#⭒✧ — holonews report » updates | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

detroitbydark · 4 years

Text

Chapter 11

Characters: Fox/Mouse (reader), appearances from Hound, Thire, Rule, Mace Windu, Yoda, and Padmé Amidala.

Warning: angst (y’all want me to hirt you right?)

A/N: so get ready to read nearly 6000 words of Fox’s self loathing, the CG being supportive vod, Jedi being Jedi, and Mouse being hurt yet again.

Current

The choices had been fresh ink or gut-rot barracks hooch. Fox chose the ink.

He’s down in the levels, he can’t remember which one exactly, far enough from prying eyes and questioning vod, that was all that had really mattered. The artist, a pantoran with a nice portfolio, was busy laying out the design. He can feel the cool transfer as it’s pressed over his heart and he drags in a ragged breath. This was penance. This was the closure he needed. He’d messed up. For two weeks he’d messed up and now any chance he had was gone along with her.

“You wanna talk about it, man?” The tattoo artist asks as he peels away the flimsy leaving the outline on his skin.

“No”

Two weeks earlier

Fox hates the sterile smell of the hospital, the beige walls, the gleaming metal all around. It reminds him of Kamino and a medbay he’d spent more than enough time in. He was never quite as strong or quite as fast as the other CCs in his batch, men that would go on to bear monikers like Gree and Bly and Wolffe. He made up for it in other ways. His mind was sharp, quick to come to a plan of action, he could think on his feet.

He remembers Sargent Kal coming into the CC classroom one day for a talk on urban combat- something that had piqued CC-1010’s interest from the word go- and how by the end of the lesson he’d ended up the star of the day. His observations as they’d talked through scenarios had left Kal remarking that he was “Sly as a Fox” and that the Triple Zero would be a good place for the likes of him. He was only the second in his batch to earn a name and he wore it around like a badge of honor.

Now he didn’t feel so honorable or so sly. He felt a lot of other things though. The psych droid, a loathsome device of he'd ever seen one, had talked him through what had happened in the Supreme Chancellor’s suite. It had questioned him over and over, maybe expecting the answers to change, about what his part in the assassination of Sheev Palpatine had been. He was tired. He wanted to wrap himself around his cyar’ika and pretend the whole day had been a nightmare.

That was impossible, she was somewhere else in the hospital being treated, shoved into a bacta tank. It had only been Rex’s firm voice that had convinced Fox to let the medic’s anywhere near her. When he’d let them take her limp body away from him-

Fierfek.

The handprint- a bloody partial across the left side of his breastplate, was still there.

“Commander Fox” a familiar voice cuts through the silent world of the room“ Much to think about you have“

He recognizes the Jedi Master, Yoda, immediately. There was no one else the ancient green Jedi could be mistaken for.

“I prefer to not“ being around a force wielder was not high on Fox’s current list of things to do.

“Such Is life”

“With all due respect sir,” he can hear the petulance in his own voice but he has neither the energy nor will to rein it in “I didn’t ask for this life.”

“But given to you it was, nonetheless. Choices you must make with what to do with it.“

Fox is quiet and the small Jedi Master matches it until the door opens again and General Windu joins the pair. Fox meets his gaze and the Jedi nods solemnly.

“Much discussion Master Windu and I have had these last few hours-“

“So it’s back to Kamino then? Reconditioning or Termination?” Fox can’t hide the bitterness in his voice. He doesn’t want to. He wants the world -or at least the two Jedi in the room- to see his pain. To feel it like he was.

Yoda sighs and moves to him, walking stick clicking in time with his steps. He hops up on the cold metal table next to Fox in a way that makes Fox think that the walking stick was not really necessary. He fights the urge to move away.

“A great disservice has been done to you, Commander. No, Kamino is not where you belong, deserve punishment you do not.”

The words burn. Fox is trapped between relief and a slow simmering rage, one that demands he be punished for his inability to protect those most vulnerable. First Fives. Now Mouse. He failed because he was weak-

“Stop” General Windu’s voice is firm. The look on Fox’s face must read pure terror because the Jedi huffs softly, “I don’t need to see inside your head to know what you're thinking. It’s all over your face. Do you know the kind of power Sidious possessed? To fight off that kind of insinuation would have been nearly impossible and that was before the chip-“

“The chip?” Fox attempts to rise to his feet but three green fingers press down on his arm. He looks down at the tired, ancient face of the Jedi Master and sits back down. “What of the chip? What has it got to do in all of this?”

The answer is simple. Everything.

Fox sits in cold shock as the Jedi describe to him what they’d learned of Palpatine’s- no, Sidious’ plans for the clone army. He stops them once to go to the bathroom and vomit. It wasn’t just Tup and Fives and him. It was all his vode. The entire clone army programmed to turn on their leaders, their friends with the utterance of a single phrase. He thinks of the hints Bly had made about his Jedi when they’d last spoken.

For a moment it’s more than he can fathom, and he holds a hand up for quiet. The Jedi allow it. He gives himself a minute, just one, before he pulls himself together, before he sits up straight and pushes the anguish, hurt, and the dirty feelings deep down.

“What now?” The implications of what has happened are finally becoming clear “The Republic can’t know the truth. There’ll be chaos in the streets. They’ll turn against the clones entirely” Fox worries more for his brothers than ever before. If the citizens knew…

“Correct you are, Commander” Yoda agrees..

“It needs to stay under wraps. The only people that will ever know it was anything other than an sudden death by natural causes will be us and the others that were in that room. Skywalker, Captain Rex, and-“

“Don’t say her name” it comes out as a growl, “leave her out of this.”

“There she was, Commander. Secrets she must learn to keep.”

Fox’s nails bite into the palms of his hands, “you won’t-“ he can’t bring himself to say the words.

“We will not force thoughts into her head.” Mace clarifies. “From what I’ve heard of her I think she’ll understand our reasoning for secrecy. Her injuries will be said to come from a mugging. You’ll fill out the report. Wrong place wrong time”

Wasn’t that the truth.

Fox nods slowly, “and what of my brothers?”

“Come out the chips must.” Fox flinches when a green finger taps at his temple, “but uncomplicated and quick it is.”

“We will let it be known that the chips are faulty and to continue to use them puts the clones in danger of having unforeseen medical problems.” Mace’s eyes narrow as Fox scoffs. He raises a brow challengingly, “do you think they’d rather know that they were all ticking timebombs? That at any moment they’d be triggered into mindless killers? Pawns?”

A tense moment passes with the two men glaring at one another. Of course Fox doesn’t think that would be any better.

“We’ll begin rotating troops through the nearest medical units capable of removal immediately.” Mace explains. “We can have the entire Coruscant Guard done by the end of the week and it appears with minimal down time. A day, tops.” He explains.

A quick nod is all the acknowledgement Fox can muster. He doesn’t like the idea of keeping the Guard in the dark and he hates having them undergo any medical procedure even more. He wasn’t the only clone who had lingering emotions when it came to the medbay, not by a long shot.

“I’ll go first.”

The Jedi at his side makes an agreeable hum. General Windu nods.

“As I would expect a good leader to do.”

Fox isn’t sure how much he buys into their approval.

13 days earlier

The official story was that Supreme Chancellor Sheev Palpatine had succumbed to a sudden illness. The holonews was ablaze with stories: from the official release to the tabloid fodder. Fellow politicians waxed poetic on him as a man and a leader, someone who stepped forward when the Republic was in its darkest hour to take control of the chaos.

It was said his last words were, “and sorry I couldn’t give more for my people and the galaxy.”

If Fox’s eyes rolled any harder he was sure they’d fly from his head and ping around in his bucket. Sidious was dead. He didn’t deserve the adoration of billions or the high honors of his burial. He was a hu’tuun. The skanah was better suited as feed for the carrion birds than the marble burial chamber he’s laid to rest in with military honors provided by clones he’d have used as weapons against the very Republic they swore to protect.

