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Coruscant looks different in the rain.
With the rain driving down like it is tonight, falling so heavily that it looks more like a sheet and less like distinct rain drops, the millions of lights that Padmé can see from her window are all blurred, like strokes of paint that are still drying. It almost looks dreamlike, an incomplete environment meant only to serve as the background to a reverie or a nightmare. It’s all too easy to forget about the trash that litters the streets far below, the factories that belch smoke and pollution into the air, the corruption and suffering that are visible everywhere one turns.
While it’s dangerous to forget about any of those things, dangerous to be blind to them, Padmé has to admit that, at the very least, she prefers the view from her balcony when the weather is like this.
She takes a sip of her piping hot tea and relaxes back into her armchair, gazing out into the driving rain. She’s far enough inside that she’s sheltered from the worst of the storm, but the wind is still able to reach her, still able to rustle the hem of her gown and stir the few strands of hair that she doesn’t have pulled back into a loose braid. The wind brings the smell of the rain into her apartment, and she inhales deeply, savoring the breath.
Of all the commodities one can find on Coruscant, fresh air is, far and away, one of the rarest.
It’s times like these that she misses home with a ferocity that’s almost visceral. While she can find beauty in Coruscant, in the mingling of cultures and the brightness of the sky on a clear night, she longs for Naboo. She longs for the rolling, verdant hills and the clear lakes sparkling underneath the bright sun, longs for the waterfalls and the wide open plazas of Theed.
She’s proud to represent her home; that is never under debate. But she wishes that she could be there more often.
Before she can lose herself too deeply in her own thoughts, she hears a rustle behind her, and she turns to see Satine standing in the entrance of the room, her gaze directed at the storm. She’s dressed for bed; her blond hair is dangling around her shoulders, free of any ornamentation, and she’s wearing a long flowing gown that, while vibrant in color, an array of purple and turquoise and cyan, is clearly designed for comfort, lacking in elaborate embroidery and only loosely fitted at the waist and wrists. It almost feels like an intrusion to see her in such a relaxed state, but rather than view it as such, Padmé chooses to view it as a sign of trust.
Regardless of what it is a sign of, if anything, Satine looks beautiful. Perhaps more importantly, based on the small smile on her pale lips, she looks happy, which is truly remarkable, considering what awaits the two of them tomorrow, the debate in the Senate about the continuity of Mandalore’s neutrality.
“I didn’t know it rained like this here,” Satine says, crossing her arms over her chest as a particular fierce gust of wind blows into the room. “Would you mind if I joined you?”
“Please,” Padmé answers, gesturing to the chair beside hers. “Can I get you anything?”
“Some tea would be wonderful,” Satine replies, crossing the room and sitting down. “But only if it’s not a bother.”
“Of course not. I’ll be right back.” Realistically, it would be more convenient for her to wake C-3P0 from where he’s hibernating on the other side of the room and ask him to retrieve it, but she spends so much of every day surrounded by droids and assistants, by people who want to do things for her so that she’ll return the favor somewhere down the line. Doing something for herself, even something as simple as making a fresh cup of tea, is almost a pleasure at this point.
The kettle is still warm, so she returns with Satine’s mug quickly. The duchess has made herself comfortable; she’s pulled her knees up into the chair and she’s leaning against the armrest, still looking out at the vast expanse of the city. When Padmé reaches their chairs, she accepts the tea with a smile.
“Thank you.” She takes a tiny sip and hums quietly. It’s a lovely, unguarded sound, and hearing it makes Padmé smile as she sips her own tea, which has cooled to lukewarm.
For a long moment, neither of them speak. The sound of the rain drumming on the landing platform extending out of Padmé’s living room fills the space between them. It shows no signs of tapering off, which Padmé is happy about; she’s always loved falling asleep to the sound of rain.
Eventually, Satine breaks the silence.
“You know,” she says quietly, still holding her cup of tea between her palms, “you could almost forget there was a war going on out there, if you just looked out at this.”
