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Anakin Skywalker is many things. A Jedi Knight, a general of the Republic Army, a prodigy. Secretly, a husband. One thing he is not: a good liar. 

Padmé could tell that he still wasn’t really over what happened with Clovis. It was not difficult to see the anger in his eyes—the war had put a rough edge on his otherwise youthful face, lending him an air of severity he hadn’t possessed before, and it was especially noticeable now. 

At first, she’d wanted to assume that it was just his usual cool-off period, the adrenaline comedown after a mission. Of course, one day turned into two, into three, into almost a week, completely dashing that particular hope. He avoided speaking to her, but his eyes were always on her. He was emotionally distant, but always hovering nearby, orbiting around her at all times. 

She wasn’t sure what to make of it. Maybe she should have found it frightening, how ferociously he guarded her. But she found that it stoked ire more than fear, which was exactly how they’d ended up in this situation to begin with. He’d obviously meant to intimidate her out of taking on the role of double-agent against a colleague and personal friend, but the moment that the words “I’m not going to let you!” escaped his lips, she felt something snap inside of her. It was that petulant, demanding tone of his voice that rubbed her nerves raw. It was the way his nose wrinkled in disbelief when she retorted. He could be such a child, and then for him to have the gall to complain that nobody ever took him seriously, that they didn’t appreciate his maturity—

So now, when their paths crossed in the Senate building’s hallways, crackles of tension flew between them that had to be obvious to onlookers. Padmé was always able to school her expression into something polite and disinterested, but Anakin stared at her in a way that made her feel like she was stuck under a microscope. She refused to be small under his gaze. So help her, she would be the bigger person. 

Padmé opted to ignore it. She tilted her chin, calling upon years of training and experience to look as dignified and unbothered as possible, even as he fell into step beside her. Dormé, who’d been walking just two steps back, fell away silently and without hesitation. Padmé could imagine the look on her face without even seeing it: eyebrows raised, mouth pinched. She’d probably be within earshot if Padmé needed a quick out (or to alert her to any potential eavesdroppers) but allowed the two of them enough privacy to speak quietly with one another. 

“Senator,” Anakin addressed her, the first words spoken between them in days. “We need to talk.” 

“Oh,” she replied lightly. “What seems to be the trouble, General Skywalker?” 

“This is ridiculous, Padmé. You’re acting like nothing happened.”

“I’m not sure what you mean. I thought we’d resolved everything. Unless, of course, the Council needs additional details for the post-mission briefing?”

He gripped her arm suddenly, pulling her down a relatively abandoned side-corridor. Padmé’s fingers dug pointlessly into his, knowing that in a battle of pure strength she had no hope of winning. Her eyes flicked over to the corner of the hall, where Dormé’s concerned face had appeared. Padmé gave her a reassuring nod, before she turned her full attention back to her husband. 

She levelled him with her iciest glare, and that alone was enough to make him withdraw his hand, regret in his eyes for the briefest moment before he was frowning at her again. 

“I’ll be leaving for Geonosis in a few days,” he explained, folding his arms over his chest. “And I don’t want to leave things like this.”

“ You don’t want to leave things like this?” she hissed back. “I already apologized. You said it was fine. I took you at your word.” 

“Well, I changed my mind.” A very handy way, Padmé thought, to admit that he’d actually been lying. “And it’s still bothering me. I think that you–” 

“You know what, Anakin,” she interrupted, not interested in hearing whatever half-baked accusation he was about to aim at her. “I’m not sorry. I didn’t do anything wrong. I got you what you needed and put myself at great personal risk to do it. I’d do it again in a heartbeat if it meant putting an end to this war even a day sooner. Meet me at my apartment tonight if you’re ready to talk about this like an adult. Otherwise? Good luck, General Skywalker.” 

She didn’t give him a chance to respond, turning sharply on her heel and walking away. 

o0o

Padmé sat on her couch picking her cuticles raw, her stomach in knots by the time that evening fell. 

