Chapter Text
Coruscant’s very own Galaxies Opera House had provided the backdrop for a brilliant performance tonight — and it bore little to do with Opula Deget unexpectedly stepping into the titular role of ‘Carasynthia’ in its final act.
Images of Senator Padmé Amidala accompanied by known Separatist sympathiser, Rush Clovis, will be what dominates the Holonet headlines tomorrow and with any luck? Her colleagues in the Senate will simply assume their time spent together off-duty as a tawdry romance rather than what it actually is: an investigation to root out any potential war profiteers amongst them.
While Padmé herself isn’t ignorant of Clovis’ traitorous history, whether with regard to their past or the Republic at large, she cannot deny his determination throughout these last few days. The evidence they’ve unearthed has been nothing short of explosive. Between emptied bank vaults and private offshore accounts, they had barely escaped with the datarod intact even with Anakin’s help.
Suffice it to say, her husband was less than impressed by Palpatine’s decision that Padmé continue working closely with Clovis in order to expose these secret accounts.
“Why didn’t you say no?”
Therein lies the familiar edge of concern behind Anakin’s voice, and it has been following her ever since they returned from Scipio.
“I didn’t have much of a choice, Ani. The Chancellor asked me to do this himself.”
“I understand that… but I don’t trust Clovis.”
“Well, neither do I.”
That seems to catch him off guard. She isn’t naïve, of course. Rush has never been subtle about his feelings for her and considering the easy familiarity he’s repeatedly tried to revive between them? Padmé supposes she’s allowed more of it than she would like. After all, he has only grown bolder and forthcoming as result.
If indulging his misplaced hope keeps him talking for long enough to expose whatever else he may be hiding, then she’ll consider it a worthy cause.
The young woman draws closer, lowering her voice. “I know what he’s capable of. Don’t think I’ve forgotten what happened the last time we worked together. I just—” she falters. “I can’t let what happened to Teckla be in vain.”
Anakin’s brow, so marred with unease before, now smooths from remorse as his wife continues. “If I don’t see this investigation through… then what will be the point of her sacrifice?” Padmé never once reconciled herself to how many of her handmaidens are, and have been, willing to die in her place. It may be their sacred duty — but that does not make their spilled blood any less hers to carry.
He exhales through his nose and looks away for a moment. As frustrated as he is, there is also something Padmé knows all too well there. Fear. Ultimately, he nods. “In that case… let me help,” Anakin places a gentle hand upon her arm and she almost melts into his touch. “If you need back-up? Comm me and I’ll be there.”
A smile nudges at her lips. “I will. Trust me, Ani.”
Though his hand smoothly withdraws at the sight of an approaching Clovis. Ever the Jedi General again, he stands tall with both now clasped behind his back. “Always…” and it takes everything in the man’s power not to give her a wink before she is then escorted away.
The city burns outside her transparisteel windows in endless rivers of artificial light. Coruscant’s upper levels remain immaculate, untouched by the shortages that have begun creeping through levels far below. Such are truths that Padmé cannot help but dwell on as Threepio goes about serving them an elaborate supper in her apartment.
While the opera was indeed a necessary distraction, her mind has not stopped running on fumes — for the real question is what happens next? Removing corrupt leadership will not magically purify the well they have poisoned. The Banking Clan is indispensable to both sides of this war and far beyond that, entire planetary economies depend upon its continued operation.
They cannot allow it to collapse… which is what will happen should the finer details of their investigation ever go public. That much seems clear as Padmé scans the datapad screen from over Rush’s shoulder.
The Separatists haven’t been paying their interests in loans. There are no savings left for The Republic, and yet hundreds of small withdrawals have gone by undetected.
It’s looking more and more as though the banks have allied with one side — and that can only bring war to Scipio in the end. They must restore order to the institution before such a reality manifests, yes, though their issue (for the most part) is they’re still lacking a critical piece of information in this convoluted puzzle.
As they get to enjoying supper, in any case, Clovis explains his contacts in the Muun government and it dawns on Padmé then why he believes himself the answer to her earlier question of what must come next. It helps that the Separatists favour him too.
She is still working out exactly what makes him a viable candidate aside from his albeit convincing manifesto to restore justice amongst the banks. The problem? It isn’t at all long ago since he was last caught committing the same crimes as those he’s now seeking to punish. She struggles to see why installing one war profiteer for another in a position of power will change anything.
Regardless. Padmé is willing to hear him out. This is the very core of diplomacy, after all. She has dealt with far worse — like men who remain unaffected whilst discussing the number of civilian casualties they consider acceptable. Rush Clovis, by comparison, is not as frightening in the grand scheme of this war. He is merely unpleasant and ‘unpleasant’ can often be negotiated with.
