Archive of Our Own ^beta

His muscles still ache from sparring with Luke, who bounces beside him like he didn’t just spend the better half of the day trying to take his father’s head off. Leia, trailing a step behind them, has the look of someone dangerously close to hurling her training saber at someone. Probably him.

Not that she could get away with it. This is exactly why the Council had decided Obi-Wan should be Leia’s master instead of Anakin. Something about combining Anakin’s recklessness with Leia’s temper being a recipe for disaster. Anakin disagrees, of course, but he has to admit—Obi-Wan has a way of tempering Leia’s sharp edges while still letting her be her.

That doesn’t stop the lines from blurring, though. Anakin still gives Leia pointers during training, and Obi-Wan has taken it upon himself to occasionally lecture Luke when the boy gets a little too much like his father. At this point, it’s less two Masters, two Padawans and more one very unconventional, intertwined family.

"Finally," Leia sighs as they reach the speeder. "Home. Sleep. Peace."

Luke, completely ignoring her, perks up. "Can I fly?" he asks eagerly. "I’ve been practicing my maneuvering forms all week, and Master Windu didn’t even frown at me today! That has to mean something, right?"

Anakin snorts as he unlocks the speeder. He knows exactly how much it means—he’s been on the receiving end of Windu’s frown more times than he can count. It’s practically a rite of passage. But he keeps that particular badge of honor to himself. No need to scare the kids. "That’s a pretty low bar, kid."

"But still a bar," Luke points out.

Anakin chuckles, shaking his head. "Fine. But I’m watching you."

He can hear his daughter groan as she climbs into the backseat. "Oh, great. We’re all gonna die."

Luke, who has always had more patience than him and Leia combined, pointedly ignores her, taking the pilot’s seat, hands already adjusting the controls with barely-contained excitement. Sliding into the passenger seat, Anakin keeps a careful eye on his son as the speeder lifts off. To his pride—but not his surprise—Luke handles it smoothly, guiding them into the skyways with ease.

Leia, meanwhile, slumped back, arms crossed, not nearly as relaxed, mutters, "You know, Master Kenobi says you’re getting old."

Turning in his seat, he gives her a flat look. "Oh, does he?"

Leia nods solemnly. "Yeah. Says you groan every time you stand up now."

Still keeping his eyes on the sky, Luke snickers too. "It’s true, Dad. You do."

Anakin scoffs. "I do not."

"I don’t know." Leia muses in mock consideration. "The Council might have to start thinking about retirement options for you. I hear there’s a lovely meditation program for agin Jedi Masters."

Anakin huffs out a breath through his nose, fighting a smile. Leia spends way too much time around Obi-Wan these days—long enough to have picked up his former master’s endless supply of dry sarcasm. And worse, she’s inherited Padmé’s quick wit too.

It’s an unfair combination. He never really stood a chance.

Still, he gasps in exaggerated offense. "How dare you? I am in my prime."

"Yeah, prime retirement age," Luke deadpans.

Leia leaned forward, propping her chin on the back of his seat with a wicked grin. "Honestly, probably safer to let Luke fly. Your old man eyes might miss a building or two."

Anakin whipped around to stare at her, scandalized. "I cannot believe you."

Leia beamed, utterly unrepentant. "You love me."

Luke, barely holding back a laugh, added, "You love both of us, actually. Sucks to be you."

Anakin groaned dramatically and slumped back against the seat. "This is my punishment for past sins."

Leia snickered and gave his seat a not-so-gentle kick. "Please. You’d be lost without us."

"I would be basking," Anakin said dryly, "in blessed silence."

"Liar," Luke and Leia said in perfect unison.

Anakin just grumbles under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face like the long-suffering father he was clearly destined to become.

"Disrespectful little gremlins," he mutters, loud enough for them to hear.

Leia laughs and Luke only grins wider, clearly taking it as a victory.

Anakin slouches deeper into his seat, pretending to be more tired than he really is, pretending their teasing wore him down.

