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It was late when Anakin arrived at the Chancellor's office, so late it was verging on early, and he felt more than a slight twinge of guilt about disturbing him at such a time. Chancellor Palpatine had a Republic to run and he should have been resting, not listening to Anakin's problems. Only... only he needed someone to talk to, and the Chancellor had offered, had stressed over the comm message that he would be awake doing the endless flimsi work required to run a galaxy and Anakin should come, should break the monotony.
So, Anakin had been debriefed by the council (they’d found fault with the way he’d handled the situation again ), then he’d made sure Ahsoka was settled and fast asleep in their new shared quarters, and now here he was.
He flexed his remaining hand as he waited, willing it to stop trembling. He knew this was most likely a side effect from the amount of caff he'd consumed to compensate for the fact he hadn't slept since before this whole debacle with the Hutts. Anakin never seemed to be able to sleep anymore, even when he wasn’t on some battlefield or other his body always seemed to think it was. He considered it a good night if he got three hours of uninterrupted sleep before blaster fire was slicing the air and clones were falling around him. The only exception was when he lay beside Padme, but she was traveling back to Naboo at the moment. He would get no rest tonight.
Talking to the Chancellor seemed like the next best thing.
The door swished open and he was met with a sight so welcome, so comforting, so safe that he almost collapsed to his knees. He didn't though. He hadn't knelt for the Hutt and he wasn't about to kneel for Chancellor Palpatine, no matter the pretext. The Chancellor was smiling warmly at him and Anakin just wanted to melt with relief. He'd never had a grandfather before, but he always thought that this must be what having one must be like, having someone who cared for you, who offered advice, would be proud of you no matter what.
Once, when he was 12, he'd asked the Chancellor if he could Name him his Grandfather, if Palpatine would Name him his Grandson. The Chancellor had been very kind about it, kinder than Anakin's outpouring of emotion had deserved, and had gently explained that he could not, in good conscience, agree to that. The Jedi forbade such attachments and he would hate to see Anakin get into trouble, to obstruct his path to becoming a great Jedi. "No one else has to know if you Name someone family," Anakin had pleaded. "It can be our secret!" But the Chancellor had smiled sadly, run his hands through Anakin's hair and refused. Anakin had known it wasn't right, but he hadn't been able to help the burst of resentment he had felt towards the Jedi for being the reason the Chancellor would deny him such a connection.
"Come in, Anakin, please," Chancellor Palpatine beckoned him into the room, "you look dead on your feet. I've prepared some of the tea you so liked last time, if you would care to drink a cup with me."
"Thank you, sir, that's very kind of you," Anakin replied, gratefully collapsing onto the sofa the Chancellor motioned him towards.
"Not at all, my boy," he said as he poured some of the lightly spiced tea, and some part of Anakin glowed at the Chancellor calling him that, it was as if, even though his mentor cared too much about Anakin to let them formalise it, a bit of the Chancellor was claiming Anakin as his own.
"So, Anakin, tell me truthfully," the Chancellor said as he placed two cups of tea on the low table in front of them and sat down beside him, "how have you been?"
The words caught in his throat as Anakin opened his mouth and came up with nothing. How had he been? Apart from more exhausted than he’d been in his entire life? He honestly didn't know. Ever since they'd been informed of the mission he'd been doing his best not to feel anything, to screw his real emotions up into a tight ball and bury them deep down inside, only letting echoes of them reach the surface. It was instinct, really, and it had come back to him as easily as breathing. Everyone knew that when you were a slave it wasn't safe to show you were angry, to lash out in any way, to be anything other than utterly compliant, and Anakin had worn his cheerful, helpful compliance as a shield around him as a child.
He had put up some light, token protests throughout this mission, but nothing major - it wouldn't have been safe to let the Jedi know what he was feeling either. Anakin was a bad Jedi, he knew that, he had too much rage and hatred and fear and attachment to be anything other, and if the Jedi knew this they would reject him, expel him from the order. Then what would he have? Who would he be? What was he if not a jedi?
The Chancellor sighed next to him. "Anakin," he said, and Anakin leaned forward to grab the cup of tea, a warmth to guide him through the sandstorm. "I must confess to being quite worried when Master Yoda informed me they chose to send you, of all people, to deal with the situation with Jabba. Why they thought sending a former slave-"
His shaking hand, which had been just about managing to bring the cup towards him, seemed to lose all motor control at this moment and the next thing Anakin knew the cup was hitting the hardwood floor and splintering in all directions. He stared down at the mess, tea pooling on top of the varnish, pieces of the pricelessly elegant floral and gold nabooian- pricelessly- priceless. That cup. That cup was worth more than he was and he'd broken it and- The Force screamed at him in alarm. Danger! Darkness! Danger! And he cringed backwards as he saw the flash of electricity arcing towards him and yellow eyes searing into him (Gardulla’s?) and-
Nothing.