He leans back into the plush yellow of his seat. “I must say, Padmé, this unfortunate excursion has at least reminded me of how good a team we make.”
“Yes…” she acquiesces. “You were invaluable in obtaining the evidence. Whatever happens next, that contribution won’t be forgotten.”
“Only in obtaining the evidence?”
There is a pause as he holds her gaze before suddenly smiling like nothing unusual had just been said. “I think we’ve come to understand each other even better now.”
Padmé sets down her fork perhaps a little too loudly because Shiraya. She has no desire whatsoever to spend the evening nursing this man’s fragile ego. Though he doesn’t seem to pay her annoyance any mind despite it rolling off the young woman’s body in waves.
“You don’t have to continue hiding behind propriety with me,” he tells her in utmost earnest.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you deny it?”
“There is no it to begin with.”
“There could be.”
She rises from the settee then, decisive. “I believe our evening has come to an end.”
“Padmé…”
“Please leave. I have an early morning.”
They are locked in a stalemate for perhaps several seconds too long before he stands at last. She thinks he might finally leave when Clovis, without warning, steps toward Padmé instead and the distance between them narrows despite her efforts to maintain it — instantly backing towards the lower cabinet where a false panel is built into its interior. A blaster is hidden inside for the sort of contingency she’s preferred never to imagine.
“It’s that Jedi, isn’t it?”
“General Skywalker?” she blurts out on instinct. “He and I are friends… nothing more.”
His expression tightens. “Friends don’t whisper to each other the way I saw you two did earlier.” Her hip strikes the edge of aforementioned sideboard as he draws even closer. It’s within reach! Chin lifting, she tries not to let her calculations show. “I’m afraid you’re confused.”
“Isn’t it forbidden for a Jedi to have romantic ties?” Clovis arches an eyebrow, a threat laced into his words. “He would be banished from The Order, would he not?”
Padmé’s stomach drops at the insinuation. Whether he knows or simply suspects of her relationship with Anakin, he wastes no time making it clear what he’d do with that knowledge. “There is nothing romantic between he and I,” she turns toward the cabinet for her weapon — but Clovis has already grabbed her wrist, effectively spinning the young woman back around as his other catches her arm. The suddenness of it startles her into a gasp.
“Then there is absolutely nothing to stop us from doing this…” Padmé violently recoils just as his mouth manages to catch the corner of her cheek. “Clovis!” she drives the heel of her hand against his chest then, trying to force him away though he grips even harder. “Clovis, no!”
For one hysterical moment? She thinks her mere shout has sent him flying backwards like a ragdoll and into a pillar across the room — but then a bright light from the entrance draws her eye line towards Anakin who has been standing there for however long now with his hand out, presumably from summoning the Force.
Her knees almost buckle with relief.
He hurries over before that can happen and all she can hear then is a hummingbird heartbeat pounding, panic still a blood-rush in her ears. “Are you hurt?” Anakin asks as she feels him carefully hold her weight up. His eyes are burning despite the tenderness with which he handles her, and she grows overwhelmed as consequence. The answer feels caught somewhere behind her ribs. She shakes her head once, though the motion is uncertain.
Clovis stands and dusts himself off. “Senator Amidala is fine. This is just a misunderstanding.”
“You don’t have a say in this,” Anakin turns to face the other man once he’s made sure his wife can sufficiently support herself against a nearby table. “Not unless your next words are a confession.”
“— and confess what to you?” he scoffs. “This is a private matter between Padmé and myself. It is hardly your business, Skywalker.”
Molten rage moves through his chest, though he tamps it down. Later. You can be angry later. Right now, Anakin reminds himself that she needs him to be exactly what he is. A Jedi Knight. “You made it the Republic, and therefore my business as soon as you put your filthy hands on a Galactic Senator.” He unclips the lightsaber from his belt and sets it on the table by Padmé with a heavy thunk. “Last chance to surrender yourself peacefully.”
It apparently matters very little that Anakin is a General of The Republic Army. Clovis still lunges forward and swings first. “Why, you insolent…” words die prematurely as soon as the Jedi seizes his wrist and turns, redirecting his momentum rather than meeting it with force.
The dark-haired man stumbles forward haphazardly before recovering, humiliation fuelling him to strike again — only it is blocked by Anakin’s mechanical forearm this time, sending white hot pain through every nerve ending as he nearly withers like a plucked flower.
He throws another half-hearted punch until that same arm is caught and twisted around hard enough to send him crashing into a heap on the carpet with nary a blink.
