Chapter Text
Eight heads turned toward him when he stepped through the door, his lightsaber blazing and ready in front of him.
There were seven Trandoshans, all dressed in heavy stealth-like gear, with chunky belts at their hips. Weapons ranging from vibroblades to blasterguns were strapped to them.
Their reptilian eyes widened when Anakin entered.
The remaining head was a familiar Theelin one: Hayleigh. She was standing by a desk littered with blueprints and mechanical parts, but around her wrist sat a thick cuff. A rattling chain kept her bound to the wall, which explained why she had not escaped through the back door already.
The Trandoshans seemed to realize he wasn’t here for a friendly visit.
“Fire!”
Hayleigh ducked to the ground as the fight broke out and Anakin remained close to the far wall, keeping as much distance between him and the Trandoshans as possible for now.
He blocked their shots, eyeing the worktables in the house warily all the while. It seemed the terrorists had managed to construct a few bombs already—accidentally reflecting a bolt into one of them would prove fatal to them all.
One Trandoshan stepped closer, frustration evidently growing when none of them could land a hit. Anakin took the opportunity and ducked into a forward roll. Reaching the Trandoshan in a flash, he stabbed his saber through the guy's leg and kicked the blastergun away from them when the reptile fell down, groaning as he clutched his bleeding thigh.
Another one of the reptiles gave a pitched shriek and charged at Anakin like a beast gone mad. It was a woman—probably the male's lover or something—and she managed to claw at his forearm as he raised his lightsaber.
“Kriff,” Anakin hissed, and called to the Force, shoving the female Trandoshan away. She raised her blaster, shooting straight at his forehead—impeccable aim, he had to admit—but he returned the shot back at her with his blade.
It hit its target. The woman's shoulder sizzled, scaled skin leaking a deep red.
With more confidence even despite the gash in his arm, Anakin lunged to the five remaining opponents. He spun his saber fast as he approached, shielding himself from their flurry of shots, and swung it down at the first one on his path.
Another Trandoshan went down rather easily and the four others eyed each other, pausing.
Their positions were reversed now: Anakin was standing closer to Hayleigh, where they had stood before. The remaining Trandoshans had almost reached the door as they had slowly backed away from him.
“Yield,” Anakin demanded.
But they made no move to lower their weapons.
“Or do you want to end up like your friends?” he asked, spinning his saber.
The last woman in the group snarled as her eyes narrowed. “I will kill you for what you have done,” she threatened. Her voice was a breathy hiss.
“You can try.” He shifted his feet, moving one back to prepare himself for her attack. His grip on his lightsaber tightened.
But she didn't pounce.
“Run,” she told the other Trandoshans instead, and aimed her blaster.
But Anakin’s gaze did not meet the end of the barrel.
“No!” he shouted, but she had already pressed the trigger.
He watched as the bolt hurtled toward the worktables, toward the bombs, and knew that he had a decision to make.
Save Hayleigh, or capture the Trandoshans.
Risk losing access to Eaero's minerals, or let Hayleigh die.
The terrorists fled through the door as the table caught aflame. It would only be a few more seconds until the explosives would be triggered.
He stepped toward the door, panic seizing his chest.
And glanced back at Hayleigh, cowering on the floor, shuffled as far back into the corner as possible.
He could hear the Trandoshans powering up their speeders.
And he made a split-second decision.
-
The blast was deafening.
They'd only barely made it through the back door in time, but still the explosion sent them flying.
Anakin kept his arms wrapped around Hayleigh's trembling frame, shielding her when they were slammed into the grass, tumbling a few meters farther until coming to a slow stop.
His ribs groaned in protest when he sat up and carefully pushed Hayleigh away. Her eyes were open. “Thank you,” she choked out.
He ignored her and stood.
Or tried to.
His legs gave out and he collapsed onto a knee, closing his eyes against the dizziness in his head. His ears were still ringing.
“Sir?” He heard Hayleigh ask.
He gave a short hum.
Something sticky was dripping down his back.
“Are you okay?” Her voice had the same foreign quality to it as her sister's.
“Stay here.” He went to get up again and thankfully stayed standing this time. He searched the sky for the Trandoshans’ speeders, but found nothing.
He stumbled back to his Starfighter.
E-17 buzzed excitedly from the astromech socket. “Anakin Skywalker, you're alive, question?”