10 days earlier

Four days without Mouse and Fox feels twitchy. It’s been over a year since he’s gone more than two days without laying eyes on her. Knowing that she was recently released from the bacta tank doesn’t make it any easier. He’d not wanted to see her floating in the tank for a plethora of reasons, the least of which was his own guilt. That didn’t stop him from setting up a guard rotation at her door as soon as he was cleared to return to duty. It also didn’t stop him from demanding regular updates on her care from the kits he was setting up at her room.

Ryk had been present when she’d been taken out of the tank and said she’d seemed in good spirits as she’d slowly come too.

Wren had gently indicated that she’d love some company while she was on bed rest.

Rule had given him a look that screamed, ‘don’t be a scum sucking piece of nerf fodder.’ As he’d explained that Mous’ika had been asking for him.

She’d been asking for him. Even after everything she wanted to see him.

And he couldn’t do it.

He’d made his way twice to the nurses station before turning and making an excuse to leave.

He couldn’t look at her. Sidious’ words still swirled in his head. even though General Yoda had reassured him that he was no longer under the sway of the Sith, the thoughts still lingered.

You were supposed to use her to fuck your baser urges out.

She’s using you to obtain a foothold in the guard.

She’s fooled you all.

The underlying message was unmistakable.

Why would anyone choose to care for a clone?

Fox almost wishes the headaches would return so he could focus on the pain in his head vs. that dull empty ache in his chest, a black hole behind his rib cage, but he hasn’t had one since both the Sith Lord and the chip were removed from his life.

9 days earlier

Bail Organa is voted into the Chancellorship by an overwhelming number of his peers.

It’s the best choice, as far as Fox is concerned. With Senator Amidala announcing a leave of absence to give birth to the best guarded secret since the clone army, it’s the only choice Fox finds acceptable.

Not like anyone would ask his opinion.

Organa is a good man, even if he is a politician. He’s only ever looked out for the Republic, never given in to self indulgent whims, never taken more than he deserved.

Fox touches the fresh scar on the right side of his head gently as Holonet News continues to replay the new Chancellor's inauguration from earlier. Barely more than a week and everything has changed.

General Windu was correct, medical had been able to get through the entire guard in rapid fire. All of his men were sporting matching scars, many were more than a little curious as to the actual reason their chips had been removed. He’s both insanely proud and horribly frustrated at the theories being bandied about. Some far too close for comfort.

They can never know. Nobody can ever know.

But somehow Bail Organa knows.

He’s only had one meeting, early this morning before the inauguration, in private with the new Chancellor but he’d alluded to things that left Fox speechless. He’d known Bail to have friends in high places, but he hadn’t realized how high.

“Think he’ll do better than the last one?”

Thire hovers in the doorway, unmoving until Fox inclines his head toward the open seat across his desktop.

“Can’t be any worse.” There’s no humor in his tone but Thire huffs out a quiet laugh.

There’s a lag in the conversation, not like one has truly begun, and Fox takes a breath before setting down his datapad and flicking the holo off. “How long have we known one another?” He asks looking up at his lieutenant.

“Long enough.”

“So, you and I both know that you're here for something else and It's not just to make quips about the new Alor.”

“I suppose that’s true” Thire’s face gives nothing away. Fox liked that about the shock trooper. He was reserved, yes, but also pragmatic. A problem solver, not ruled by his emotions. Which was all well and good but something about the way he’s staring makes Fox feel like he’s the problem needing solving.

“Spit it out.”

“Go see her.”

Fox raises a brow in his vod’s direction. “Is that an order”

“Respectfully sir” the corner of Thire’s mouth quirks almost imperceptibly before it falls away.

The little shit.

In reality, Fox had known this one going to come from one of his men. He’d expected Rule or Hound, the more brash and aggressive boys, to be the ones but Thire is not a complete shock. He’d never seemed particularly close to Mouse but the lieutenant did play things close to the chest.

“She had a nightmare last night while I was on watch. Woke up crying your name.”

Inside Fox crumbles. No amount of talking to a psych droid was going to fix that feeling. No amount of time would make him feel ok about what he’d allowed to happen to the woman he loved. Thire continues.

“A clone's lot is not much. They decant us. They train us. They ship us out to fight in their war. We live, maybe. We die, more likely. Nothing is given to us.” Thire runs a hand over his head, fingers scratching at the crown. “Sometimes though, a di’kut like you gets a break. That woman in that bed cried in my arms. Talked to me like I was you for over an hour and I let her. You know why?”

Fox has to unclench his jaw, work past the jealous ache rising up in his chest to respond, “why?”

“Because it’s the closest I’ll ever have to feeling that kind of emotion. I’m not ashamed to say I pulled your girl into my lap, held her close and said soft things I didn’t even know I knew into her pretty hair until she calmed down. I was happy to pretend to be your atin’shebs but you know what the real kicker is, Vod?”

Fox’s hands are like vice grips on the edge of his seat, knuckles pale white as a shinies armor. The thought of Mouse hurting is one thing, but to have someone else be the one to comfort her? It tears at him. “What?” He asks through gritted teeth.

“When she calms down she says, “I know you're not him. Thank you for letting me pretend for a minute”.

7 days earlier

He pretends like he doesn’t know where he’s going. Like talking to the kriffing psych droid really had him so out of sorts he didn’t realize he was getting on a turbo lift and heading up three flights after his appointment.

He tries to act like he doesn’t know his feet are carrying him to the room with the familiar red and white sentinel outside the door.

Rule quirks his helmet before snapping to attention.

“Commander Fox, sir?”

“At ease Sargent.” It's late, well past visiting hours but the few sentient nurses and the droids assisting them make no move to rush him along. Perks of the armor.

Rule relaxes and glances through the small transparisteel window on the door behind him before turning back.

“She just had some medicine.” He explains, “pain was getting pretty bad again.”

Fox’s bucket hides his cringe, allowing him to outwardly remain impassive and aloof, his voice even as he asks simple questions about visitors and any possible issues arising.

“No problems here sir. I think I heard her Doc say something about discharge tomorrow. She’s doing ok” what isn’t said hangs in the air.

She’d be doing better if you were with her

“That’s good. That’s good” Fox agrees, readily avoiding the things left unspoken. “Have you been relieved for dinner?”

“I have a ration bar in my pack sir.”

“Do I need to say it?”

The sunny tone of Rule’s voice tells him everything he needs to know. He can imagine the shit eating grin that accompanies it. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean, sir?”

A quick glance up and down the hall shows nothing but gleaming white tile. No staff. No visitors. No one but Rule to bear witness to his moment of weakness.

“Take the night off Sargent. I’ll cover the watch.”

He stares at the emotionless visor for a beat waiting for his kit to argue, for him to make a smart comment.

It doesn’t happen.

Rule rolls his shoulders, stretching slightly as he makes his move past Fox. At the last second, Rule's hand shoots out, resting over Fox’s vambrace. The moment lingers without either speaking until Rule gently pulls the Commander in and knocks his bucket against Fox’s, pressing his forehead to his Commander’s.

Fox, claps a hand behind the sargents head and they sit there frozen for a moment in time, Rule offering more comfort in that one gesture than he’s felt in days. A Keldabe kiss to ease his fragile psyche.

“Alverde.” Rule offers quietly when the pair finally part.

“Sargent” Fox gives a minuscule nod. “Enjoy your night.” He watches the youngster head down the hall until he turns a corner and is gone from sight.

Fox manages to avoid looking in the room for five minutes exactly. He’s able to fight off the pull to enter it for another twenty. The draw of her is too much in the end and he finds himself slipping into her room before the first thirty minutes are even past.

The lights are low and the monitors and electronics surrounding her hum and buzz steadily. Everything is white and stark. His cyar’ika is nearly the same color as the sheet she lays under.

She looks small, and so achingly fragile Fox is afraid the weight of his look alone will break her. She shivers lightly and he lurches into motion, dragging the itchy comforter over her legs and tucking it around her shoulders. Her body stirs as his gloved hand grazes along her cheek.