Before Clovis knows it? Anakin has him in a hammerlock with one knee pinned between his shoulder blades, grip absolute. “Stay down,” drifts sternly from above and it’s not like he even has a choice here. The slightest movement draws his arm farther behind and it isn’t until a sharp cry escapes him does General Skywalker release any such pressure… or at least the slightest bit.
Clovis had never really understood the Jedi. Not until now, when Anakin could very well have dislocated his shoulder or even drawn his lightsaber and ended the confrontation in seconds. Instead? He is holding him down with nothing but his bare hands. The idea that he’s, in any way, holding back his full power seems a chilling one.
“Look at me,” Anakin’s voice drops to a low rumble heard only by Clovis as he leans in closer. “You should pray the guards arrive before I forget why I am letting you live.”
Dark eyes widen against startling blue just inches away. Whatever strange attachment exists between Skywalker and Amidala? It’s there beneath the surface and he had touched it. Though instead of exploding like he assumed the younger man would… Anakin’s impassive expression appears almost robotic. Colder, perhaps, and certainly far more disciplined. It seems his fury has not made him careless in the least — but rather frighteningly focused.
“Senator Amidala,” Captain Typho’s voice all of a sudden carries through the doors “is everything okay in there?” Before Padmé can respond, however, comes a clatter of metal feet from somewhere beyond the sitting room.
“Oh, dear!” Threepio practically stumbles forward in his haste; golden hands waving about as he hurries toward them. “I summoned the guards, milady. I am terribly sorry, but I thought you were in danger… and given our dire circumstances, I felt it was imperative that I—”
“Thank you, Threepio.” She offers him a reassuring nod and then calls “Come in immediately!”
It doesn’t take long at all for her security detail to rush inside and spread out. Typho instantly frowns at the mess. “What has happened here?”
With Anakin having released him to sit upright by then, Clovis seizes his chance. “There was an attack. It was my good fortune to have General Skywalker here…” Padmé stares at him as he so smoothly continues. “They escaped in a speeder over the balcony. You’d better go after them.”
It’s almost convincing. The ease with which he lies is what makes him so grotesque, she thinks. Any furniture askew becomes evidence of a struggle with an intruder. Their disheveled clothing, the aftermath of a rogue attack. Still. Typho turns to Anakin — his superior, technically, in the chain of command. “Is that what happened, sir?”
There is a moment of silence as the Jedi turns to look at her rather than answer and she understands immediately. He is giving Padmé the choice, for it is her story to tell. The Captain pointedly follows his gaze “Senator?”
Only then does she realise her hand is trembling.
Padmé closes it into a fist by her side.
“Do not send your men on a wild pelikki chase,” she draws herself upright. “Detain Rush Clovis in my office until I say so, Captain. I need a moment to gather my bearings.”
His face drains of colour as the other two guards immediately grab him by both arms; a gesture that has him wincing when hauled to his feet. Perhaps Anakin had twisted his shoulder a little too hard earlier. “Summon a med droid for him in the meantime,” she adds flatly.
Padmé is safe.
That ought to be what matters most. Anakin repeats that to himself, again and again, as he steps onto her verandah where Coruscant stretches endlessly below them.
He had disliked Rush from the very beginning — watched the way he treated every boundary Padmé set between them as an inconvenience rather than a rule. They argued about him, yes, and the Jedi sometimes found himself more than a little jealous of their history despite his wife insisting it had only ever been professional.
Regardless. He looks down to his open palms, gloved and otherwise, remembering how that coward’s fragile limbs felt beneath them. It would have been so easy to shatter bone. Just a little more pressure… perhaps a different angle… and the lowlife would never again be able to put his hands on another defenceless person.
It frightens him that the thought alone should bring even a morsel of delicious satisfaction. Though when his mind’s eye returns to the pallor of Padmé’s face right before he intervened? The rage in his chest burns anew; a Sun Dragon starved for the ash of all that constrains him.
Anakin fights to be rational in the wake of his wife’s hurt and yet cannot remember when cold logic has ever truly helped. He thinks of his mother. Qui-Gon. With every day that passes, he feels further and further away from the so-called prophecy — and for every battlefield wherein a clone had died under his command? He always found the same answer waiting. You should have done more.
He should have done more to protect Padmé and it kills him to imagine what would’ve happened had he not arrived in the nick of time.
When Anakin senses her presence behind him, however, he straightens and turns to find the young woman looking strangely detached from all that she’s left in the other room. Concerned, he schools his expression and draws closer. “Does your wrist still hurt when you move it?”
“A little. I think it will bruise.”
“Let’s get Emdee out here. I’m sure he’s done baby-ing the sleemo by now.”
“No… it’s fine.”
“At least have him look at you.”