“Sure am,” he grunted, climbing into the cockpit with a little more difficulty than usual. He pulled his mask off and discarded it carelessly in the jet, grateful for the smoother breaths without it.
“Obi-Wan Kenobi has been contacted after the explosion, statement.”
A sigh blew past his lips.
“Force, just take me now,” he groaned, but powered up the fighter.
Fine. Kenobi could come, but Anakin was getting to those Trandoshans first.
He shot off into the air, willing himself not to pass out when the ringing in his head only seemed to worsen.
“Find me those speeders, E,” he ordered, shooting a last look at Hayleigh before leaving the island out of sight. She was still sitting in the grass. She'd be fine, probably.
“Onto the sea, Meat-head.” The droid sent two tracking beams over, which were indeed located over the Western Sea.
Taking a sharp turn toward the water, Anakin boosted up the engine and turned the jet's nose down, diving closer to the surface to escape the clouds’ obstruction of sight.
“Scans indicate that Anakin Skywalker is injured, statement. Advisement is to slow down in case of a loss of consciousness,” E-17 blipped, domed head turning anxiously. As far as a droid could be anxious, anyway.
“I'm not going to pass out,” Anakin said, not slowing down. He eyed the radar, satisfied when he saw he was getting closer to the Trandoshans. Those speeders were no match for a Starfighter. Certainly not his.
“Meat-head has always been overconfident, statement.”
A particularly sharp bout of dizziness hit, and he blinked rapidly a few times. He gave E-17 a halfhearted grunt.
The Starfighter veered to the left when he handled the controls with unstable hands and the droid screeched.
But before E-17 could tell him to slow down again, a harsh crackle indicated that someone had just connected to the jet’s communication system.
“Are you drunk?” Came Kenobi's voice, teasing and far too loud for Anakin's oversensitive ears.
“E, shut down the comms.” He didn't want to hear the Jedi and regretted that he hadn't told the droid to call Kenobi off.
“Meat-head needs backup.” The droid did not shut down the comms.
“You don't sound drunk.”
“I'm not drunk!” Anakin snapped, then groaned. It felt like his head was splitting open, and he realized belatedly that he had probably hit it during the explosion.
Stars, what was it with him and explosions lately?
“I know,” Kenobi said grimly. And of course he did—E-17 must have told him about the explosion in his message.
Finally, Kenobi's own ship came into sight. It was a sleek Republic model and kept up with Anakin's speed, flying steadily next to him.
“Don't make me rescue you again, Vader.”
He looked to the side and found Kenobi already looking back at him, his brows furrowed.
“I don't need your rescuing.”
“Your head is bleeding. It's on your forehead.”
Well, that explained the headache, at least.
Anakin sped up again, finally being able to make out the two speeders in the distance. Water sprayed out behind them because of how close they flew above the waves
The terrorists were smarter than they looked, though; they split into two different directions, making it impossible to catch them both.
But they had not anticipated Kenobi.
They glanced at each other again, knowing looks on both of their faces.
“I'll go left,” Anakin decided.
Kenobi nodded, but pursed his lips. “Do not crash. I don't care much for swimming.”
“How about this?” he replied, turning back to the targets. “If I crash, I give you full permission to let me drown.”
The Jedi huffed. “Right. I would not let you drown. I know you saved that woman, you know.”
Their bond stretched a little, turning tense.
“Don't,” Anakin warned.
“Why—?”
He roared his engine and swerved to the left, then manually muted the communication system.
“Power up the fireworks, Scrap.”
The droid activated the blasterguns and as they grew closer and closer, the Starfighter’s aiming system hovered onto the target until finally, it was close enough to lock in on the speeder.
Without hesitation, Anakin fired.
Green plasma rocketed over the sea and met its target in an orange-sparked blast.
He steered the fighter up again, over the crash and into the sky, and set course for the land.
Unmuting the comms, he asked, “You get ‘em yet, old man?”
“Ah, there you are,” said Kenobi. “They will not surrender.”
Anakin blinked. “Right.”
The Jedi's sigh was clearly disappointed even over the rather bad connection. “You shot them down before even asking them to surrender.”
It wasn't a question, so Anakin didn't answer.
“Why am I even surprised?” Kenobi asked rhetorically. “Look, I will handle these two. You have to get to land as soon as possible. Because, in case you forgot, you were in an explosion. Again.”
Anakin ignored this. “Who will get the minerals now?”
