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He sees her eyes first.
They glow in the darkness of his quarters, her irises almost luminescent, bright only because of the little pinpricks of Coruscant’s night traffic reflected off them. Miniature suns shining on miniature moons. So much light to be found, even in such darkness.
“Come in, Ahsoka,” Anakin says softly.
He gave her the code to his quarters a while ago. She still knocks when she comes, but she didn’t knock tonight. Anakin had barely heard the quiet beeping of the keypad, and he’d pulled himself together mere seconds before the door whirred open. He knew it was Ahsoka even before he spotted the silhouette of her montrals in the dimly-lit hallway—two little mountains and a valley between them.
He’d almost been asleep before this. The sheets are rumpled from when he was lying on them, the mismatched mechanical parts on his work table pushed to one corner for the night.
Anakin shuffles across the room. Ahsoka doesn’t step past the doorway.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks.
She nods.
This happens sometimes. Less frequently as the war went on, but no less heartbreaking each time it did.
Anakin knows what to do.
“Come here,” he says, holding out his arms. She walks right into them.
Her hands are cold, and she curls them into little fists against his chest. Anakin holds her tight for a while, his flesh hand over her back lek, his gloved prosthetic rubbing her back gently. He’s learned to keep the glove on—she still flinches when cold metal touches her skin, memories of Zygerrian slavers and shock collars lingering longer than they should.
This is where he realises she’s trembling. It’s no surprise, but it stabs at his chest all the same.
“What was it this time?” he asks softly.
She buries her face in his tunic. “Felucia.” Her voice is so small. He barely hears her say the word.
Oh, Ahsoka.
Anakin presses his lips to the little dip between her montrals, lingering for a moment longer than he needs to. Ahsoka wraps her arms around his waist. He’d be content to stay here forever, and he knows she would as well, but he can sense her exhaustion through the Force, and he needs to sleep too.
“Bed, okay?” he says.
Ahsoka nods. She’s not going to be saying much tonight, he can tell.
That’s okay.
Anakin takes her hand and leads her along. Her feet make no sound at all. She stumbles a little at one point, losing focus, and it’s almost unnoticeable, but the loose tunic she’s wearing slips past her collarbone.
Anakin gently tugs it back up, pausing to smooth his hand over her shoulder. Ahsoka looks at him gratefully.
“Up,” he says.
She climbs onto his bed. He sits on the edge of the mattress, waiting for her to make herself comfortable so she can tuck herself in. So he can tuck her in.
“C’mon. Time to sleep,” he says gently.
Ahsoka pulls the blanket back and slides her legs under. She must be cold—her leggings and socks are thick. Anakin wonders if the blanket in her room is warm enough.
She lays her head on the pillow. She doesn’t look like she wants to sleep. Anakin runs a hand over her montrals. Ahsoka shivers, and he pulls the blanket tighter over her shoulders.
Then a single tear slips from her eye, glistening as a shard of light catches it as it streaks down her cheek.
And he remembers, suddenly, that she is so young.
“You want me to rub your back ‘til you fall asleep?” Anakin asks softly.
Ahsoka nods. It’s one of those nights, where words are too difficult to form and thoughts are too difficult to express.
That’s okay too.
So he shifts around a little, finding a comfortable spot, and finally decides to settle down beside her, his back to the wall. He presses his hand to her back, gently at first, and feels her sigh. Slowly, slowly, he traces his palm along her spine, runs his fingers over her shoulder blades with the littlest touch of pressure, and watches her for any sign of distress or discomfort.
There is none.
Ahsoka lies still for a long while. It feels like a long while. She looks so peaceful at rest, the furrow of her forehead gone, the tightness of her lips gone.
Anakin thinks she’s asleep. He wants her to be asleep, not for the selfish desire to close his own eyes, but for the selfless reassurance that she’s finally getting the rest she so desperately needs and deserves.
But then she frowns, and the beautiful silence is broken by the rustle of her leggings on the sheets; and Anakin snaps back to reality, ignoring the stupid voice in his head telling him to close his eyes and let it be.
Ahsoka blinks once, twice. She looks up at him and rolls onto her back, shrugging his hand off her lekku.
Anakin pulls back. “No?” he inquires.
Ahsoka shakes her head. She reaches for him again, tapping his thigh.
Oh.
Oh.
“You wanna lay on my lap?” he asks softly.
Ahsoka nods.
His heart melts. How can he say no?
Anakin slips a hand under her head and she obliges, lifting her head to lie on his thigh instead. Like this, it’s easy to run a hand down her montrals, rest the flat of his palm between her shoulder blades. Her back is tense. Anakin gently, gently kneads at the knots on her back, tightly wound muscles all stiff and tense.
These don’t come from sparring or fighting or overworking herself in training sessions. These come from months and months of fear and anxiety, coiled tight for weeks on end, never giving her body a chance to relax. Never giving herself a chance to relax.
Her tunic is so big it covers half of her thigh. As he pulls the blanket over her waist, she snuggles closer, resting her hand on his knee. She runs her fingers along the folds in the fabric of his trousers, peaks and valleys forming gentle ridges of cotton and linen.
Anakin wonders what time it is. He wonders how much time they have left, how much time he can squeeze from this single moment. How long he can make it last.
“Go to sleep, Ahsoka,” Anakin says softly.
She does.