He freezes as her eyes flutter open. Her pupils aren’t quite right. It seems to take her a moment to piece together what’s going on but when she does the realization that washes over her is visible.

“Fox” his name sounds like a long lost friend rolling from her lips. She struggles to sit up. A look of pain flashes across her face as she twists under the blankets.

“Stop that” he demands impotently, his gloves moving to press gently against her chest. “you’re going to hurt yourself.”

She blinks owlishly up at him in the way only a person on good pain meds can, like she doesn’t quite understand what’s been said and she’s not sure whether she should comply or question it. It’s somewhere between bemused and scared.

He cups her cheek in his hand, “easy precious girl.” He soothes. Mouse relaxes into his touch as his gloved thumb rubs softly. Her eyes flutter shut and he can feel the soft sound she makes against his palm.

This was already far past what he intended. He just wanted to see her, to prove to himself she was really alive and in one piece despite him.

Now, he finds himself already slipping into old habits.

More focused, her eyes open. Her hand slips up and grips his vambrace. Slowly she pulls his hand away from her face. She lets her fingers slip down into and through his. Her voice is thick with sleep when she speaks and Fox has to lean in to hear her.

“I knew you’d come”

Of course she had. Fox wonders if she knew him better than he knew himself. This was always going to happen no matter how many times he’d lied to himself. He pulls his hand away. Mouse’s hangs empty in the air for a moment before she sets it down over her chest.

The quiet burr and hum of the monitors around her are the only sound between them until he reaches up to his bucket and lets the seal pop with a soft hiss.

Her eyes scan his face as he sets the helm off to the side. There’s a question there he can’t decipher. “What can I do?”

A harsh laugh escapes Fox’s lips and Mouse frowns at him.

“I think you’ve done enough, cyar’ika.”

“Fox-“ it’s a scolding tone that holds no weight when she looks like a battered doll in a too big hospital bed. She closes her eyes when he doesn’t give in and offer her more.

The bed dips under his weight as he sits at the edge of it. “I just wanted to make sure you were, ok. Alright?” He holds back from touching her again. It takes an enormous amount of will.

“I’m ok, Fox. Because of you.”

It’s a lie. All of it. It can’t be anything else. “You're in a hospital bed,” he growls, pushing up to his feet and stalking toward the window. He can’t look at her. “You spent days floating in bacta. You-“

“I’m alive.”

“That’s not because of me.”

He hears the ruffle of sheets as he looks out over Coruscant. The lights of the buildings and speeders in the sky lanes, like stars in the polluted evening light.

“Fox-“ her hand touches his arm and he spins to steady her. Anger swells up in him.

“Kriff- Mouse, get back in bed” he orders lowly, “you’re going to get hurt.”

She sways gently on her feet in the too big hospital gown but her jaw is set, “will you listen to me?”

“Will you get back in bed?” Fox pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath before looking at her again. “Get back in bed and I’ll listen. Please.”

Mouse stands, arms crossed, glaring pointedly. Fox has had enough. Quick and smooth like a tactical insertion he scoops her up. Mouse makes a small noise as his arms slide behind her knees and his other arm cradles behind her shoulders. She breathes heavily as she looks up at him.

“You’re going back to bed.” He covers the small room in just a few steps. When he goes to set her down she slips her arms around his neck and holds on for dear life.

“I’m not getting back in that bed unless you come with me.”

“You’re not in the position to make demands.” But that’s a lie because, with him, she was always in the position to make demands. She just never had to.

“Please, Fox. I just want one good night. You can leave as soon as I'm asleep.”

It’s hard to say if it’s the tired tone of her voice, the smell of her skin so temptingly close, or just his own beaten down need to be close to her, regardless Fox gives in.

“The armor stays on.” He says as he settles into the bed, he tries to keep his boots off the bed the best he can. Mouse curls tighter against him. It can’t be comfortable against the plastoid but to look at her he’d never know. One hand rests along his jaw while the other wraps around his back keeping him from easily disentangling himself.

Fox can’t help himself as he slips one glove off and cards his fingers through her hair, stopping every so often to work out a tangle. Mouse sighs against him.

“Precious girl,” he hums lowly as her fingers trace along the stubble at his jaw, “go to sleep.”

“You're going to leave once I do.”

“Yes, that was the deal.”

“You’re not going to come back.”

Again, he’s struck with how well she knows him. “No, cyar’ika. I’m not.”

6 days earlier

His knuckles are wailing in pain and it feels so kriffing good. His hands, wrapped in protective tape are held tight and safe as he tenderizes the heavy bag in front of him. A low, guttural growl works its way up from his chest with each landed blow.

It’s the first time he’s felt in control in days. Even if it only lasted for his duration in the sparring rooms he didn’t care. When he closes his eyes he doesn’t see Mouse at the end of his blaster, the way her body recoiled and convulsed at the first shot. He doesn’t hear the scream that rips through her when the second bolt burns through her side. He doesn’t dwell on the voice in his head demanding the kill while Fox did everything to drag his near perfect aim away from center mass.

He pictures Sidious’ face on the bag and the pile of sloppy mash his fists were making it into. There’s catharsis in the exertion that a psych droid couldn’t give him.

“Commander, sir?”

Fox turns to see Hound stripped down to just his black under armor pants. He was a burly boy as far as clones went, thicker and more muscular through the torso, next to Hound, Fox looks almost lithe.

Fox pants lightly as he dips to grab a bottle of water and straighten back up. “What can I do for you?”

“I- do you need to-“

Fox watches as the man chooses his words carefully, finally gesturing first toward the mat.

“You wanna go a few, rounds? Looks like you could use it?”

A roll of tape is flipped through the air in answer. Hound catches it smoothly, giving Fox a happy grin as he begins wrapping his hands.

5 days earlier

There’s a neat hole in his wall, fist sized and fresh, less than a week old. Fox pretends like he doesn’t see Chancellor Organa eyeballing it with some amount of apprehension. What he can’t pretend is that a visit from the newly minted Chancellor to his office isn’t a surprise.

“Commander, you can drop the title with me.” The Chancellor says for the second time since his arrival.

“Sir, it’s frowned upon-“

“-not by me”

Fox huffs and closes his eyes to hide the roll of them. “Ok, fine. Can I get you something to drink? Some caf?”

Bail waves off the offer, “I won’t be long and it looks like you're woefully underserved.” He tips his head back toward the door and the empty desk.

A bristle of irritation tingles down Fox’s neck. “She was in the hospital. She was…” the words trail off. Part of protecting his little Mouse was keeping her involvement in the Sidious event quiet.

“I know, Commander.” Bail says quietly, “we share a friend on the council who’s made me aware of many interesting things.”

It feels like he’s being baited. He likes to think Organa wouldn't try to try to weasel information from him but his trust is a very delicate thing at the moment and he’s not willing to give an inch. His loyalty is to his men and the republic, after that only one other person had earned any devotion from him and that was not Bail Organa. At least not yet.

“If there’s anything I can do for her, anything she needs we can make that happen.”

Fox glances at the picture on his desk. It had come by courier earlier in the day. It’s been neatly matted and framed to be hung, a children’s drawing of a small green twi’lek child and him holding hands. He’d stared at it on his desk in silence for far too long before he felt something ugly bubble up. Now he had a hole in the wall. He hoped the picture would cover it.

Fox continues to look at the picture. He needs a second to pretend like he knows what Mouse needs. He doesn’t listen to the nagging voice inside of him saying it to him. He hates that voice, would smother it if he could.

“She needs time to heal.”

“I can make that happen.”

“Thank you.”

Earlier this day

“Senator Amidala” Fox greets the senator at the door, “this is a surprise. If I keep receiving politicians in my office I’m going to have to have it made more suitable.”

The senator gives him a bright smile, “it’s good to see you Fox.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, “it’s good to see you too Padmé.”