“I am sure King Jerolisah will have a solution. Now get to shore, Vader.”
He bit the inside of his cheek, but eventually agreed. “Fine.”
He was feeling pretty tired, anyway.
-
Kenobi found him sitting against his Starfighter, lazily cleaning the gashes on his forearm with gauze from the jet's medkit.
Their bond sparked with a silent question—you're not dying, right?—and Anakin wasn't sure how he felt about the open communication between them.
As if they weren't enemies, on opposite sides of the war. As if the bond wasn't a freak accident, to be hidden from both their masters.
But he was far too exhausted to say anything about it.
Instead, he sent back an assurement—not this time—before throwing up his shields tightly.
“You get them?” he asked, his eyes following Kenobi as the Jedi sat down in front of him. He looked tired, too.
“I had to bring down their speeder. They would not listen.”
Anakin hummed, not very sympathetic to the Jedi's feelings.
“It's a shame,” the man continued. “I would have liked to ask them more about why they were doing this.”
“I left two of them alive,” Anakin told him, and Kenobi raised an eyebrow. “But they probably died in the explosion.” Kenobi's shoulders fell.
“A pity.”
“I guess.”
Anakin studied his arm. The cuts weren't bleeding anymore. He reckoned they weren't deep enough to need stitches.
He began to wrap a bandage around them, not fancying the idea of another infected wound, and looked back up at Kenobi.
“Petra and Eshiava'll probably talk now that the Trandoshans are gone. They were scared.”
“Yes,” Kenobi said, but he was watching Anakin wrap his arm intently. “You need professional medical attention.”
“What I need is to go home and never hear your voice again,” Anakin sighed, letting his head fall back against the fighter. He was aching and every breath caused his ribs to sting.
He really did find himself wanting to go back to Serenno. He'd long grown tired of Eaero.
Kenobi huffed a laugh. “I’m truly not sure how you have survived this long without anyone looking after you. Your priorities could use some work.”
Anakin lifted his head to stare at him. “I have my Master. He has looked after me.”
Even from behind his tightened shields, Anakin could feel Kenobi's curiosity. “Has he truly?”
“What do you know?” he responded heatedly.
“Not enough, it appears.” Kenobi fixed him with a sharp gaze. “I want you to explain to me what you were talking about last week.”
He plucked at the grass. “I don't really care what you want.”
“You mentioned my…” Kenobi swallowed as though it was painful. “My Master, Qui-Gon Jinn. You asked if he would have protected me.”
Anakin's hand stilled in the grass at once, slowly looking up at the Jedi. This conversation had suddenly grown to be one of a more volatile nature.
He'd always been volatile, when Qui-Gon was brought up.
“And you didn't answer,” he said, because his fever-riddled mind had remembered that much of their conversation, at least.
“I asked you how you knew that name. You didn't answer, either.”
“I did,” Anakin said simply.
“The sand. You mentioned it before, in the cave.” Kenobi nodded thoughtfully, his eyes never once leaving Anakin. It reminded him of Dooku's stare, and he refrained from squirming uncomfortably. He might have, had his whole body not been hurting so much at any small movement.
“He never told you about it,” Anakin muttered, his tone balancing on the thin line between a statement and a question.
“You've met him, then?” Kenobi asked, and that was a clear enough ‘no’ to Anakin's semi-question.
He did not answer, turning his head to look at the sea instead. Back on Tatooine, he'd never even dared to dream of such amounts of water.
He wondered for what must have been the thousandth time what his life would have been like, had Qui-Gon not abandoned him and his mother.
How long would she have lived?
How many more of her sweet kisses would his cheeks be adorned with?
He felt that familiar anger again, then. It seemed to have diminished in the last few weeks, yet now it sparked furiously once more.
He wanted to kill Watto and Qui-Gon and even the beautiful queen of Naboo that had accompanied the Jedi on Tatooine, whose name he could not recall for the life of him.
He clutched the grass so hard, he almost ripped out a chunk of dirt.
Kenobi, no doubt sensing his fury, recoiled a little.
“What happened?” he insisted, and Anakin's gaze snapped back to him.
He wasn't sure what he looked like, but it must not have been a pleasant sight; Kenobi's discontent thrummed against his shields.
“I told you.” He pushed himself up. “You Jedi just never listen.” He wanted to ignite his lightsaber and hack it down onto Kenobi's head, but Dooku's displeased face flashed in his mind like a warning.