The hours between their argument in the Senate Building and her return to the apartment had given her way too much time to think. She’d clearly been stewing as much as he had, maybe even overthinking—was she certain that his expressions were of anger? Or was he worrying about his upcoming mission to Geonosis? Was he withdrawn because he didn’t trust her? Or because he didn’t want to burden her? To her, the latter was simply an extension of the former. She wished he’d just talk to her. 

Even if he did truly believe that there was nothing between her and Rush Clovis, it couldn’t have felt good to watch Padmé throw her arms around him, to dress provocatively and use a tone of voice she only reserved for those most intimately involved with her. It hadn’t been completely true that she wasn’t sorry. She was. She was sorry that the Jedi Council’s suspicions had been correct. She was sorry that Clovis had abandoned his principles entirely. She was sorry for this whole war, for the state of the galaxy, for the selfishness and greed that thrived in its chaos. 

She was sorry for her husband, who always seemed to be at its epicenter. 

Padmé forced herself to drop her hands onto the cushions, unfurling her fists and stretching her neck. There was no way she’d be able to have a reasonable conversation with him if she was this tense. Naturally, the second she’d regulated her nervous system, the door chimed. 

“Mistress?” Threepio called to her. “Master Ani is here to see you. Shall I let him in?”

“Please,” she responded, pulling herself off the couch and squaring her shoulders. 

Her husband slunk in, looking for all the world like a shadow taken form, cast long and imposing in his dark cloak. He had smudges under his eyes, clear evidence that he hadn’t been sleeping well. Padmé resisted her natural inclination to hurry over to him, to cradle his face in her hands and ask him why he looked so tired and worn down. For one thing: she knew the answer. For another: she would absolutely lose focus if she touched him. 

“You’re dismissed,” Padmé told Threepio, and waited until he had shuffled away before she greeted the Jedi in front of her. “I’m glad you decided to come tonight.”

Anakin was obviously taken aback, genuine confusion written on his face. “I mean… you told me to.” 

Padmé shrugged. “Not exactly. I said that you were welcome if you were ready to be reasonable. The choice was very much yours.” 

“Well, I’m here. I’m reasonable.” Anakin’s voice was light. Almost dismissive. “Talk to me.”

Padmé couldn’t stop her eyebrows from shooting up her forehead, her eyes narrowing in disbelief, although she quickly recovered. “I was under the impression that you wanted to talk to me. As I said, I have nothing new to add to this conversation. You already know how I feel,” she pointed out, watching him drop his cloak from his shoulders and kick his boots off. Settling in for a long night, probably. “I’m giving you the floor here.”

“Thanks, Senator.” Oh, definitely dismissive. 

“What do you want, Ani?”

The corners of his mouth pulled downwards as he considered his words. Padmé knew how difficult he was to crack—his emotions were always obvious to her, but his reasoning wasn’t. Knowing that he was angry or sad or scared didn’t help her understand him any better, it only told her that something wasn’t right. 

“Resolution, I guess,” he finally admitted. “I know I said it was fine, but that was adrenaline talking. I was just glad you weren’t… dying.” 

He choked on the word. Padmé softened slightly. She could understand that, at least. 

“I’m alright,” she reassured him gently. “In perfect health. Nothing to be afraid of.” 

“But there was. That idiot didn’t even seem to see how much danger you were in until–” he stopped short, frowning. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Padmé pressed. 

“Like you don’t think Clovis is an idiot.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s not an idiot. A bit foolish, maybe, but I think you’re underestimating him.”

“Oh, and that bothers you?”

“So it’s just regular jealousy, then.” Padmé sighed heavily, dropping her shoulders. “I told you there was nothing between us anymore.”

“But here you are, defending him anyway,” Anakin snapped. “That makes sense.” 

Padmé took a hard step forward, drawing her spine up straight and lifting her chin defiantly. “I’m not defending him! I’m telling you not to underestimate him. He was obviously able to outsmart the Senate for long enough to successfully fund an entire factory before anyone grew suspicious enough to investigate him. And just so we’re clear, I’ve always known him to be practical and sensible. I was ready to give him the benefit of the doubt, because it made sense to.”

“That’s exactly the kind of thing that gets you in trouble!”