It didn't.

Truth is, he’d nearly lost all of this once—nearly lost them—and still he wakes up some nights half-convinced it had all been a dream. But then mornings come, full of noise and chaos and terrible jokes at his expense, and he remembers. He has this—

A home. A future. A family.

Luke lands smoothly outside the Skywalker apartment, the speeder settling onto the platform with barely a jolt. Anakin doesn’t even have time to unbuckle before the twins are scrambling out—Leia stretching like she’s been confined for hours, Luke practically bouncing toward the door.

Anakin follows at a much more measured pace, shaking his head as he watches them. "You’d think after a full day of training, you two would be tired."

Leia scoffs. "You’d think you would be tired. You’re old, remember?"

Anakin pointedly ignores her, keying in the entrance code. The door slides open with a soft hiss, revealing the warm glow of their home.

At the dining table, Padmé sits surrounded by datapads and flimsi sheets, completely absorbed in her work. She’s still in her senatorial makeup, subtle and regal, but her hair is down, loose waves cascading over her shoulders in a way that always undoes him. The overhead lights are dimmed, casting the room in a soft glow that clings to her skin like sunlight, catching in the strands of her hair and the curve of her smile as she frowns thoughtfully at a report.

Anakin stops in the doorway, suddenly unwilling to move.

She’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful—but now, sitting here in the home they built together, wearing a hundred tiny signs of the life they share, she’s something even greater.

Even after all these years, she still takes his breath away.

He might’ve stood there a little longer, lost in the sight of her, if not for the twins barreling past him.

"Mom!" Leia calls, tossing her bag onto the couch.

Padmé’s head snaps up, and the second she sees them, her whole face lights up. Whatever political mess she was wrestling with vanishes as she pushes aside the papers and rises to her feet, arms already reaching out.

"Hi, sweetheart," she says warmly, pressing a kiss to Leia’s forehead. Luke tries to be more subtle, edging sideways like he can avoid his fate, but Padmé is faster. She catches him with one hand, planting a kiss right at his hairline before he can wriggle free.

Luke, predictably, ducks. "Mooom," he groans, trying to escape.

A helpless smirk tugs at Leia’s mouth. "I don’t know why you even try."

Still scowling, Luke wipes his forehead like he’s been grievously wounded. "One day," he insists, "I will be fast enough."

Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, Anakin snorts, utterly unconvinced. "Doubtful."

Without missing a beat, Luke flicks his fingers in the direction of the kitchen counter. A meiloorun fruit zips towards him—only to freeze mid-flight when Padmé plucks it from the air.

"No Force use in the apartment," she says, voice sharp but fond, setting the fruit firmly back into the bowl.

A loud groan comes from Luke. "But Mom—"

"No buts," she cuts in, giving him one of her signature looks. "I don’t need fruit flying at my head while I’m trying to negotiate planetary treaties."

Smirking, Leia folds her arms. "She’s got a point. Your control still needs work."

"You’re one to talk—" Luke starts, only to clamp his mouth shut when Padmé clears her throat meaningfully.

The weight of her stare shifts then, slow and deliberate, until it lands on Anakin. Arms folding, she arches a perfectly shaped brow.

"And you."

Anakin blinks, wide-eyed. "Me?"

"Don’t act clueless. You encourage this."

"I am a responsible Master of the Jedi Order," he proclaims, arms still crossed over his chest but a slightly crooked smile on his face that means they both know that hasn’t ever been true.

Shaking her head with mock resignation, Padmé turns back to the twins, smoothing a stray lock of Leia’s hair back behind her ear. "Did you two actually eat something? Something besides vending machine snacks?"

Instead of answering, Leia throws him directly under the speeder. "Dad let Luke fly."

One eyebrow arches higher than the other. "Oh?"

Before she can say anything else, Anakin lifts both hands in surrender. "I supervised."

Padmé holds his gaze a moment longer than is entirely comfortable, then sighs and shakes her head. "We’ll talk about it later."