He needed to get them the minerals first. Risking disqualification from Jerolisah’s boredom-induced, kriffed up little tournament just before the finish line would be foolish.
He hopped into the jet.
“Vader,” Kenobi tried, standing quickly. “I don't understand. What have you told me about Qui-Gon?”
Anakin grit his teeth and, settling into the pilot's seat, turned on the engine.
Kenobi pulled on the bond.
“Stop that,” Anakin snapped.
“Only if you tell me.”
“I don't need to tell you anything.” Anakin shook his head. “And this is over. We're not allies.”
“Obviously.” Kenobi quirked a brow.
“Obviously,” Anakin parroted, and he closed the cockpit, preparing the jet for takeoff.
“Don't forget Hayleigh. She's on the sky island,” he said in means of a goodbye, and then he was off, leaving the Jedi on the cliff.
-
King Jerolisah ended up splitting the mineral supply in half.
“Because you have both caught them and worked so tirelessly to rid my Kingdom of this threat.”
Anakin, in his hospital bed and all (apparently he’d fractured most of his ribs), had protested, arguing that he had taken down five of them while Kenobi had only caught two. But Jerolisah disregarded this, babbling on about teamwork and politics and how he was so very impressed instead.
Old bastard.
So Anakin commed Dooku, updated him on the situation, and set course for Serenno. He didn't say another word to either Kenobi or Jerolisah.
Dooku had been let down, but had praised him on the semi-victory nonetheless.
“It is out of your control what the monarch decides, even if you caught more than half of the targets.”
So that was that.
Hayleigh had thanked him plenty of times before he’d left. She had also provided information as to what the terrorists had been planning to do and why, since Petra and Eshiava hadn’t known much anyway. They'd only been hired for one job.
According to Hayleigh, the Trandoshans had indeed held a grudge toward the wealthier parts of the Eaeriolic society. There was a whole history behind the conflict, apparently, which they'd been planning to solve with explosive attacks all around. Rather primitive, Anakin thought.
The purple feathers had originated from a bird the group had stolen from a nobleman who had wronged one of them. They hadn't killed the bird, at least. Anakin didn't know where it was, though. Hopefully shitting all over Viridis’ pretentious fields of grass.
But it was all over, now.
And none too soon, for his tastes.
-
He stopped on a small backwater planet in the Mid Rim on the way to Serenno. E-17 had complained about some repairs needing to be done and it was time to refuel anyway, so Anakin had complied.
He was already beginning to regret his choice of planet when he exited the ship and stepped onto a murky ground. His boots sunk into the mud a little, and when he lifted one he shook the dirt off toward E-17.
The droid screeched angrily. “My beautiful white platings, exclamation!”
“Oh, you'll survive.”
He walked over to the little hut near which he'd landed. The sign above the window read: Fuel and repairs at a reasonable price.
The writing was rather wonky and the building looked desolate, but he didn't have any other options. He rapped his knuckles against the window.
He looked at the town ahead while he waited for someone to appear. The houses were the same dull brown as the rest of the planet, but light shone up from the streets. Not completely abandoned, then.
He glanced back at the window. No one had shown up yet.
Patience wearing thin, he knocked again. “Hey!” he called. “Anyone home?”
A few bangs sounded from inside. “Yes, yes.” He heard a woman mutter, before she appeared at the window and shoved it open. She was a pale-skinned woman with thin, wiry hair. She looked to be around 40 standard years.
“Welcome to Gina’s repairs. What's up?” she asked, leaning out the window leisurely.
He shot her an unimpressed glare, raising an eyebrow. He'd left his mask at the ship, so the expression was on clear display.
He nodded toward his ship. “I need fuel and repairs.”
The woman—Gina, he assumed—sighed. “Right then.” It seemed she didn't enjoy her job much.
“Ask my droid about the specifics of the repairs,” he told her, refraining from commenting on her behavior. “I expect you'll be done when I come back.”
“Now hold on a second,” she frowned, straightening. “I don't speak droid. And when will you be back, huh? Besides, I need an upfront fee. My skills don't come cheap!”
“Your sign says you have reasonable prices,” Anakin said, deadpan. “I'll be back in a few hours.”
He left without giving her an upfront fee, even as she kept complaining about communicating with E-17.