“I suppose I’m better off acting like you?” she scoffed. “Suspicious of everyone? Ready to swing first and ask questions later?”

That cut a little too deeply, she could tell. He looked like he’d been slapped. “I’m not suspicious of everyone, Padmé. I just know who’s worth trusting and who isn’t.”

“Not me,” she laughed. It came out brittle and chilly. “Never your wife.”

“You weren’t acting like my wife. I hate the scheming. The dishonesty. You lied to him so kriffing convincingly. ” 

She wanted to scream—as if he hadn’t engaged in a little trickery against his own enemies, as if he wasn’t just as guilty as she was. It was only with great difficulty that she picked a more diplomatic response. “I’m a senator, Anakin. Sometimes I have to act strategically . My victories don’t look the same as yours, but they’re no less important.”

“Obi-wan was right about politicians,” he sneered, but didn’t elaborate. 

“And it seems I’ve been right about soldiers.”

“This is a war, isn’t it? Soldiers know what that means better than anyone else.” He folded his arms over his chest, drawing himself up tall and commanding. Padmé was unmoved. 

“You have no right to tell me what I can and can’t do,” she insisted, her fist clenching by her hip. “Last I checked, I don’t answer to you .”

“I’m your husband! What does that mean to you, Padmé? If you don’t care what I think, and nobody even knows–”

“Don’t you dare,” she interrupted. “Don’t you dare put words into my mouth. I never said that I didn’t care, I said that you can’t demand that I neglect my duties. That would be true even if our marriage was public.” 

Anakin’s face twisted. “How would you feel,” he started, the words coming from between his teeth, “if it had been me? If I’d been buttering up some sleemo to try and pump them for information? If I’d been poisoned, and you had to pretend that the person dying right in front of you wasn’t someone you loved?” 

To her horror, Padmé was struck by a rush of possessive anger. She burned at the thought of Anakin being pawed at, of him smiling flirtatiously at someone else, of him weaponizing his good looks against someone with a weaker will to get what he wanted from them. She’d always subconsciously felt that he was somehow too… innocent for such things, but of course that wasn’t true. She knew what his childhood had been like. What he must have seen with his own eyes: traded favors, offers that couldn’t be turned down. A world where the only tools in your arsenal were those that couldn’t be stolen from you. A pretty face, a nubile body, silky words and a soft touch. And even those couldn’t keep a person safe forever. 

A wave of nausea hit her. She shook her head, trying to dispel the creeping thoughts. 

“If you had no other choice, I would understand,” Padmé said, but it sounded untrue even to her own ears. 

“ You had no other choice, then?” 

“You are truly unpleasable,” she cried, exasperated. He was circling her the way a hungry carnivore would a sickly prey animal. Herding her, it seemed, towards the seating area in the middle of her living room. “What should I have done differently, Anakin? What would your brilliant idea be?” 

A shadow went across his face. A trick of the light, perhaps, or the way that his head tipped forward. But it was unmistakable to her that his thoughts had gone somewhere unpleasant. Padmé didn’t like to think about the things he’d done for this war. The things he’d done even before them, driven by righteous fury. Her heart fluttered in her throat as he stepped towards her, his eyes flicking down to her neck like he could see her pulse there. 

“I wouldn’t put you in danger,” he murmured. 

“Wouldn’t you?” 

She could barely breathe. She’d wanted to challenge him, to force him to explain his reasoning so that she’d have something to pick apart. It was very easy to disarm him with words; she could talk circles around him, find any flaw in an argument and break it down until he had no choice but to concede. But Anakin’s arena was his physicality, his manipulation of the unseen. Against his foes, she imagined, he must be terrifying in an almost primitive way, hitting that part of the hindbrain that screams run, run, run. Like thunder clapping through the blackness of night. The tremors of an earthquake. The crushing force of a wave breaking against a cliff face. 

Fear was a shade of anger, the Jedi said. Two points on the infinite spectrum of emotion, side-by-side, where one could turn so quickly into another. Padmé wasn’t afraid—she had been angry, but there was something else on that spectrum that easily arose in anger’s place. The rushing blood and heat, the intensity of emotion, the aching, gnawing need for domination. 