A full-body wince ripples through Anakin. "Later" is never a promise. It’s a warning.

From the couch, Leia smirks wickedly. "Told you you’re old. She’s gonna lecture you now."

An exaggerated sigh leaves him. "I should’ve left you both at the Temple."

Without missing a beat, Luke grins. "Liar."

Padmé only laughs, pulling both twins into a quick, fierce hug before nudging them toward the kitchen. All the late nights, the endless meetings, the heavy burden of public life—none of it matters in moments like these.

And standing there, watching her effortlessly wrangle their chaotic little family with nothing more than a smile and a few stern words, Anakin feels it again—that bone-deep certainty that he has everything he’s ever wanted.

Later that night, after what feels like hours of shooing, negotiating, and finally threatening the twins into bed, Anakin and Padmé retreat to their bedroom.

With a muffled groan, Anakin collapses face-first onto the bed, arms sprawled like he’d been struck down in battle.

Padmé, sitting on the edge of the bed, loosening the last pins from her hair, watches him with thinly veiled amusement.

"I take it," she says with a dry tone, "that you're feeling the weight of your great age."

A dramatic sigh escapes him as he rolls over, flinging an arm across his eyes. "You have no idea."

"Oh, don’t I?"

Glancing out from under his arm, he gives her a look. "Obi-Wan told Leia I’m getting old. Old, Padmé. My own former Master is corrupting our daughter against me."

Padmé blinks, startled. "He told Leia what?"

Anakin nods, his expression turning serious. "That I groan when I stand up. That I’m basically ancient. One step away from those hologram commercials for back support."

There’s a long pause.

For a moment, Padmé simply stares at him in silence. Then, an exaggerated gasp escapes her, and she sits up straighter, her eyes narrowing. "Excuse me, but if you're old, what does that make me?"

Anakin freezes, caught off guard. "Oh no."

Padmé’s finger jabs in his direction, but the smile on her lips betrays her seriousness. "I am five years older than you, Anakin Skywalker. If you’re ancient, I must be ready for the archives. Should I start looking at retirement homes? Start knitting? Maybe I should buy gardening tools and prepare for the inevitable."

His eyes widen in mock horror. "No! You’re timeless!" He scrambles onto his elbows, speaking urgently. "Graceful. Eternal."

Padmé doesn’t miss a beat. "Too late. I’ll need orthopedic boots. And a wide-brimmed hat."

Anakin groans loudly, dramatically flopping back onto the bed. "This is exactly what Obi-Wan wanted. He’s winning."

A wicked grin spreads across Padmé’s face. "I’ll buy us matching rocking chairs. We can sit on the balcony, shaking our fists at passing speeders."

Anakin groans into the pillow, his voice muffled. "Don’t say that. I can still do backflips."

Padmé pats his shoulder sympathetically, her smile widening. "Of course you can, dear. Very slowly. With breaks."

He rolls his eyes and turns his head to look at her. "You’re enjoying this."

"Oh, immensely."

Without a second thought, Anakin grabs a pillow, giving it a playful whack in her direction.

Padmé laughs, catching the pillow effortlessly and tossing it aside. She leans down, brushing his hair from his forehead, and presses a soft kiss there.

"Face it," she murmurs with a teasing smile, "you’re not old. You’re just... well, slightly creaky."

Anakin groans again, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward in a reluctant smile. Pulling her down beside him, he wraps his arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder.

A dramatic sigh escapes his lips, his voice muffled against her skin. "I can’t believe I’m being bullied in my own home."

Padmé presses a kiss to the top of his head, her smirk still present. "It builds character."

Anakin simply grumbles something unintelligible, but the warmth of her fingers combing through his hair, the soft hum of the city outside, and the quiet, comforting weight of his wife beside him make it impossible to hold onto his fake crisis for long.

He might be getting old (debatable), but if this is what getting older means—falling asleep with the love of his life teasing him, knowing his kids are safe, knowing they have a future together—

Well.

He can live with that.