She'd be fine. What proper mechanic didn't have a translator droid hanging around somewhere in their workshop?
He wandered into the town, easily locating the cantina. It was practically the only building with any life within. The windows glowed a happy yellow and faint music spilled onto the street.
He entered, deciding he'd drink a little while writing up his reports of the mission, like his Master insisted.
Sitting down at the bar, he ordered Corellian whiskey and glanced around. He'd work on the reports later, he promptly decided.
There was a band playing a jazzy tune, but it was lousy compared to the bands he'd seen on Tatooine. A few Twi'leks and Theelins were dancing along, though.
On his right sat a frog lady, and he was promptly reminded of the trip to Viridis on the speeder bus.
He looked away, staring down at his drink instead.
He was feeling cold, but it was adequately warm in the tavern. Perhaps the chill in his chest came not from a physical coldness, but the apprehension of going back to Serenno.
He felt like his relationship with Dooku was growing more and more strained. He wasn’t sure why—was it his secret bond with Kenobi? Or perhaps his Master was keeping things from Anakin as well.
He took a sip of the whiskey, feeling it burn at the back of his throat.
Maybe it was just the war.
Whatever it was, Anakin didn't feel like going back.
He felt at the bond with Kenobi for a moment, like strumming his fingers over the strings of a guitar gently.
A heat bloomed underneath his touch and he pulled back.
He had to get back to working on destroying the bond, he knew. But again, he just didn't feel like it much.
He played idly with the glass in his hands, which was nearly empty already. He frowned at it.
“Care for some company?”
The frown was lifted when he saw who was sitting down to his left, eyebrows raising in surprise instead.
Padmé Amidala.
“Senator!” he said, not able to keep the shock from his voice. He couldn't imagine what she was doing on a planet like this.
A diplomatic smile curved on her lips; not necessarily kind, but not sharp either. Just an acknowledgement.
“Mr. Varo, it's a pleasure to see you again. What are you drinking this evening?”
“Just…” He eyed the glass, wincing. It was quite obvious he wasn't having anything up to her elegant standards. “Just some whiskey. But I would be happy to buy a more sophisticated drink for you, milady.”
She shook her head and beckoned the bartender. “Nonsense,” she said to Anakin, then addressed the man behind the bar. “May I have a Cheedoan whiskey, please?”
“For me as well.” Anakin shoved his finished drink back over to the Kiffar serving them. “Put both on my tab.”
“How kind of you,” said Amidala. Her hair was loose, falling onto her shoulders in thick waves. The hairstyle framed her face in a hauntingly familiar manner, but once again he couldn't seem to place where he had seen her before. Aside from the event on Naboo all those months ago, of course.
“It's kind of you to join me,” he replied, shaking off the odd recognition and attempting to fall back into the polite, rather snobbish persona he'd created for Corin Varo. “How have you been? These are trying times.”
She inclined her head. “They are, yes.”
The bartender brought them their drinks and Amidala took a sip, her expression not even wavering a little bit at the strong liquor.
“But I have been well, despite everything,” she continued. “I'm grateful to be helping in the Senate and representing Naboo.”
He was already starting to grow annoyed at this tactful way of speaking, but merely gave her a tight smile. “I'm glad to hear it. And what are you doing on this planet on this fine evening?”
“I’m here for the conference tomorrow. Will you not be attending?”
“I'm not sure.” He ran a hand through his hair. Kriff, he was screwing up his cover. “I have other matters to attend to.”
“Oh, what are those matters? I would be interested to hear.”
He refrained from making a teasing joke about her attempting to spy on the Separatists.
“Nothing new,” he told her instead, too tired to come up with a proper story. “Diplomatic events, political fanfares and what not. I just returned from an event on Alderaan.”
“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow at him from over the rim of her glass. It was a dangerous expression. “That doesn't seem like the type of thing to give you such bruises.”
He blinked.
Indeed, he'd been left with a couple of rather nasty bruises after the explosion. Those on his face had faded to a pale yellow already, and they only hurt when he applied pressure.
He'd completely forgotten they were there at all.
He tried to correct himself. “Well, not everyone is always happy to see me.” He attempted a charming grin. “A situation got out of control, that's all.”
She hummed, unconvinced.
Oh, Dooku had always complained about his inability to lie on the spot.
“I see. How terrible. What exactly happened? I hope your attacker got punished for such violence.” She sounded a little mocking—like how he talked when mimicking King Jerolisah.
