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“I’m so - I’m so sorry,” Senator Amidala babbles. Her hands are shaking as she fumbles for a med-kit; Thorn shifts from foot to foot in the center of her richly appointed office and tries not to touch anything.
Tries not to bleed on anything, either: Thorn’s hand is cupped underneath his nose to catch any blood drops.
Damn Jedi and their Force-backed punches. Skywalker had knocked his helmet clean off with that uppercut.
“Let me see,” the Senator says.
“It’s alright, sir, I can do it-”
She interrupts with a voice near tears. “No, no, Commander, please, let me help.” Her eyes lock with Thorn’s, and in this light they’re brown, like his, but shot through with streaks of copper.
“‘Kay,” he manages, and then shakes himself out of his stupor. “I mean, thank you, Senator.”
“Padmè.” She dabs at his face with gentle fingers. “Please, I think you should call me Padmè.”
Thorn doesn’t mention that he can’t. Not only is it against regulations, Fox would personally make Thorn’s life a living hell if he got wind of a commander losing propriety with a Senator.
But…. Thorn’s philosophy is what Fox doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
“Padmè,” Thorn says anyway, and she smiles. It lights up her whole face, like the rare sunrise on Kamino, and Thorn can’t help but smile back.
Senator Amidala - Padmè - finishes cleaning his face and drops her gaze. She fiddles with the blood-soaked cloth. Thorn winces. Hopefully it won’t stain.
“Anakin shouldn’t have done that,” she says firmly. “I’ll speak to Obi-Wan about this. I know he’s - upset.”
Upset was putting it mildly. The entire Guard knew about Senator Amidala and General Skywalker’s breakup months ago. Even the shinies who didn’t even know they were together knew about it. Skywalker had vacillated between screaming at Padmè to sending constant gifts to camping outside her office with a handheld holotape player, blasting some new wave song at full volume. It was obnoxious.
Thorn had taken to patrolling the wing where her office was multiple times a shift. If she was there, she’d come out and thank him, and offer him a glass of water. She did that with every Guard; Thorn tried not to read anything more into it, no matter how much he wanted to. But she did laugh at all his jokes.
Fox had finally banned Skywalker from the Senate Rotunda, a move supported by both the Chancellor and the entire Jedi Council.
So how Skywalker had been able to sneak in right as Thorn caught the Senator in his arms as she stumbled was something to investigate. Later. Right now Thorn is too busy gaping at the Sena- at Padmè as she lifts a hand to cup his cheek, tracing over the cuts Skywalker’s mechanical hand had left.
“Does that hurt?” she asks.
Thorn’s jaw flexes under her fingers. He can’t look away from those warm brown eyes. “No. It doesn’t hurt.”
She comes closer, until they’re chest to chest. Thorn has never hated his armor more than now, when Padmè leans against it to press a kiss right underneath the wounds. Her lips leave behind a searing heat.
Thorn stays motionless. If he moves, the spell will break, and he’ll wake up in his tiny bunk above Fox’s, listening to Stone’s snoring, and he never wants this dream to end.
“Does that hurt?” she says again, right against his cheek.
Thorn breathes out. “No.” He turns his head, just the tiniest amount, until the corners of their mouths could almost touch. Padmè is so close now, Thorn can feel her tiny exhale of breath.
“Does this?” she whispers, and kisses him, soft as her voice.
Thorn doesn’t answer. He slants his mouth over hers and kisses back with all his hunger, all his affection.
He figures that’s answer enough.