He came back to reality with a bang as he hit the floor. The Force (and had it been the Force, or had it just been his mind?) was silent and all he could hear was his ragged breaths and the beating of his heart in his ears. The buzz of electricity was gone, as of course it would be, the Chancellor wouldn't own an electrowhip.
"Anakin," the Chancellor said softly, and Anakin cringed in embarrassment, looking away from the hand that a small part of him knew must have been reaching out to comfort him, not to inflict lightning pain, and down to the mess he was currently lying half on top of, the shards digging a harsh reminder of what he'd just done into his leg.
"I'm sorry," Anakin whispered begged , because he'd still destroyed something worth more than he was, and made a fool of himself, and what if his mentor couldn't forgive that, what if- "I'm so sorry, I-"
"Anakin," Chancellor Palpatine repeated and Anakin snapped his jaw shut tight. "There is nothing to apologise for. You have been through a particularly trying ordeal no thanks to your Masters at the temple, and I get through at least seven teacups a month with all the senators I host and not one of them has been as apologetic for breaking a two credit replica as you have. Now come," he extended his hand towards Anakin again, "sit back up on the sofa."
Anakin took the hand cautiously and pushed himself back up and onto the sofa. "I'll clean it up," he offered as he let go of Palpatine's hand.
"You will do no such thing. You're not a droid, Anakin, for all that the temple seems to be treating you like one."
Anakin, who had been desperately trying to shove all his unwanted emotions away, frowned. "What do you mean?"
Chancellor Palpatine sighed. “Well, I probably shouldn’t be saying this, Anakin, but I do have to question the way the council have been treating you. It isn’t my place to question the wisdom of the Jedi, but if I were them I wouldn’t have expected a former slave to save the son of a Hutt, much less return the son to Jabba himself.”
Anakin shrugged, the Chancellor’s words were digging up pieces of him that he’d been trying to keep buried, bringing them up to the surface, and he couldn’t afford that. Couldn’t afford to listen to the part of him that sang that the Chancellor was right, the furious part that raged against the expectations which had been placed upon him. “The war with the Separatists keeps many Jedi busy,” he replied, carefully bland. “They couldn’t afford to send them away from battles they were needed at, many clones and civilians could have died.”
He glanced over at the Chancellor to see him shooting Anakin an appraising look. “Your loyalty does you credit, my boy,” he said, and Anakin couldn’t help the small twitch of his lips that came with praise. “You handled the situation admirably. Still, I would hardly have blamed you if you hadn’t, I’m surprised you didn’t seize your chance, do away with the problem of the Hutts.”
Anakin winced and looked away. “It wouldn’t have been the Jedi way.”
“Hmm, but it might have been the right one,” the Chancellor replied neutrally. “Did you really not consider it?”
Anakin dug his hands into the cushion beneath him, steadying himself. He had considered it. Every single moment he’d been in the Hutt’s presence he’d been thinking about it in the back of his mind, careful not to let his thoughts bleed out into Ahsoka, he couldn’t allow her to know. And he could have done it. He’d had his lightsaber, he’d had the Force, he didn’t have an active chip in him anymore. But the weight of the expectations coupled with the muscle memory that screamed at him to be subservient, to not fight back, had prevented him from doing so.
He didn’t know if he hated the fact that he hadn’t done it or if he hated the fact that he’d been considering it, considering giving in to his un-jedi-like emotions again, like he had with the Sand People. Either way he wasn’t supposed to be feeling like this. That made it worse.
The Chancellor placed a hand on his shoulder and Anakin did his best to accept the comfort, to not flinch away. The Chancellor wasn’t Force sensitive, he couldn’t feel Anakin’s pain like a Jedi could have done, he couldn’t know that bruises littered that side of him, a result of one of the many battles he’d been in that week. It was Anakin’s fault anyway, he should have gone to the halls of healing to pick up some bacta, but then they would have cornered him for a medical examination, and he would have had to sit there with his shirt off as a droid and healer examined him, his old scars exposed. And Anakin was not going through that, not today of all days. He didn’t want any reminders of how vulnerable he’d been when he was young at Gardulla’s palace and whenever they’d needed to punish him they’d made sure his back was bare so there was nothing protecting him from the lesson sinking in properly. No, he was sitting here, with his long sleeves and multiple layers, and he would not be taking them off any time soon.
