Chapter Text
She wakes up for the first time sitting on the 11:02 transport to Kisoko station.
An older Trandoshan sits across from her, legs crossed and chin bowed. He fingers the holes in his old coat like he’ll find money on the other side. When he looks up, one of his eyes is slit while the other is blown wide open. Ahsoka looks away before he catches her staring.
She exhales and tries not to follow the urge to get up and leave at the next stop. She holds, and she holds, and she—
“Kisoko Station,” The overhead announces, and she jolts in her seat. The Trandoshan does the same thing, and she tries not to let it bother her. She stands, gripping the yellow overhead rail, and even through the train is stopped she swears the floor is swaying.
The air outside is sharp and brutal as it carries pinches of the thin snowfall that tends to plague this side of Naboo. Ahsoka wipes her cheeks fruitlessly and descends the stone steps. Her bag bounces along her hip, full of enough clothes for her to make the week-long trek to Naboo and back. She follows the address Master Anakin provided, along icy sidewalks and muddy slopes before she finally reaches a modest, but clearly well-maintained house in the middle of the Nubian suburbia.
She stands at the foot of their lawn, staring up at the foreboding home. Yellow lights glow behind sheer curtains in the windows, while wind and snow whip in the dimming light outside.
She was invited. She may have been the one to pressure Anakin, but at the end of the day, he invited her. And she’s his Padawan, even if he left the Order. So it’s fine.
“It’s fine,” she mutters to herself, and walks up to the front door, a heavy wood. She knocks twice and it flies open of its own accord. Or, well— a Force-user’s accord.
She steps in and stops in the small, well-decorated entryway. The inside of the house smells of a pleasant lavender, immediately drowning out the fresh smell of the trees outside. Ahsoka wrinkles her nose.
Everywhere she looks, even in the glimpse of the living room past the entryway, is beige or white or a muted pink or blue. It looks like a home from the inside of a magazine, nothing like Anakin’s cramped and messy room she still curls up in when she misses him. Frankly, it doesn’t look very lived in.
“Ahsoka!” Anakin calls from somewhere in the house, because he knows her signature. She hears the sizzling of something cooking on the stove, but can’t smell it under the lavender.
She smiles at his familiar voice, but the smile lags when he pops into view. He’s wearing an apron that says Kiss the Cook, has scruff growing around his chin. He’s grinning, his eyes alight.
“The, uh—” he stops and turns back to her. His eyes catch the orange sunset in an unsettling way. “Do you still like loouf?”
“Yeah,” she replies. She’s still standing in the entryway, one hand pressed against the wall.
Out in the open space, a kind voice filters past Anakin. “Ani, who—”
Ah, there she is. Padme peeks out from behind a pocketed wall and smiles brightly when she sees Ahsoka. “This is unexpected?”
“It… is?” Ahsoka asks, side-eyeing Anakin. He barely looks sheepish.
“Sorry. I’ve been… occupied.”
After a moment of frustrated understanding growing along her features, Padme snorts, diverging from her typical poise, and nudges her husband with her shoulder. “He acts like he’s the one who pushed out two infants,” she jokes, lightening the mood.
At the mention of them, curiosity swells in her chest. “Can I… see them?” she asks tentatively, teetering between feeling like an intruder and demanding to see her niece and nephew.
“Of course,” Padme says warmly. “Ani, finish dinner and think about how important it is to notify your wife when you have family over, hm?”
He murmurs a sorry, smiles again at Ahsoka, and disappears back into the kitchen.
Ahsoka tries not to dart back out of the building before it’s too late, and instead follows Padme down the hall to the left. Pictures already line the cream wall paint. Ahsoka is in none of them. She tries not to let it make her sick. “How’s his, uh… parole?” She asks, touching the untouchable topic.
Padme sighs elegantly, and one of her flyaway hairs lifts with the rush of air. “Oh, you know. He’s antsy, but we certainly have our hands full with the children.”
Ahsoka swallows and nods, tugging at a scar on her neck. “I’m sure.”
Padme stops and turns, regarding her with bright brown eyes. “How is Obi-Wan?”
Ahsoka works her jaw. She wishes she could say good, but he’s still fighting for every breath and every shred of pride Palpatine stole from him. She wishes she could say anything but “You would know, if either of you had tried to reach out earlier.”