They were friends, of a sort. They’d seen enough together that Fox would gladly file her under battle buddies in his short list of friends. She looks lovely, as always, absolutely glowing. Her hand rests softly over the growing baby bump she was now proudly displaying.

“You look wonderful. Congratulations on the coming Ik’aad.” He offers gesturing toward her belly. His eyes linger and he remembers laying Mouse across his bed, placing kisses in a ring around her naval and imaging what it would be like someday when he-

Fox gives his head a quick shake and refocuses on the senator.

“Thank you.” He watches her eyes travel to the child’s drawing on the wall behind his desk before returning to him. “And how are you doing?”

“As well as can be expected. Chancellor Organa keeps a busy schedule and he’s insistent that I go with him. He’s got a lot of ideas and he asks my opinion. It’s different… but it’s nice.”

Padmé slips into the chair across from him.

“That’s wonderful” but she doesn’t sound like it’s wonderful. She sounds like she was here on a mission that he hasn’t been briefed on. He raises a brow at her. They’ve known each other long enough that she should know to just come out with it.

“We’re leaving for Naboo today. I want to have the baby in the lake country. It’s beautiful and peaceful.” She lets out a tired laugh, “and far away from the prying eyes of the holonet news.”

“They’ve been very… interested in you as of late” he offers diplomatically.

Another small laugh, “to say the least” Padmé sobers. “I just wanted to make sure you were ok with her going?”

Confusion must show on his face. Her?

Padmé frowns gently, the look of pity is out of place on her serene features, “you weren’t told, were you?”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to speak clearly.” Fox tries to bite back the tension but it slips into his voice.

She says Mouse’s name. Her real name.

“The Chancellor asked if we would take her with us. That she needed a place to finish recovering.” Padmé is watching his face. She’s trying to gauge his reaction.

He tries to give her nothing.

“She’s an amazing woman. She said if she went then she had to be useful. She’s going to be my assistant while I’m on leave-“

Fox holds up a hand. “She’s excellent at what she does. You’ll never be in better hands.”

“What about you?”

“I’m not her keeper. Mouse deserves to be safe and happy.” He shoots her a forced smile. “That’s not with me.”

Current

He had the rancor etched into his arm after Thorn had been killed in action on a mission Fox was supposed to have led. It was an inside joke they’d heard as shinies. Something about a Jedi and a rancor walking into a cantina. He can’t remember the punchline. It wasn’t funny anyways.

The Pantoran works the needle over his freshly shaven chest. Back and forth, outlining and filling. Pressing the ink into his skin to permanently mark him with another mark of regret, penance. Everytime he looks in the mirror, stripped down from his armor and his blacks he’ll see the reminder of what never was supposed to be, the thing that he went after when he knew it wasn’t allowed. The love that nearly destroyed the person he cared for beyond all others.

“So, this picture is pretty wicked” the Pantoran says conversationally. He glances back and forth from the reference picture Fox gave him, a partial hand print pressed against his armor, the fourth and fifth finger only partially visible and the heel of the hand smeared red. “Was it done in ink?”

“No. Blood.”

The Pantoran makes a sound of understanding. The buzz of the tattoo gun fills the quiet.

Seconds, minutes, hours it’s all the same as Fox sits still as stone in the chair, the press of the needle intimately familiar.

He thinks of Mouse on a shuttle to Naboo.

This was what he’d needed. Mouse far away, somewhere safe. Somewhere no one could hurt her. Where he couldn’t hurt her. No matter what he’s told he still doesn’t believe there isn’t something in him that can be persuaded, to be flipped on, that won’t harm her.

He needed to focus on his job, his men, the Galactic Republic. There was no world in which he and Mouse would work and it was better that she wasn’t there to know that.

“Alright, mate.” The Artist sets the gun down and claps his hands once before rubbing them together. “You’re all set. Why don’t you take a looksy in the mirror while I grab the bacta gel and a dressing?”

Fox nods and pushes himself up. His back is stiff from laying still and he takes a moment to stretch and twist before stepping in front of the mirror. His eyes trace the ink. It’s a perfect replica of the picture, deep vibrant red fingers pressing into his armor, only now pressing into his heart. A reminder of what happens when he becomes selfish. When he wants more than the greater design allows for.

“It’s perfect.”

#fox and mouse #commander fox/reader #cc 1010 #commander fox #fox fanciers #tcw

152 notes · View notes

marble-guts · 4 years

Note

Ahsoka and Padmé bonding for your prompts

hi, anon, I don’t even know if you’ll see this because it took me months to write this. but i hope that you do see it and i hope that you enjoy it because this was a lot of fun to write.

read on ao3

The realization that her husband was trying to keep his padawan a secret brought tears of laughter to Padmé’s eyes.

Few people were worse with secrets than Anakin Skywalker.

Their marriage had been one of those secrets that Padmé had worked far harder to keep. Anakin had been a stranger to secrecy until their marriage.

It had taken nights of creativity and bottles of wine, along with years of practice to develop a code. Small smiles only seen in the eyes had become soft caresses, real smiles were a whispered ‘I love you’. When he called her ‘Senator’, in that mock serious tone of his, Padmé couldn’t help but feel as though he had lifted her off of her feet. She hoped that he felt the same when she called him ‘Jedi Knight Skywalker.’

The code wasn’t established to be covert, but created with just enough of a gap where they could excuse their behavior as close friendship. Many senators had connections to the Jedi, their true feelings were just as masked as Padmé’s marriage. She supposed it was a superpower, being able to see through others’ facades, recognizing similar coded languages. When Satine blinked long and slow, it didn’t take long for Obi-Wan to leave the room, and moments later for her to excuse herself.

Anakin’s attempts at secrecy were nowhere near as well constructed without her help. Padmé had seen the girl in the holo transmission from Jabba’s Palace on Tatooine. Anakin had done nothing to hide her, he had been too awestruck by Padmé’s intervention into Jedi affairs to care, calling her ‘Senator Amidala’ and thanking her graciously for her actions.

She had panicked, however, and ended the transmission curtly, forgetting to give Anakin a goodbye.

It had only made things worse when Anakin missed several of their scheduled calls. She hadn’t received word from him, and the HoloNet News had gone silent about the movements of the Open Circle Fleet as well.

Padmé had busied herself with news articles, looking for any trickling of an update on the Outer Rim. There was no news of any of them, not Anakin, Obi-Wan, or this Togruta girl. The questions that had first arisen in her mind upon seeing Anakin’s padawan, other than how she came to be his, were quickly pushed down with questions of their general safety.

The Senate was usually kept quiet about current operations, especially when they were far from the Core worlds. It was a matter of security, being able to keep intelligence out of the hands of spies and revolutionaries. The HoloNews satisfied its readers with puff pieces about the newest worthwhile restaurants on Coruscant and reader polls about the hottest Jedi (in which her husband made the top three).

It had become a small distraction, one that kept her from biting her nails off of her fingertips. It hadn’t taken long for other distractions to take over her mind as well. Padmé had welcomed it, allowing her feelings of nostalgia to take over.

Thoughts about the Togruta girl had changed too. Along with worry about the girl’s safety, Padmé worried if she was old enough to be a Padawan, if she was okay seeing the war up close as a teenager. She thought of how it had changed Anakin’s relationship with Obi-Wan, how having Anakin at his side had matured Obi-Wan and brought out another side of him.

The HoloNews talked about Anakin and Obi-Wan as though they were the same force, the same weapon utilized by the Republic. Padmé walked past the posters every time she snuck into the lower levels, smothering her laughter behind her sleeve as Anakin’s silhouette told her to support the GAR.

She wondered how long it would take for the HoloNews to put Anakin’s padawan in the spotlight. The girl would wake up one day and find her face on a poster decorating every free wall of Coruscant’s underworld, her name in headlines with various senators, and photos of her at dinner with friends accompanied with rumors of affairs and other unsavory behavior.

The girl’s absence in the news was a blessing in disguise, Padmé decided, no matter how badly it worried her.