“Anakin,” she bristles and lowers her sleeve over the reddish marks Clovis had left behind. Kriff. He nods after a moment’s silence — ignoring the lead weight in his stomach borne from a sense of helplessness.
“I’m sorry.”
Padmé softens, recognising this familiar determination to keep her hurt at bay especially now. It is an impulse she understands (and shares) because if he can dote on her? Then perhaps he wouldn’t have to stop and examine his own deepest fears at this crucial moment.
Either way, she has spent more than half her life learning how to remain composed in the aftermath of violence. Give the report and think carefully about what comes next. Make a decision. Though now that there are no formalities demanding her attention as Amidala? Reverting back to Naberrie feels infinitely harder.
“No, Ani. I’m sorry…” she looks down, unable to meet his searching gaze. “I feel so stupid.”
He frowns. “Padmé—”
“You were right not to trust him.”
There is no vindication behind Anakin’s eyes upon hearing it. Only pain. “You wanted to believe the best in him,” he gently reaches out to cradle her cheek with his flesh hand. “That is what makes you who you are.”
She swallows and returns to his gaze at last and finds an unbearable sincerity there. “You saw somebody who might have been worth saving…” Anakin continues quietly, conviction in every word. “You gave him the chance to prove himself. He alone squandered it. Nobody else.”
“I should have known.”
“No.” His tone is resolute despite its softness. “You knew what you could reasonably know.“
A dam inside the young woman breaks at that and Anakin gathers Padmé against him before she can stopper it. His strong arms wrap around her as she relinquishes the effort of holding every piece to Amidala’s well-worn composure in place — simply loses herself to the warmth of his chest instead, comforted by every tender caress that follows. When he finally speaks? His voice lowers to no harsher than a soothing rumble. “The war has already taken so much,” he rests his cheek against the top of her head. “I will not let it take your precious heart away from you too. This is my oath, Padmé. I swear it.”
Almost boneless in his arms, they become a steadying anchor as she eventually lifts her head to look at him again. “We cannot let a man like Clovis ascend to power.”
He nods, agreeing “… especially not over the Banking Clan. Do you think he planned this?”
“I think he planned for me to be useful to him.”
Politicians have a tendency to leave expectations buried inside seemingly innocent proposals. Favours offered before they are requested. Doors deliberately left open. Rush Clovis had been doing it from the moment he requested access to Padmé — and in gaining her trust, so would he have gained her political influence.
Anakin watches as she peels from his embrace then, suddenly itching to move as she is wont to in deep thought. “What do you wish to do?”
It is a loaded question, of course, because there’s still very much a real problem underneath the personal one. If Clovis is arrested now? The investigation could stall and send their suspects scattering like Corellian roaches.
“We cannot ignore what happens if the Banking Clan loses its prospective leader now,” she stops by the platform’s edge and folds her arms. “Perhaps he was counting on that — that the more important his position became? The more difficult it would be for anybody to act against him.”
“So, he thought you’d protect him.”
“Yes…” that she would have no choice. Padmé is silent for another moment until she whirls back around to face Anakin “but that is where he misunderstands me altogether.” He lights up at the tenacity in his wife’s voice.
“—because the other side of this is much simpler. Clovis is a liability. He has questionable judgment. He believes another person’s consent is something to simply negotiate around,” she throws both hands up “and now we know he is willing to abuse his position for what? His own gratification! How could I possibly argue that such a man be entrusted with the banks, for goodness’ sake?”
The question lingers between them just as Threepio emerges from their open doorway, evidently uncertain whether Senator Amidala’s shouting was aimed at his maker by the way he almost hesitates to interrupt.
Padmé sighs. “Yes?”
“Forgive me, milady, but I was wondering if you’ve noticed that several of the eastern wing’s surveillance feeds have been activating intermittently.”
“Don’t worry,” Anakin offers “that’s just Artoo.”
Almost as if on instinct then do brown eyes drift toward the private landing platform. Her husband’s starfighter rests exactly where he had left it, its yellow silhouette stark against the cityscape and with — sure enough — an empty socket on its wing. “What do you mean?”
“He’s been busy running reconnaissance since we arrived…” Anakin shrugs like it should be obvious, retrieving the comlink from his belt. “It’s always helpful to have somebody circle the perimeter. Report, Artoo.”
“Is this something that happens every time you come home to see your wife?”
“Only when there’s a potential threat on her life,” she can tell he’s about to make a ‘which is often’ quip and break any lingering tension from tonight by the charming look on his face — but a sharp burst of electronic chirping erases that altogether. Padmé hurries forward as a series of rapid, urgent beeps crackle through the receiver.
“It sounds like he’s in trouble!”