He drank from his whiskey to delay answering, and hesitated. He wasn't sure what game Amidala was playing, and that was always dangerous.
“It was nothing. Just a misunderstanding during a meeting on Ryloth. My attacker, well—he ran as soon as security appeared, of course, but… er, well, the doors were—”
“I do wonder,” she interrupted, tilting her head. “What is your name?”
He nearly answered truthfully, caught off guard, but then he snapped his mouth shut. His brows knotted together. “Corin Varo… Did you not already—?”
“I mean your real one, of course.” She rolled her eyes.
She rolled her eyes.
“What?” he asked dumbly.
“Your real name,” she repeated. “I would like to know it.”
“I’ve already told you!” He tried to sound indignant instead of panicked, but didn't know how well that worked.
“Oh please,” she nearly sounded amused, her polite demeanor faltering. “You are a horrific liar. An event on Alderaan? There have been no events on Alderaan in months. Besides, it's clear you aren't any kind of politician. So I assume you've given me a false name to go along with your little lie.”
He finished his drink with one big swallow and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I'm sorry?” he said meekly, not sure where she was going with this. If she had figured out he was lying to her, why did she appear so amused?
“Don't be,” Amidala replied. “On Naboo, I thought you were just another dogmatic snob. But you seem much more interesting now. So what's your name?”
He shook his head. “Thanks, I guess. But you can just call me Corin Varo.”
She trailed a slim finger around the rim of her glass. “It's a secret, hm? Fine, Corin Varo. Then what truthful thing can you tell me about yourself?”
Anakin found himself grinning—not a forced smile, but something genuine. He liked this side of her, even though he wasn't sure how long he should keep entertaining it; she hadn't been supposed to find anything was fake about Corin Varo at all.
“I like droids.” He watched her eyebrows raise a little in a delighted surprise.
“Do you speak Binary?”
“I understand it, yes.”
Even in the dim light of the cantina, dressed in a simple dress compared to the one she'd worn on Naboo, she was stunning. Her features slotted together perfectly when her face lit up with a smile.
She asked if he spoke any other languages, so he told her he spoke Huttese as well. She was amazed, saying she herself only understood Basic even though she'd tried to learn Gunganese once.
They wandered from topic to topic like that—he learned that she had been homeschooled, and he told her about his favorite meals—until the tavern began to empty out.
The band's music stilled and the Kiffar bartender came to collect their glasses. “Cantina's closing, kids,” he grumbled, not unkindly.
“Of course. How much do we owe you?” Anakin began to dig a few credits out of his pockets.
Amidala tried to protest, but he ignored her—so gentlemanly, he knew—and paid the bill before taking her arm and leading her onto the street.
“Where are you staying?” he asked, hoping he didn't sound creepy. He wasn’t quite sure how to do this, really.
But she smiled. Again. Anakin wondered if her cheeks didn't hurt from all that smiling.
“Just a few streets away, at a friend of mine's.”
The streets were dark, the lanterns only flickering weakly, and so he insisted to walk with her.
The night was impossibly black above. There was no moon to be seen on this planet.
Amidala stopped in front of a green door, after not even five minutes of walking, and turned to face Anakin. “This is me.” She was standing close to him and her breath was warm, smelling faintly of liquor and honey.
“Great.” His thoughts were still blurry from the whiskey. He vaguely remembered that he hadn't written up his reports.
She didn't move away. “This was nice, even though you didn't tell me your real name.”
“Who says it isn't Corin Varo?”
She looked at him knowingly. “Because you say it like it is something foreign. But it's alright. I'll figure out what's up with you eventually.”
“You can try.” He shrugged. “Let me know when you do.”
She took his hand, fingers curling around his. The coldness in his chest, which had gradually lessened over the course of their evening together, was lifted with the touch.
“Funny, too,” Amidala added.
“Sometimes.” He hoped she couldn't see his reddened cheeks in the faint light, staring at their entwined hands.
“Will you give me your comm code?” She was still looking at him.
“You're drunk,” he said, letting go of her hand.
This was all wrong. What was he doing?
“It was nice seeing you,” he said.
Amidala stepped back, frowning. “Yes. It was.” She worried her lower lip. “Well. Goodbye then, Corin Varo.”
He inclined his head. “Goodbye, Senator Amidala.”
She disappeared through the green door.