She put her energy into work again. The Senate had been in gridlock over additional proposals to the Republic’s budget. It had left little money to cover refugee relief, but she had assured Bail and others that any additional support was necessary. In return, they had promised their votes and efforts to garner more.

Nights were quickly filled with banquets, attendance to performances, dinners, and dramatic readings quickly followed up with discussions of politics and semantics. Her evenings were spent with Bail fighting over her word choice and falling asleep on the couch in her den, datapad dead by morning.

Democracy was a whirlwind, exhausting and chaotic, but one that Padmé enjoyed wholeheartedly.

The Senate session came to a quick close as the Chancellor adjourned their unsuccessful meeting. He turned back and headed towards the doors that led to his office, a small gaggle of senators followed behind, as well as reporters, hoping for a headline.

Padmé shook her head, the bill up for discussion, still in her hand. She felt Bail’s hand come down onto her shoulder and give her a squeeze.

“I’m sure, if we just edit the beginning again, perhaps to rephrase it less about refugees, and more about… possible immigration to Coruscant, or something else more personal, they’ll change their minds,” Bail said with a heavy sigh.

Padmé took a deep breath to release her disappointment. “I know you’re right, but I don’t want to have to beg for basic empathy.”

“Such is the nature of politics,” Bail said with a small laugh. “If you’re not begging them for something, you’re not paying attention.”

She smiled a little, straightening. “I suppose that’s true as well.”

“I’ll contact your office in the morning, perhaps we can rewrite that preamble before the expansion bill moves forward,” the soft weight of his hand left her shoulder, “we did good work today, Padmé.” He turned to leave, joining the fray of senators as they all exited through the halls of the Senate Rotunda.

“We did, thank you, Bail.”

She turned back to gather her things, the other datapad she had brought with her to take notes, the simple coat she had worn in against the brisk morning chill.

“Oh, Padmé,” Bail said, nearly startling her.

She looked up from her belongings to find him there, still there near her repulsorpod, trapped against the movement of senators exiting the Chambers.

“I believe there’s someone here for you.”

Padmé moved to stand beside him, hoping to find this someone. Captain Typho usually remained near the ship, waiting for her to return. Occasionally, if she took too long, he would send a handmaid after her.

Instead, she had found her husband, leaning against the opposite wall and trapped in a conversation with Senator Orn Free Taa. He had met eyes with her halfway through the conversation, one where she could nearly sense his boredom. Anakin politely excused himself at the same time that Bail had left her side.

The two senators of the Loyalist Committee quickly fell into step with one another, continuing conversation. Anakin took the chance to cross the hall, instantly slipping his arm around her waist.

Padmé’s face warmed instantly, she took a step back, eyes wide. “Ani, public!” She said quickly, hushed under her breath.

“Senator Amidala, I’m sure you can forgive me,” he said, just as softly. “It’s been months since I’ve seen my wife, Senator.”

The heat of an embarrassed, but loving flush against her face only increased. “ Master Jedi, I'm sure I understand your… predicament, but we’ll have to discuss this matter somewhere else. Would you give me the pleasure of dining with me tonight?”

He looked almost startled by her question. Padmé wanted to pull him aside, out of the public eye, out of the emptying Senate Chambers and into a desolate hall. Instead, she brought her free hand down to his, linking her little finger with one of his.

He smiled, too much for them to just be friends, meeting after a long time apart. Padmé’s heart beat double at the danger of being found out. She wanted so badly to lean into him, to kiss him hello, welcome home, I love you, I missed you, remind me what it’s like to be yours--

Anakin’s fingers hooked around hers a little tighter. “Let’s get away from here.”

She led him through the Senate squabble with the precision only a female senator had. Padmé quickly crossed the hall towards another, where the auditorium rooms became small meeting rooms. Anakin laughed softly, following her as she opened one of the rooms towards the end with her key code.

The door slid open, the warm lights came to life as Anakin took the chance to bring his arms around her, picking her up into his arms and spinning her before meeting for a kiss. Padmé’s hands came up to his face, her fingers ran through his messy hair, longer and more bronze, now in the time they had been apart. His lips moved from hers to her cheek, then her chin, her neck, almost to the collar of her dress as his hands moved against the buttons holding the fabric in place.

“Ani, no,” she said with a giggle like a schoolgirl. “Let me just look at you,” she said, hoping that he could understand the need in her voice.

He pulled away just enough for their eyes to meet. “We only have a few more minutes before Typho sends in Karté.”

Padmé felt the same desperation, the need to pull at the belt of his robes, to slip the leather tabards off of his shoulders and discard layers of Jedi attire. The feeling of want and need in her chest were almost unbearable, fighting against her shaking fingers.

An exercise in restraint, she told herself. For the both of them.

Her hands moved from his hair to his face. Anakin closed his eyes, relaxing underneath her soft touch as she searched for new wounds.

The last time she had seen him, he had had a bandage over his eye, laughing about how he had nearly lost it and how it would’ve matched his arm. It hadn’t been very funny when she had started to cry, realizing again just how vulnerable her husband was. The wound had scarred over, soft and pink with new skin.

She traced over it carefully, mesmerized by the gentle precision of it. To think that it had happened in a duel with a woman he had described as unhinged. Padmé’s thoughts of Anakin rarely involved duels. The Jedi were peacekeepers, and although the war had put them into various military positions, she knew that her husband’s job was more focused on aggressive negotiations than dueling a witch in the rain.

Now, his duties had transformed. Anakin was more than just a Jedi, he was a Jedi Master . His responsibilities were more than the Republic, more than his battalion of men-- he had a child to consider. A young, small, no doubt fast, child with bright blue, inquisitive eyes. Padmé thought of the girl in the holo transmission, how she had looked between the two of them, unsure of how to act between her new master and a senator.

She opened her mouth to speak, to begin her barrage of questions that had built up over days and nights of constant worrying. Before she could make a sound, Anakin kissed her, passionately enough to make her knees weak.

Her fingers slipped from the smoothness of his scar back into his bronze curls. He smelled of the night air, crisp and sweet. His hands held her tight, allowing her to soak in his presence, to feel her entire body relax against him as though he was the only source of gravity in the galaxy.

It sent a body down her spine directly to her toes. Her husband, Anakin Skywalker, was here with her, and they were in a conference room.

She brought her hands closer to herself, hoping to break him apart just enough to undo the belt securing his robes. Padmé had quickly become an expert in the many layers of Jedi attire in their small stint on Naboo. She fought with the small metal clasp holding all of his layers of formality together. His hands moved lower down her back as he broke apart from their kiss, only for a second to snicker as she tried to unclasp it again, her fingers not cooperating under the realization that they had a few moments of privacy.

“What are you trying to do?” He asked, after a few more moments of her struggling, a laugh hidden under his voice.

Padmé pulled back just enough to look up at him without bumping her head into his chin. “This is a new belt, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Anakin murmured, moving in closer. His blue eyes were almost hypnotic, coaxing her into another kiss so deep she melted in his arms. “Why are you trying to undress me, Senator? This could start a scandal,” he said quietly, his fingertips tickling at her sides.

She squirmed a little, smiling wide. “Maybe I want to start a scandal, Master Jedi.”

“Master Jedi?” He picked her up just enough to place her on the nearest table. “I like that.”

A knock at the door separated them as though they were the same side of two magnets.

Anakin’s eyes glanced at the door, his face turned bright red as Padmé hastily slid down from the table. She hoped that she didn’t look too much in disarray. She almost felt guilty for having nearly undressed her husband, messing up his beautiful hair, leaving the light pink smudge of her lips on the corner of his mouth. Padmé glanced to the door, finding Typho’s back to the door, guarding her already.

Her face flushed with embarrassment as she straightened Anakin’s robes. She smudged at the makeup she had left on him, enough to make him blush.

“Leaving your mark?”

“Removing it,” she said quietly. “You’ll still come to dinner tonight, won’t you?”