Foolish, Padmé chided herself, to think this would end any other way. 

She reached for him at the same moment that he reached for her. They met halfway, bodies colliding into one another’s, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as he dragged her in by the waist. Their mouths crashed together messily, the two of them pouring their frustration into a kiss that was more tongue and teeth than anything else. He pulled away just to attack her neck instead, biting, sucking. Panic raced through Padmé—he’d leave a mark, and that wasn’t fair—so she laced her fingers through his hair and pulled. He came away with a pained grunt, but his face was flushed and his eyes had glazed over. 

“I missed you,” he groaned, reaching up and grabbing her wrist. 

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

A huff escaped him that could have been laughter. He guided her hand down, bringing her palm between his legs so that she could feel his growing hardness. She glared up at him, a volley of insults on her tongue: was he sick in the head? Was this his idea of foreplay? What was wrong with him? But she couldn’t say any of that without opening herself up to the same criticism. Her whole body felt like it was on fire from wanting him. 

She settled for gripping him through the fabric of his trousers, stroking him roughly and scowling all the while. His head tipped and rested on hers, his lips pressed into her hair. His hands gripped her upper arms, as much to keep her close as it was to keep himself upright. 

“Padmé…” 

“Be quiet,” she commanded, and she heard his teeth click together from shutting his mouth so fast. That was a good sign. She was winning. All she had to do now was finish him, get him to that soft, blissful place that he drifted to post-climax and all would be forgiven. 

But she had grossly miscalculated. His silence was not a sign of obedience. She realized the mistake just a fraction of a second too late, as his fingers tightened against her and he forced her backwards. Anakin shoved her, careful to keep her balanced until the backs of her calves hit the couch cushions, and then she went down. He didn’t speak to her, didn’t meet her eyes as he dropped to his knees and shoved the long skirt of her gown up to her hips. Padmé squirmed against the invasion of his touch, his fingers hooking into her panties and yanking them down her legs. He shoved her legs apart, the strength in his hands alone enough to make her still. 

“You’re wet,” he whispered, his mouth twisting. “You’re perfect. ” 

He pressed forward, licking a long, wet stripe up the seam of her sex. Padmé bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood; so help her, she would not whimper, she would not whine, even when he swirled his tongue around her clit and kissed it so softly. Her hands gripped the cushions, body locked in place by his hands and his mouth and that terrible, overwhelming will of his. Even when his left hand moved from her knee, she didn’t bother testing her luck, just froze as his fingers plunged inside of her. She didn’t dare to breathe. 

Tension coiled in her gut, muscles clenched tight. She was fighting it. Fighting him, still, and losing as she felt an orgasm approaching entirely against her will. Anakin ate her out like he’d been dying to taste her for weeks—and she knew that he probably had been. There’d been no time to do this since before he’d last left Coruscant. He came home, spent too little time at her apartment, was called away, escorted her and her ex-boyfriend on a mission, and here they were. He sucked and licked at her so greedily that she doubted he’d notice if the walls came down around them. 

Padmé tried to wriggle a little, testing to see if he’d let up, shifting her hips to try and angle away from his mouth. Anakin slung his forearm over her hips, pressing her down into the cushions, well and truly trapping her. She made the mistake of looking down at him, seeing how beautiful he looked with his face buried between her thighs. She was trying to be mad at him. 

Her head fell back, body loosening at last as she accepted her inevitable end. There was no use being stubborn—maybe she could consider this a strategic loss, get one out of the way now to clear her head. 

Almost the moment she decided to let herself give in, he wrenched away from her, pulling his mouth and fingers from her pussy with an obscene sound. 

“Anakin!”

He drew his forearm over his mouth, wiping the wetness from it, raking his eyes over her in an undeniably possessive way as he stood. Padmé’s face burned. She hurried to collect herself, standing on admittedly unsteady legs, trying to ignore how wet her thighs were and how insistently her clit throbbed. He looped an arm around her waist, bending down to kiss her messily. 

“What’s wrong?” he taunted between breaths. “Do you want me or not?” 