It’s the first time the war has come up since they arrived at Padmé’s apartment, after a long day spent going from meeting to meeting, from group of senators to the Chancellor and back again. One look at Satine is enough to see that the thought of tomorrow is weighing on her deeply; her gaze is almost wistful, and there is a furrow between her brows. The weight is understandable; trying to deal with the mechanics of the war day in and day out is exhausting enough. Padmé can only imagine how difficult it is trying to keep the war, both sides of it, away from your home while also juggling the normal challenges of running a planet.
She doesn’t envy Satine’s position, and she wishes there was something she could do to make things easier.
Sitting her empty mug on the table between them, Padmé turns in her seat, so she can better face Satine, and says, “I can’t promise that things will turn out in our favor tomorrow. But, for what it is worth, I can promise that I will be at your side. Regardless of what happens, you will have my support.” They’re not empty words – Padmé hasn’t fallen into the trap that so many of her fellow senators have, hasn’t found herself in the habit of spinning lies just to try and win people over – but she doesn’t expect them to have such a visible effect on Satine. The furrow in her brow smooths out, and her smile, while small, returns to her lips.
“Thank you, Padmé,” she says, setting her tea cup on the small table between their chairs. “That is worth more to me than you know.” Her hand remains resting on the table for a moment, and before she can think too much about her intentions, Padmé rests her own on top of it. Without hesitation, Satine flips her own over, so that they’re palm to palm, and their fingers slot together. Her fingers are long and thin, cool to the touch, and Padmé gently squeezes, hoping to transfer some of her own warmth to Satine.
Satine squeezes back.
They lapse into silence again, but it’s not uncomfortable; quite the opposite, in fact. Padmé doesn’t feel any need to try and fill the space between them, doesn’t feel any urge to explain the clasp of their hands or to discuss what awaits them tomorrow.
The only thing she feels, for the first time in a long time, is truly content.
Although she would be more than happy to spend hours exactly where she is, it’s all too soon that the length of her day, and the knowledge that tomorrow will likely be even longer, catches up with her. Keeping her eyes open becomes a thankless task, and every attempt she makes at suppressing her yawns fails miserably. Before she can excuse herself, Satine flashes her a smile and extricates her fingers from Padmé’s.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you up.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Padmé answers truthfully. It feels like she should say something more, say something about how this was the most peaceful time of her day, that she’s truly grateful for the chance to recharge, but that could open up a whole other conversation that she simply does not have the energy for right now. Instead, as she slowly gets to her feet, legs protesting the hours she’s spent curled up, she continues, “But I think I’ll retire now. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
“Could I join you?”
Padmé stops and turns to look at Satine, to make sure she’s understanding her intent correctly, that she isn’t misreading her words. Satine doesn’t look shy or flustered; she looks completely confident, the way she looks when she’s addressing her people, utterly sure of herself.
It’s an unexpected request, certainly, but it’s not an unwelcome one. It’s been a long time since Padmé had companionship; these days, even when Anakin is on Coruscant, he’s so busy wrapped up in matters of the war and the Jedi that he’s rarely able to stay over. She’s missed sleeping in a bed with someone else, missed the feeling of waking up basking in someone else’s body warmth, missed the feeling of being held and the sound of steady breathing, breathing that she can match her own to when she’s unable to sleep.
She isn’t privy to all of the details of Satine’s personal life – she knows that she had a deep connection with Obi-Wan, some years ago, but that’s the extent of her knowledge – but she suspects that Satine may feel the same.
“Of course,” Padmé says. For the second time, she offers her hand to Satine and, for the second time, Satine takes it, as she unfolds herself from the chair, gown falling back down to cover her feet. Once she’s standing, Padmé brings their clasped hands to her mouth and presses a soft kiss to the ridge of Satine’s knuckles. “Is there anything else I can get for you first?”
Satine shakes her head and mirrors Padmé’s action, presses her cool lips to the back of Padmé’s hand. “I have everything I need.”
“Wonderful.” Padmé takes one last glance out at the storm, at the smeared lights of Coruscant beyond, before she turns her back on them for the night. “Then let’s go to bed.”