Anakin’s hand came to rest on hers, pressing his lips to her fingers. “Of course, angel.”

“It almost surprised me, you know, to see you standing there with a padawan learner,” Padmé said from the kitchenette, pouring two glasses of Alderaanian wine. Almost, she had said, emphasizing it. Anakin was unpredictable in some ways, yes; but in following through with what the Jedi expected of him, never. “I remember you saying that you would never take a learner,” she continued.

He stayed where he was behind her, putting his arm around her middle and resting his head on top of hers. “You’ve cut your hair since the last time I was home,” he said, hoping desperately to keep the girl a secret. Padmé could almost sense his discomfort, he already knew where the conversation was going.

She leaned her head back against him, “she looks too young, Ani.” Padmé placed the bottle down on the counter and reached for her own glass. She had poured less for Anakin, knowing he would barely touch it.

He exhaled softly, Padmé felt his breath stir a few stray pieces of her hair. “She’s thirteen.”

The glass would have slipped from her hand to the floor if Anakin hadn’t caught it. The wine splattered against the tile, sprinkling the skirt of her new nightgown. It was all instantly forgotten as Anakin let go of her, placing the glass on the counter and moving to find a towel.

Thirteen. It echoed in her mind as though he had said it into a cave.

“That’s too young.” Padmé said quickly, not moving from her spot. “Anakin, that’s too young.”

“You were queen at that age, love,” he said from around the corner. He returned with a towel and started to clean up the mess that she had created.

Padmé brought a hand to her face. “I was queen at fourteen,” she corrected, “and even then I felt like I was too young. I had advisors, extensive training--”

Anakin frowned, looking at the floor as he cleaned up the wine. “Ahsoka is mature for her age, the Council wouldn’t have let her become a padawan if she wasn’t ready.”

Ahsoka. Finally, Padmé had been given a name to put to the bright-eyed girl. Ahsoka, thirteen, and on several battlefields already. She thought of how many times Anakin had returned home, weary and broken from what he had seen, what he had done for the Republic. Her heart pounded in her chest, her stomach felt heavy, as though the single sip of wine had been to swallow down a stone.

“I’m not questioning her abilities, but Anakin, you know she’s still a child. The things you’ve seen, the things you’ve already lived through in this war… for a thirteen year old girl to live through that as well?”

He glanced up from the floor, his hands wet and sticky with wine. “I know, Padmé, but I can’t do anything about it.” He stood, wringing out the towel into the sink. “According to Obi-Wan, this is normal. Kids can become padawans as young as twelve.”

Padmé took the other glass of wine, the one she had poured for him, and swallowed down to get rid of the stone that had found its way into her throat. “Thirteen and already dealing with the Hutts,” she said softly.

Anakin smirked a little, pouring her another glass of wine. “It could be worse, she could be fourteen and leading a planet through a siege by the TechnoUnion, or--”

Her own accomplishments were of little matter in this conversation. Padmé stopped him with a look, meeting his blue eyes. “What else have you and Ahsoka done? What have your last few missions been?”

She could see him giving in already, sighing as he placed the cloth on the counter before rinsing off his hands. “Padmé,” he kept his voice soft and low, a chill traced down her arm, curling her fingers. “Are we really going to spend the night talking about Ahsoka?”

Oh, how he knew her and how dirty it was of him to even try to rekindle the conference room, and to do so in her kitchen. Padmé’s chill quickly turned hot with a slight flicker of anger and annoyance.

“Yes!” She said, taking the bottle of wine from the counter, as well as her glass. She walked out into the den, leaving Anakin in the kitchenette to deal with his thirst.

“She’s thirteen, Anakin!” Padmé flopped down onto the comfiest couch, pulling her legs up onto the cushions before placing down the bottle. “How many times have you nearly died? How many times has she? Will she?”

He remained still in the other room, his back to her. She could see him thinking, the way one hand rested against the back of the counter, supporting him, the other in his hair. She had caught him in a way he hadn’t expected. Padmé only felt a little guilty for stealing their night away, a night that was supposed to be spent in between the sheets.

“How is a thirteen year old girl supposed to deal with that? How is she supposed to learn how to be a Jedi, a peacekeeper, in the middle of a galactic war?”

Padmé could feel the senator inside of her beginning to take over. Her voice was loud, too loud, possibly loud enough to wake a handmaid or two. She took another long sip of wine and watched him.

Eventually, after many seconds that felt too long, his hand left his hair and he turned around to join her, empty wine glass in hand. She watched carefully as he stopped just short of her and poured his own glass. In any other situation, it would’ve been an amusing sight-- her husband, who hated anything that didn’t taste like sugar, pouring himself a glass of the driest wine in the galaxy.

He took a sip of it before sitting down beside her, leaving space for her legs in between them. Anakin kept the glass in his hand, holding it carefully, but well practiced. “I don’t have any way of answering those questions, Padmé.”

She frowned, turning away. Anakin’s absences made sense now, thinking of young Ahsoka. Padmé imagined if Satine had the same problem with Obi-Wan when Anakin had become his padawan. Obi-Wan had been just a few years older than Anakin was now, raising a nine year old, because Qui-Gon Jinn had told him to in his dying breath.

Padmé was quick to blink away the images of Naboo, the heartbreak that Obi-Wan had felt for so long, still buried deep underneath his shell. She tried not to think of her husband and his padawan, Anakin giving Ahsoka to Obi-Wan with his last breath. To think of such things, to consider it, she swallowed down another few sips of wine.

“So, where were your missions?”

Anakin exhaled, “Christophsis.” He looked out into the empty space of the apartment, taking a sip of the wine and instantly recoiling at the taste. “ Teth, Tatooine.”

“Wasn’t Christophsis a war zone?” Padmé asked, taking the wine from him and placing it down on the small table in front of them.

“Yes, but it was nearly over by the time Ahsoka got there.”

“So, why Christophsis? Why then?”

Anakin sunk back against the cushions of the couch, looking at the empty hand that had just had a glass of wine in it. Somehow, it had found its way into Padmé’s hand, she stood with it, taking another sip as she paced the floor. Her thoughts flowed better in motion, when the den became her own Senate floor.

It was better for her to do so with a glass of wine than Anakin. She was no stranger to his habits. Padmé thought of the last time she had seen him drink wine, how quickly he had become tipsy, bordering on drunk. It had been her job to escort her security detail from the Senate party, his clumsy steps and laughs echoing in the empty hall. It warmed her face to think of it, to think of such innocence in a time of war.

Her attention fell to him when he took a deep breath, steadying himself. His hand rests against the couch cushions, near the spot she had left beside him. “Well, we had to ask for reinforcements,” he recounted, “we were being overrun, every time we tried to contact the Resolute, it was static on the other end. When our ship came in we thought it would be fresh troops, maybe Master Windu, but instead it was just her, just Ahsoka.”

The breath was nearly knocked out of her by the sudden realization, “you were going to die, and the Council sent a thirteen year old girl to help you.” The realization of her husband’s near death, of the pressure put on this padawan, on the absurdity of such a statement. Padmé couldn’t help but laugh, her hand coming up to rest against her wine warmed face. “Of course they did.”

“Padmé,” Anakin sighed again, suddenly looking exhausted. “It wasn’t like that. They didn’t know--”

“Didn’t know what? That she’s thirteen?”

“She’s almost fourteen.” He said, reaching for her wine bottle, taking as much of a swig as he could stomach. “You think she’s defenseless, she’s smart, she’s capable.” He gritted his teeth at the taste of the alcohol, but took another swallow anyway. “Ahsoka is… she’s just like you.” He said, placing the bottle back down and daring to meet her eyes.

Padmé remained where she was, standing across from him with her feet firmly planted.

If not for the girl being thirteen, there were still several things wrong with the matter at hand. Being a Jedi padawan at thirteen was dangerous, and being thrown into an active war was even more dangerous, but for this girl to have to deal with so much responsibility… Padmé had to sit down.