She recognized the question for what it was. He hoped to corner her into soothing his wounded pride, wanted to hear her beg him to fuck her. The problem was that she did want him. She wanted him so badly that it had gone hard and sharp inside of her, her desire a knife plunging into the softness of her belly, twisting mercilessly. A bead of sweat rolled from her temple to her neck. 

“You could have had me all along,” she told him instead, not giving him the answer she knew he craved. “If you’d just admitted that you were wrong. You could have been with me every night, Ani. I would have wanted you to be here.” 

“But you don’t now?” 

“What do you think?” 

He smiled, completely devoid of any warmth. “You would have kicked me out already if you didn’t.”

Padmé didn’t respond, but she didn’t need to. Instead, she worked at his clothing, pulling off his belt and shoving his robes from his shoulders. She undressed him in stony silence, her jaw clenched harder and harder at every new millimeter of skin revealed to her. When he attempted to do the same for her, she smacked his hands away, opting to pull her dress and remaining underthings off herself. It was another small act of revenge; she stripped clinically and quickly, not an ounce of eroticism in her movements. 

It hardly mattered. Anakin still responded with such earnest enthusiasm to her nakedness that she almost wanted to laugh at him. No matter how their personalities clashed, no matter how irreconcilable their lifestyles felt, there was always this innate, primal magnetism keeping them locked together. She couldn’t understand how he didn’t see how special this was, how irreplaceable. Nobody else had ever made her feel like she was losing her mind like he did. 

His mouth was on hers again, kissing her ravenously. Their tongues slid together, the taste of sex still lingering there, and Padmé almost went weak in the knees. Far too soon, he withdrew, spinning her around to face the couch and pushing her legs with his so that she was forced to kneel on the cushions. Padmé didn’t fight it, just gripped the back of the couch until her knuckles went white. The only concession he made to her was a soft touch at the nape of her neck, his fingers brushing her hair aside, lips finding her shoulder briefly. 

And then, without warning, he thrust into her. 

Padmé squeezed her eyes shut, biting her tongue to stop herself from sobbing. It felt so good that she wanted to cry but she couldn’t give him the satisfaction, not yet. Without being able to see his face, she struggled to gauge how he was feeling, which was probably his intention. He’d reveal too much otherwise.

She laid her forehead against one of her hands, the other snaking down to touch herself. Her clit was hard and slick beneath her fingertips, worked into readiness from the combination of her anger and his mouth. He usually liked to touch her there himself, but his fingers were busy digging into the flesh of her hips hard enough to leave bruises, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to give him any more control than he already had anyway. He brought her hips back to meet him, every stroke a little too hard, a little too deep, his hands the only thing stopping her from being shoved away. Pressure built under her ribs, lifting inside of her and squeezing the breath from her lungs. 

Neither of them said a word. Usually, they’d talk during sex, even if it was just giggles or whispered reassurances. Whether it was in the back of a speeder or in her office or even an empty alcove, there was always something—but now, the only sounds were of skin meeting skin, of their heavy breathing and grunts and moans that couldn’t be contained quickly enough. It was unsettling. 

But it didn’t stop her from seizing up, pulsing around him with an orgasm that left her open mouthed and panting. It rolled through her limbs like an electrical shock, numbing her down to her fingertips, pleasure so strong it bordered on pain. 

Padmé’s wits came back to her all at once, her gut lurching. She reached behind her, slippery fingers finding his and gripping them to get his attention. 

“Ani,” she whispered, turning her head to try and look at him. Her voice was rough, crackly. “Come on.” 

He slowed down, paused at last. She took the opportunity to wriggle out of his grasp, laying her head against the armrest. Padmé spread her arms, letting her legs fall open invitingly. Anakin crawled over her, still frowning, but his gaze was softer than it had been before. She reached up, tucking a wayward strand of golden-brown hair behind his ear, letting her fingers trail along the curve of his cheekbone and down to his jaw. His eyes fluttered shut. He held her wrist, but it was a gentle, undemanding touch. He kissed her palm. 

“I love you.”