Padme nods, her eyes flitting to the side. “You're right,” she murmurs. “I’ve been… out of sorts.”
Ahsoka snorts, failing to suppress a sudden urge to sob. Grief bubbles in her chest right then and there, in between Anakin in the kitchen and the babies the next door down. “We’ve all been. I—” She throws her hands up and they fall by her thighs, limp. “I haven’t heard from Rex since a few days after the war. Master Kenobi is… he can’t be there for me. And Anakin… And it’s fine, because I’m not a child anymore, but all of a sudden I’m completely— Look. I’ve forgiven Anakin. He was manipulated, he was acquitted, I know. I just can’t forgive him for disappearing on us, on his family. Does he know that Obi-Wan’s heart stopped again last week? Does he care?”
“Of course he cares, Ahs–”
“Well he sure isn’t acting like it. I’m glad he got his happy ending, really, I am. But the rest of us— Force. We won, but it really doesn’t fucking feel like it.”
Padme studies her, still a picture of calm, a lily on a still lake. Ahsoka’s tenser than a steel cable, her shoulders wound tight.
“I should leave,” she says tightly. “I’m sorry for interrupting this— this—”
“Please, the children—”
“They’re fine, I’m sure,” Ahsoka mumbles, backing up in the hallway. The smell of lavender has turned cloying, and she’s starting to suffocate. She never should’ve tried to visit. Anakin has moved on. Her Master is gone. He doesn’t— he doesn’t need to hear about his old life dissolving to nothing while his back is turned.
“Ahsoka, we can put aside this for an evening; I don’t want you traveling so late so young.”
Ahsoka actually laughs at that. “Padme, I was thrown into battle at the ripe age of fourteen. I think I’ll be okay on public transport when it’s night time.”
Padme watches her back away. “Please consider coming again,” she says quietly. “You’re right; we should be more involved. He’s afraid; afraid of making a bigger mess than he did before.”
“Then he’s a coward,” Ahsoka says quietly, and the word burns in her chest. “It’s up to you both to reach out. It’s not my job. I shouldn’t have come.”
Padme knows a losing battle when she sees one. She follows Ahsoka to the entryway, and glances in the direction of the kitchen Ahsoka’s never seen. Ahsoka pulls on her dirty boots, and small crumbs of it fall to the beige rug. She stares at them for a brief moment, and then laces up and turns to leave.
“We’ll reach out,” Padme says. “I promise.”
Ahsoka shakes her head slightly. “That means nothing unless you actually do it.” Before Anakin can emerge from the kitchen, she pushes open the door and leaves the suffocating, luxury house that smelled so thickly of lavender it was like they were trying to hide a body. Or a dying family, a dying history.
What would Shmi think of her son, Ahsoka wonders with a curl of her lip from disgust. As quickly as the vitriolic thought comes to her, she drops it. It’s not her business to wonder what his late mother would be thinking.
The snow seems to bite at her skin worse, even though she can’t see it anymore. The dark blue sky high above is tinged with dark pinks and purples. She watches the dying light with a sense of dread in her gut as she gets further and further from Anakin and his picture-perfect family that doesn’t include her. Three years together, and now she’s nothing but a house guest, an outsider to a happy father, mother, and children.
Why did she come all the way to fucking Naboo to see people who didn’t want to see her, anyway? Her eyes burn from shame. Like a loyal little dog, running back to the owner that dropped it off at the pound. She just wants someone to hug her and tell her it’s going to be okay. That person won’t be Anakin.
Jedi don’t hate, but she tastes it in her mouth, and can do nothing but swallow it down. She knows she’s not a very good Jedi. Every day she considers leaving. And every day, watching the younglings learn to sew and the library being rebuilt book by book and the plans to better encourage healthy relationships by the council, she stays. She’ll stay for as long as she lives, because she isn’t Anakin.
Her comm beeps just as she arrives at the empty platform. A warm light blinks down at her as she passes underneath. She reads the message under the dim lamp, angling it to catch the small text.
COD: obi-wan's forgetting again. i know you’re off planet but could you call 0800 tmrw. it would help him.
She closes her eyes and leans back, hitting the map of the stations with a thump. Force. Anger and frustration and grief swirl in her chest. It takes her a few minutes before she musters the strength to open her eyes and respond.
AHS: will do.