Slowly, she returned to her husband’s arms and turned so she could rest her head on his chest. He relaxed instantly under her touch, the warmth of the wine already making him hazy. Padmé tried not to fixate on the imperfection of her attempted perfection. Her nightgown was ruined with splashes of wine, her feet sticky from standing in a puddle of it.

This night had been meant for them. She had waited to show him her nightgown, prepared a small meal for them to share, and instead they had spent it getting drunk and bickering about his padawan learner. Padmé snuggled her face into his robes, hoping to wish for the time she had wasted back. No matter what she said, no matter what she did, or how she acted, she couldn’t preserve Ahsoka’s childhood. She hadn’t been able to do that with her own.

“What can I do to stop you from worrying so much?” He asked, brushing her hair off of her neck and out of her face. The timbre of his voice, the way he sounded so close to her ear. Padmé melted against him as though he were the warmth of the sun.

“Tell me about her,” she prodded. “Tell me everything about her.”

Anakin smiled a little, his hands traced down her back, up, then down again as he thought about what to say. “Well, she’s annoying,” he said softly, “and she knows when she’s right.”

Padmé couldn’t help the smile that spread across her lips. “I like her already.”

She hadn’t intended for any of this to happen.

Padmé sat in one of the chairs on the bridge of her husband’s flagship, watching as he spoke with the Admiral. The remains of the Separatist fleet were smoldering outside of the viewport. Her star skiff was among the flames, trapped in the hull of what had been Grievous’s ship.

The Chancellor himself had given her the coordinates, believing in their validity, she had left on a whim to discuss terms with the Banking Clan. Instead, she had quickly found herself and Threepio in the middle of a battle, blasts from each ship rocking her little star skiff as it attempted to cross into Republic lines from behind a dreadnought.

“Are you okay?” Anakin asked, startling her out of her thoughts.

Padmé looked up from the metal floor, taking his hand up. “I’m fine,” she said curtly, hoping to push her still lingering fear off for another time. Padmé looked at their hands, at how she had interlocked her fingers with his just by instinct.

“I’ll take you to my quarters, you can clean up and get some rest.” He said softly, walking her down the hall of the Resolute.

She had been in flagships before, but Anakin’s ship was different from the rest. Padmé had never seen so many clones, all of them stopping to acknowledge them on their walk. Anakin smiled at a few of them, all of them keeping their distance from them, as though they knew.

“We’re returning to Coruscant,” he said softly, leading her down another long, endless hallway. This one was far less populated, only the sounds of their footsteps and his voice so soft against her ear could calm the lingering adrenaline in her blood.

She nodded, unsure of what else she could do in such a situation. “You know, I appreciate the rescue mission, but I remember telling you not to stop attacking Grievous,” she said.

Anakin’s smile widened. He pulled her in closer to him, “I wasn’t about to let you have all the fun.”

Padmé could feel her own lips stretch into a smile. “Okay, I’ll admit, some of it was fun.” She released her grasp on his hand so she could link her arm with his, finding his fingers again. “It was… exhilarating to see you again.”

“Exhilarating?” He smirked, stopping in his tracks. “You didn’t do this just to see me again, right?”

“No, no, I--” she ran a hand through the stray hairs that kept falling in her face. “I followed some coordinates from the Chancellor, I suppose I must’ve transposed the numbers, or something like that.”

“And without security?”

“I had Threepio,” she said defensively.

He smiled a little, leading her down the hall to a door. Anakin input the security key as the doors slid open, revealing a humble little living room with two sofas and a meager kitchen-- a caf maker, conservator, and nanowave. Off of the living room were two doors.

“It’s through there, if you want to--”

Padmé was quick to silence her husband with a kiss, her hands quick to find the space where his robes overlapped. She started to pull at the fabric, hoping to free it from his belt. Anakin’s hands moved to her hips, holding her steady, but still kissing her deeply.

“Padmé,” he whispered, his blue eyes wide and bright.

“Master, I can’t find the Artooie’s spare treads,” a voice called out from one of the rooms. The door opened as the girl, Ahsoka, stepped out with a box in her hands. “Oh.”

Padmé quickly untangled herself from her husband. She hoped that her face wouldn’t betray her with a blush, but it was certain that Anakin’s would. Her husband had never been able to avoid it.

“Um, I'm sorry,” Ahsoka said quickly, taking a step back. “I--”

“No, it’s not your fault,” Padmé said just as fast. “I’m sorry, I, we, didn’t realize.”

Anakin had turned to ice behind her. Padmé had carefully moved to reach for his hand behind her, but he had moved just out of touch. She let her hands rest at her sides, feeling foolish for being caught by a thirteen year old girl.

They were both smarter than this, to allow themselves to be so exposed. Padmé had gone to such care to construct a narrative of them being good friends, not mates or partners. Although they had been caught, Padmé hoped that in some weird way, Anakin would hold it against her.

He had nearly gotten them caught once in her star skiff, accidentally knocking into the homing beacon. Now, that star skiff was a smoldering piece of metal on Grievous’s destroyed Malevolence. She hadn’t considered negotiations on the Resolute, at least, not until now. It wasn’t the most pressing issue, though, Padmé brushed aside her urge to drag Anakin out of the room, and thought of all of the questions she had prepared for his padawan.

Later, he could tease her about almost undressing him in front of his thirteen year old student.

Ahsoka’s eyes quickly moved up to Anakin, who couldn’t meet her eyes as he took a step back from both of them, he had turned as red as a Sith saber. Padmé would’ve laughed had her heart not been caught in her throat.

“Um.” Ahsoka said mindlessly, looking back to Padmé, the box of parts still in her hands. It was just as mortifying for her, Padmé realized, watching her lekku darken as well as the markings on her cheeks.

“I'm Padmé Amidala, senator from Naboo, and you must be Anakin’s padawan,” she took a small step forward, offering the young girl her hand. “I want to thank you for rescuing me today.”

Ahsoka clumsily moved the box to rest against her hip to free up a hand. She offered her left, so Padmé quickly changed hands to accommodate the girl’s panicked lack of coordination.

"Ahsoka Tano," she said, feigning confidence.

Her hands were warm, covered in grease from working with Artoo. As soon as the girl realized, she pulled away quickly.

“I am so sorry, I forgot, I’m so sorry,” she wiped her hand on her skirt, too skimpy and small for her.

Padmé felt guilty instantly, she hadn’t done anything to react to the feeling of droid grease on her hands. It wasn’t as though it would hurt her, she was no stranger to grime. She had been covered in worse things.

“It’s fine,” she didn’t wipe her hands on her outfit. The last thing she wanted was for Anakin’s padawan to feel worse.

The tension in the room was enough to bankrupt her mind of any of the questions she had prepared. Padmé hadn’t gone into this expecting to meet Ahsoka, in fact, she had completely forgotten about Anakin’s padawan until hearing her voice. She supposed that Anakin had forgotten as well, too caught up in the moment.

“Um, well, I have to go fix Artoo.” She said, placing the box down on one of the couches and digging through it. “And, if you can’t help me find the treds, then I’m just going to have to rip them off of that old service droid, and Artoo is never going to let me near him again.”

Anakin blinked, suddenly coming to life. “I’ll find them.” He said, brushing a hand through his own hair. “It’s fine, I’ll find them.” He slipped past her into the room that Ahsoka had come from. Padmé figured it was probably his room, the droid parts were enough of a giveaway.

Ahsoka straightened, dropping something that looked like an air filter for a small starship back into the box. “So, um, I’m sorry again, for getting you all dirty like that.”

Padmé smiled a little, “it’s fine.”

They waited in silence, looking one another over while Anakin searched for whatever part it was. Padmé knew the feeling of being dressed down with someone’s eyes. Anakin’s padawan was good at it, taking her apart piece by piece. It was a good skill to have, Padmé knew, and perfecting it would be an even more valuable asset.

Her husband returned a moment later with two metal treads in hand, they looked like thick belts, both of them painted white. Ahsoka quickly took them and inspected the way that the pieces moved, running her fingers over some of the grooves.