The Chancellor seemed to realise that Anakin’s emotions were spiraling and he gripped Anakin harder, to comfort him, ground him. Anakin tilted his head up so he could look at the man who was fair radiating concern. And no, he couldn’t tell him he was hurting him, the Chancellor would feel awful. Besides, it was a small price to pay to know he was cared for.
And with that Anakin noticed that the tremors which had wracked his body were fast dissolving into sobs as he felt the support that was so characteristic of the Chancellor engulf him, breaking down the dam he had managed to trap most of his emotions behind.
He collapsed into his mentor’s chest and the man held him tight as everything he’d felt in the past few days came flooding out.
How dare the council send him there, how dare they make him save a Hutt, treat with a Hutt! He was furious, his rage a whirling sandstorm, strong enough to rip skin off bone and he was… he was…
No he wasn’t, he was terrified, he’d been so, so afraid. He was 19 years old and yet he’d felt like a helpless child again upon being on the planet, on being so close to the Slavers. The grains of fear had been as inescapable as the sand in his eyes, his boots. The Clone Wars had rested on him protecting the Hutt, on not angering Jabba. And Ahsoka was 13, the Jedi had sent a child dressed in barely more than a twi'lek dancer’s garb into an active war zone and then into a Hutt’s palace. Her safety had rested on him. And he’d been more than aware of the eyes on his naive Padawan, of what they’d been thinking about, even as she'd been oblivious. And he’d been aware of the eyes on him too, the whispers, and at the time it had been another link in the icy chain of terror, but now, if he hadn’t already been slumped into the Chancellor’s embrace, he thinks he could have collapsed from relief. No one had said anything loud enough, and Ahsoka had remained unaware, and Anakin was spared the humiliation of Ahsoka knowing that her teacher, the knight she was supposed to look up to, had been a slave. Everyone in the room had known it though - Anakin Skywalker had cost a great number of people a great deal of money when they lost their bets and he won the Boonta Eve. That wasn't something that would just be forgotten, or forgiven, even if most would like to pretend that they hadn't personally lost anything due to one slave's win.
When Anakin had looked at Jabba he’d wanted to slice his lightsaber through the Hutt’s throat. But more than that he’d wanted to flee, or to fall to his knees, to beg Jabba for mercy, because the five year old child inside of him had been screaming at him that a Hutt was paying attention to him, and he was actually daring to make eye contact, to make demands, and he was going to be in so much trouble, his insubordination promised him agony.
Anakin’s ragged breaths evened out as he came back into himself, and the Chancellor’s touch grounded him to the present. He became aware that the front of Chancellor Palpatine’s robes had been soiled with his tears and snot and he pulled backwards, but only with a slight rush of adrenaline, he was too tired for anything else.
“My laundry droid will take care of it,” the Chancellor assured him, unperturbed. “This is hardly worse than Nabooian wine.”
He brushed Anakin’s sweaty hair out of his eyes so Anakin could see him properly, his hand brushing over the scar that marred the left side of his face. Anakin shuddered.
“And everything in the office has stopped shaking now, your powers didn’t do any damage.”
“Oh,” said Anakin, cringing slightly. He hadn’t lost control of the Force like that in a while. Obi-Wan would not be impressed if he knew.
“So, no harm done.”
Anakin nodded.
“My boy,” Chancellor Palpatine said, and Anakin tilted his head again, to let the man know he was paying attention, however numb he felt now, however much he wanted to curl up in a ball and pass out, “the Jedi should not have made you feel like this, you must promise me, if a similar situation arises, you will contact me. I will do everything in my power to protect you.”
The rush of gratitude he felt towards the Chancellor was a balm to his soul. “I promise,” he croaked, his throat dry and raw.
“Here, drink this,” the Chancellor said, his eyes full of warmth and care as he passed him the other cup, the unbroken one, and Anakin hardly dared take it. “You’re dehydrated.”
Anakin took the cup from him almost reverentially, and managed to keep hold of it this time. He didn’t quite know how to express what he was feeling, his mentor was offering him something to quench his thirst, after he had so recently been in the desert, and that meant something. But he didn’t quite know how to tell the Chancellor this, so he didn’t.
“Thank you,” he whispered, and took a sip.