“Padmé.” His voice caught strangely, and he melted into her embrace, burying his face in her neck. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, tracing the lines of his back as she angled her hips underneath him. He sank into her easily, burying his cock as deep inside of her as it would go. He was still for a long moment, letting her touch him and surround him with comforting warmth. 

This was how it was meant to be. This was what Padmé wanted for Anakin. Not for him to be all-powerful, warped by pain, angry at the world, but sweet and gentle in her arms. She hadn’t fallen in love with the war hero Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker. She’d fallen in love with Ani, with his beautiful blue eyes and shy smile and the awkward, painfully honest admiration he held for her. 

He rested his forehead against hers, their noses touching and their lips barely a breath apart. “I didn’t like seeing you that way,” he finally said. “It was all wrong.”

“It was an act, Ani,” she replied, hitching her legs up around his waist. “It wasn’t real. This is real.” 

One hand slid behind her neck, cradling her head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“You threw yourself into that sketto-pit to get back at me,” he pointed out. In spite of the accusatory words, his thrusts were slow, deep, like the anger was drained from him at last. “And if I hadn’t been there, what would have happened to you? What would our last words be to each other?”

Something inside of Padmé cracked, the fragile, tender insides of her heart suddenly overexposed. It all felt stupid, now. Why had they wasted so much precious time arguing, when every moment between them could so easily be their last? 

“But you were there,” she whispered against his skin. “You were, Anakin.”

“I won’t always be.”

Padmé stroked his hair and pulled him closer. She wished that she could take him even further into her somehow, wanting to be so impossibly, irrevocably intertwined with each other that they could never be parted again. “I trusted you when it mattered,” she said. “I need you to do the same for me.”

Anakin turned his head, lips seeking hers. This kiss wasn’t like any that had come before it tonight; there was no fire in it, no teeth. It was warm and soft. It felt like an apology. 

“I love you,” he breathed. His weight bore down into her, but not to trap her. It was more like he meant to erase any space between them, to feel as much of her skin against his as he could. “I love you so much that it hurts, sometimes. I can’t lose you.”

A memory came to the forefront of her mind, then: Anakin, half-swallowed by shadow and firelight. His eyes, pleading and pained. He’d described his feelings for her as agony, and Padmé had been desperately trying to soothe that suffering ever since. It might have been easier, or at least possible, if it weren’t for the fact that she loved him just as desperately. 

“I’m here,” she said softly, knowing that it was inadequate but not sure what else she could say. There was nothing she could promise him at a time like this: that she’d always be safe, that nothing would go wrong, that they’d ever see each other again. All they had—perhaps all they’d ever have—was this moment. 

Padmé tilted her hips against his, meeting him on every stroke. She dug her heels into his lower back, trying to keep him from pulling too far from her. Instead, they ground against each other—she felt overfull, her body aching and straining towards another climax, one that seemed frustratingly out of reach. 

“Ani,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his ear. “I want to do it together. Can you manage that?” 

He nodded as he lifted himself off of her just enough to work his hand down between them. His thumb rubbed slow but incessant circles into her clit, his fingers splayed over her soft, sweaty lower abdomen.

His eyes never left hers. 

When she came, this time, it was like sinking into warm water: bone-deep pleasure that gently rocked her body and fluttered through her veins. She felt him come just seconds later with a rush of throbbing heat, spilling inside of her with a softly whimpered Padmé, Padmé. 

When it was done, he pressed his face into her shoulder. Beneath her hands, the muscles of his shoulders trembled, tension that had built over the last few days finally finding release. They stayed locked together, naked on her couch, until the sweat had cooled from their bodies and the haze had passed from their minds. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Anakin had said it so quietly that she’d almost missed it, only catching the words because his lips brushed over her neck. She kissed his forehead, lingering with him in the afterglow. Everything that had seemed so dark and inescapable just an hour earlier now felt small. Insignificant, even. Padmé knew how temporary this respite would be, but it was better than none at all.

“It’s alright,” she whispered. When he sighed and curled even deeper into her embrace, Padmé thought of what he’d said earlier. If these were the last words they ever spoke to one another, would she regret them? Padmé shook that fear from her mind, banishing it. “I love you.”