“Um, thanks,” she took a few steps back.

“Wait,” Padmé said, stopping the girl in her tracks. “I’ll come with you.” She turned to face her husband, Anakin was frozen staring at the two of them, unsure of what to do or say. “I’m sure the Chancellor would like to hear from you more than he would from me.” She watched as his eyes narrowed, not exactly happy with her, but too caught up in the circumstances to say anything.

“You don't have to,” Ahsoka started.

“No, I want to,” Padmé turned away from her husband to look at the girl.

Ahsoka looked worried, she brought her hands down in front of herself, trying to look as small as possible. Padmé felt guilty for putting pressure on her, for subjecting her to questions like an interrogation.

She turned to look back at him, she could see in his eyes that his thoughts were still far too many and too fleeting. He wanted her to stay, that much was clear in how his hand still longed to reach for her. Padmé turned her head just a little, telling him no before giving him a small bow. “Thank you for coming to my rescue, Master Jedi.” She couldn’t help the smile on her face, or how quickly she had to leave because Ahsoka had already left out the door of their shared quarters.

Ahsoka led her wordlessly through the Resolute to the hangar where she could already hear Threepio. Padmé sighed, resigning herself already to the droid’s bickering. It was sweet that Anakin had programmed him all those years ago just to help his mother, but there were times where she felt Threepio was trying to become her mother.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Ahsoka said, stopping just short of the fabric laid out on the floor. Artoo sat in the middle of it, unable to move. He rocked a little, chirping ecstatically that she hadn’t abandoned him. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Padmé froze, “that’s not why I want to talk to you.” She moved closer to Ahsoka’s workspace, which had Anakin’s supervision written all over it. His starfighter, yellow, just like his podracer all those years ago, sat beside her, tool resting against its landing gear, a dirtied rag resting on top of it.

She glanced up to her, resting the treads on the floor. “Why, then?”

“Well, I--” she stopped herself, unable to find the courage to say ‘I want to know more about you, I want to feel better about you being in the middle of a battlefield.’ “I’ve known Anakin for a very long time, and he always said he would never take a padawan learner, so when I saw you in that holo transmission, I knew I had to meet you.”

Ahsoka’s eye markings raised in interest and curiosity. “Oh,” she said, her hands buried in the tool bag. “I guess that makes sense.”

“He’s told me some about you, but I still have questions, if that’s… okay.” Padmé knelt down onto the dirtied fabric, careful of where she was putting her hands. She wiped the dried grease off on it, hoping not to catch the girl’s attention.

She took a wrench from the bag and started to work on Artoo’s bolts, tipping him over onto his side with great care before placing the bag against him, to keep him from rolling. The droid made a noise, one that Padmé recognized as annoyance.

Ahsoka murmured her apologies to him before looking back up to Padmé, “um, okay, I guess I have questions for you, too.”

The way she said it sent a small spark of panic into Padmé’s heart. It was only natural for her to have questions after catching them like that. She bit down on the inside of her lip before recovering her facade.

“Do you want to go first?” Padmé asked, lowering her eyes to Artoo.

The girl reached up and grabbed the rag from Anakin’s starfighter, folding it carefully and using it to clean the grease from Artoo’s servos. “Um, how long have you known Master Skywalker?”

Padmé relaxed almost instantly at such a question. “A very long time,” she answered. “When he lived on Tatooine with his mother.”

Ahsoka blinked, as though she had made some grander realization. “His mother?”

“She died not long ago,” Padmé answered, hoping to cut the topic short. She knew that Anakin would never say a word to the girl about his mother, that if she questioned him, it would break his trust.

“Your turn to ask a question,” Ahsoka said, rolling Artoo over to get at his other side. The droid chirped almost like a giggle as she did so. “Sorry, Artoo.”

Padmé didn’t even have to think before the words slipped out. “How old are you?”

Ahsoka’s body tensed as though Padmé had touched her. “Thirteen, almost fourteen.”

“Do you like being a padawan?”

She relaxed, Padmé knew that she had taken a right step in the direction. She had dealt with enough adults when she was Ahsoka’s age, all of them asking for her qualifications, credentials, asking to speak to her advisors instead of her. Ahsoka dropped the cloth onto the fabric they sat on.

“Yeah, I do.” She answered, glancing up from her work to meet Padmé’s eyes. “It’s hard sometimes, but I'm learning a lot.”

“I’m sure you’ve found yourself in a lot of dangerous situations already.”

Ahsoka shrugged, “not really.” She picked up one of the treads and started to work it onto Artoo’s bare wheels. “When you speak in the Senate, and your hair is done up, is it your real hair or just a wig?”

Padmé’s breath caught in her chest. She exhaled a small laugh, unable to hide her smile. “It depends, most of the time it’s just a hairpiece, like a wig, but heavier.”

The girl smiled, too. “Artoo, can you spin your treads?”

The droid did so, Padmé watched as the treads aligned themselves with Ahsoka’s guidance. She was certainly perfect for Anakin, the smile on her face, the joy in solving something so simple to make a droid more comfortable. She turned him again, fixing the other tread before moving Artoo upright.

He chirped a thank you to her, moving off of the fabric and onto the floor of the hangar in the direction of Threepio, who had found some clones to annoy in the meantime.

Ahsoka stood and wiped her hands off on her skirt again. Padmé prayed that Anakin had somehow learned how to do laundry and how to remove grease stains for once in his life.

“Can I ask something that might be intrusive?”

Ahsoka placed Anakin’s tools back underneath his starfighter, then the rag on top. “Um, sure.”

“Can you really fight in those clothes?”

Ahsoka blinked, “um, yes.”

“It doesn’t seem safe.” Padmé stood from the fabric on the floor, hoping that her question hadn’t offended Anakin’s padawan. That was the last thing she had wanted to do.

“How?” Ahsoka asked, taking a small step back to look over herself. “I mean, it’s not… jedi robes, but Togruta are allowed to wear non-traditional clothing.”

Padmé straightened a little, hoping to relax herself, so that maybe Ahsoka could relax as well. “It’s not that it doesn't suit you, or look nice, because it does. I just know how easy it is to get scraped and cut on missions, and I’m sure you would feel safer in something with more... coverage.”

Ahsoka’s defensive demeanor shifted. “Oh.”

“Especially because you’re growing. It’ll be much more comfortable to fight in something that supports you.” Padmé put her emphasis on support, hoping that the girl would understand what she meant.

Her blue eyes went wide, “oh!”

Padmé smiled, giving Anakin’s padawan a small nod. “I’d be more than happy to take you shopping in Coruscant. I’m sure my seamstress would love to create something other than gowns for once.”

The girl’s face turned dark with blush, a smile on her face. “I would really appreciate that, Senator.”

Padmé smiled, “you can call me Padmé, I mean, if I can call you Ahsoka, instead of Padawan Tano.”

“Yes! Please, I’d prefer that,” Ahsoka said, doing little to hide her joy. It was almost as though the dropping of formalities had changed her. “So, have you ever tried an awesome sour jawbreaker? Our rations were mixed up with a candy seller’s goods on Coruscant, and they’re so sour they make almost everyone cry.”

She laughed, “I don’t think that I have.” Padmé allowed the girl to take her by the hand, leading her back through the endless halls of the Resolute.

It was strange feeling better about things now that she had met Ahsoka. She trusted the girl entirely, though her feelings of concern for putting Ahsoka in a warzone hadn’t fully been squashed. Padmé embraced the strange feeling inside of her, a need to protect the girl from losing a childhood that she could never have. If Ahsoka couldn’t be a kid at Anakin’s side, she could be one at her side, finding peace in the quiet laughter and shared tears of sour candy.

#star wars #sw:tcw #ahsoka tano #padme amidala #anakin skywalker #anidala #star wars fanfic #sw fanfic #my writing #shoutout to me for doing something since this pandemic started #Anonymous

39 notes · View notes