in love with me.”
“Senator, in no way do I intend this to be an accusation—”
“Please do not worry, Master Kenobi. I understand the point you’re making. I assure you…” She pauses. There are so many ways she could put this diplomatically, but Obi-Wan is also a bit of a diplomat himself. He knows some tricks in the book, and it would be a little discourteous to pretend he doesn't. She considers telling the full truth of their short-lived liaison. She’s not afraid of being blunt. Her only concern is Anakin; it seems a betrayal of his trust if she discloses a rejection to someone else without his knowledge. “...that I shall keep a respectful distance, close friends or not. I will be delicate, but firm, with him.” I already did.
Obi-Wan looks at her with cautious gratitude. “Thank you for your understanding, then,” he says finally, and Padmé nods. She feels doubt lingering in the air, just not directed at her. “In that case, I shall not trouble you any longer.”
He rises to leave. It’s only when he’s reached the door that Padmé makes her decision. She calls out to him. “Obi-Wan, wait.”
Obi-Wan’s posture stiffens ever so slightly. He turns around, gracious. “Yes, Senator Amidala?”
“Something happened on Tatooine; something grim. I wasn’t there to witness. It has to do with his mother’s death. You need to know.” Simple words for a simple truth. “I can’t tell you, but I trust that Ani will tell you in time.”
Obi-Wan remains silent for a few moments. “One should hope,” he says, very quietly, before bowing his head in a wordless greeting. He leaves the room. Even the echoes of his footsteps ring lonesome.