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From the mezzanine, Anakin observes a swirling mass of dignitaries with their shimmering silks and iridescent robes — how brilliantly they glint in the floating ornamental lights. Delegations from at least a dozen systems mingle around displays of cultural holiday offerings like Chandrilan frost crystals and Alderaanian solstice tapestries, while servers weave between them balancing hors d'oeuvres in near-obscene amounts.
“Honestly.” Obi-Wan mutters beside him, disapproving gaze fixed upon a large arrangement of silverleaf branches in ribbons “One imagines the Republic would direct these resources toward something more… practical.”
Ahsoka snorts from his other side and leans over. “Master, it’s a party. People like beautiful things.”
“Yes, well, I much prefer beautiful things that do not shed glitter onto my boots. It’ll never get out now.”
Anakin stays silent by contrast, trying to focus on the through-line of their mission — that there may be a high profile sympathiser funnelling sensitive information to the Separatists here. They’re essentially meant to sniff them out, but all he can focus on is one specific presence… or rather lack thereof. He tells himself it shouldn’t matter that Padmé hasn’t arrived yet. He’s on duty, after all, and can’t afford to be distracted around his fellow Jedi.
The only trouble is that Anakin Skywalker has always been a terrible liar, especially to himself.
Thus when an almost imperceptible brightening in the Force weaves through any such formal static, it curls around his senses so naturally that he almost forgets how to breathe. She must be here! Yes. He tries not to appear too eager, but the pull of her presence is unmistakable; steady and warm as sunlight coaxing frost to melt. No one else in this hall radiates like that. No one else ever could.
Finally allowing himself to glance toward the grand entrance, in any case, he swallows a traitorous lump in his throat. Senator Padmé Amidala, draped in Naboo silks the colour of pale starlight, moves with a self-possessed grace that prompts everybody else to fold effortlessly around her. Those in her delegation follow close behind, but Anakin is too busy looking at the young woman — until, of course, an entirely foreign presence slides into her orbit before she has even taken five steps inside.
Baron Rush Clovis.
Anakin doesn’t know much about the man, except that he seems to be leaning in before Padmé can at least finish greeting another senator. His eyebrows draw together.
The scene unfolds without warning then. A group already buoyant from wine and music descend upon the two amidst their laughter — openly gesturing toward a bundle of woven, silver branches above them. The Tidings Garland. A tradition borrowed from worlds across the Mid Rim, typically meant to symbolise harmony by pressing your forehead against another’s and exchanging a moment of shared intention for the upcoming year.
Padmé begins to shake her head, hands raised modestly though Clovis laughs as if the idea pleases him a great deal. Heat surges beneath Anakin’s ribs as consequence. Being no more than a Jedi Knight on duty to the world at large? He has no right to react or interfere — has trained for years to control his emotions and yet, the young man cannot just stand idly by while his secret wife is pushed into an intimate act she’s obviously uncomfortable with.
“Anakin.”
His focus remains locked on the tableau.
“Anakin.”
Sharper this time. An edge that likely meant Obi-Wan Kenobi had said his name at least twice already and so, he wrestles himself back into the present — head snapping toward his former Master with a pained “What?”
The older Jedi’s eyebrows climb straight into his hairline before a look of suspicion settles over weathered features. One reserved specifically for moments when Anakin has abandoned Plan Aurek in favour of some colossal risk he says the Force has steered him toward. “I don’t believe you’ve been listening to a single word I said.”
Ahsoka, on the other hand, follows the trajectory of her Master’s initial gaze with far less subtlety. “Oh. I see,” her mouth curls into a delighted smirk “He just gets flustered around Senator Amidala. It’s kind of cute, actually.”
Annoyance spikes through his chest. Absolute mortification layered atop jealousy, helplessness, and the sheer desperation of wanting to scream “she’s my wife!” at any given moment. How can he pretend they’re anything less when his entire being is practically magnetised to her through the Force? If Anakin hadn’t already been choking on his own silence, the implication alone — that everyone believes he’s just nursing an embarrassingly one-sided crush — might kill him.
Of course, Obi-Wan’s beleaguered sigh doesn’t help either. “I know you admire her… but focus…”
Admire.
He almost snorts in reply. If they only knew what a massive understatement that was.
Anakin would happily drain himself of all his blood to hear her sweet laughter one last time.
Regardless. When he looks back over to Padmé and Rush, it feels as though all that same blood has now rushed into his ears for the slimy Senator from Scipio is leaning in close — and he cannot do a single kriffing thing to intervene without risking exposure of their marriage altogether. Instead, the leather of his right glove practically squeaks from how tight a fist it clenches into.
… until she moves.
Padmé’s head inclines with a soft, gracious bow as one hand rests over her heart. An alternate greeting that signals deep respect while simultaneously preventing physical contact. She shifts her weight just so and now suddenly Rush has nowhere to put his forehead. He hesitates a fraction, but the crowd doesn’t seem to notice.
They accept her elegant substitution without blinking, clapping in approval, believing she’s simply honouring a secondary form of the ritual. The moment flows on — except for one Anakin Skywalker, whose relief crashes over him so powerfully that he almost feels lightheaded.
It is ridiculous (absurd, even) that something as minute as the gentlest pivot of her shoulders can make him want to jump up and applaud his wife’s courage. Still. These are two people whose bodies have never felt like they belonged entirely to them. Padmé, always on display for a galaxy that demands her leadership and composure. Anakin, a weapon shaped by the Jedi, obeying orders that turn his limbs into instruments more and more every day. Thus stealing a sliver of autonomy back in small and seemingly insignificant ways matters more to them than anyone outside their marriage will ever know.
Before he realises it, however, she has noticed them and is now gliding towards their little trio.
Stars. Those shimmering blossoms in her hair catch the lantern-light with every step as though she’s carrying a constellation with her — a brilliant accompaniment to the smile that stretches across her face when she warmly greets them “Master Kenobi. Ahsoka. Anakin.” No different from any mission briefing or hallway encounter.
“Senator,” Obi-Wan bows his head politely “I see you’ve already braved the Tidings Garland.”
Padmé offers a placid smile as her hands clasp together “Yes. Although I’m afraid I may be coming down with a bug and as such, thought it best to avoid any close contact. I don’t wish to risk passing anything on.”
He approves, oblivious to her cheek “I wish more attendees would share your prudence, milady.”
Ahsoka’s brows lift perceptively by comparison. Amused. Padmé takes note of the young Togruta’s knowing smirk and slips her a wink. “Yes, well, some things tend to become a nuisance when you give them an inch.” Germs and certain men from Scipio, as Anakin’s padawan is quickly learning in the senator’s radiant presence; a witticism that appears to sail over Obi-Wan’s head when he hums in grave agreement about ‘seasonal illnesses’.
Padmé nods to them, in any case, every inch the sensible politician again “I should let you return to the party.” Though not before meeting Anakin’s gaze, brown eyes glinting with a wicked spark so subtle, the mighty Hero With No Fear feels his throat close up. He clears it once or twice — aiming to keep his voice low and perfectly neutral “I hope you feel better soon, Senator.”
The corner of her pillow soft mouth hooks upward at that “I’m sure I will.” Only then does she sweep away, disappearing back into the gala without a second glance behind to leave Obi-Wan muttering under his breath about frivolous customs and unnecessary pageantry.
Anakin, however, is already charting his quickest route out of this assignment. He tells himself that three Jedi in one venue seems like overkill — and he firmly believes Ahsoka counts as two anyway — because somewhere behind a locked supply room closet, far from pesky garlands or prying eyes? His “sick” wife is about to let him cure her in a way that no healer on Coruscant has ever dreamt of.