Work Text:
Anakin was already starting to squirm in the tuxedo.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this cleaned up—hair combed, fingernails free of dirt, clothing dry-cleaned and clear of grease. He doubted the 501st would recognize him. As he strode down the corridor of the Senate Rotunda, flanked on either side by Ahsoka and Obi-Wan, the heels of his dress shoes clicked against the floor.
“Stop loosening your tie,” Ahsoka said, whacking it lightly from his hand. “If you mess it up, you won’t be able to fix it.”
Anakin shot her a look. “I know how to tie a tie.”
“Ah, of course. Is that why you had Obi-Wan do it for you?”
To his right, he heard Obi-Wan chuckle quietly.
“Hey. He just does it better, okay? Just…a little tight.” He tightened the knot and made a choking sound, and Ahsoka giggled. “Come on. You have to admit you’re uncomfortable, too.”
“I feel just fine.” Ahsoka twirled once in her ballgown and clicked her high heels. “Wouldn’t want to take on any Separatists, but—”
“That’s cause you don’t have any of the bells and whistles Pad—I mean, Senator Amidala has,” Anakin said. “You should see what goes into her outfits—there’s hidden blaster holsters, headdresses to distract from her face if she’s using a decoy, bulletproof corsets, comlinks built into the sleeves…”
“I see,” said Ahsoka. “And how do you know so much about the Senator’s elaborate clothes?”
Because I’ve watched her take them off, he thought. And it kriffing takes forever.
Aloud, he just coughed. “Security reasons.”
Ahsoka hummed with amusement as the three of them rounded the corner. Ahead lie the Senatorial ballrooms, where they’d be arriving fashionably late to the Chancellor’s ball—and, though he was chafing under the formality, Anakin felt his heart speed up as the staircase came into view. Political functions were always stifling, but this was different—this time, he could be seen with Padmé, could dance with her, could hold his wife in public without fear of suspicion. This time, he didn’t have to lie.
Well, lie as much.
“Nervous?”
Anakin looked down. Ahsoka was staring at him with a knowing smile, and—blast it—she must’ve been reading him. Mis-reading him, in any case, but still. Sometimes, he hated her perception.
“No,” he said. “Just thinking about what to say if the Chancellor asks us to speak.”
“Speak?”
“Well, we’re the guests of honor,” Anakin said. “He might raise a toast or something—ask us to comment on how we saved him from the kidnapping at Theed. Well, us and our good old friend Rako Hardeen.”
He glanced over at Obi-Wan. The comment had certainly gotten his attention—they weren’t quite to the point of joking about it yet, so the name stirred them both. But Obi-Wan just looked up, giving a weak smile before looking away again. To a stranger, his face gave away nothing. To Anakin, it gave away everything.
He nudged Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “You okay?”
Obi-Wan busied himself straightening his white suit and tie. “I’m fine.”
“You’re quiet. If you’re not feeling up to this, we can always—”
“Please, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said. “After the fuss you made to drag me along, I can’t believe you’d give in now.”
Anakin shrugged, smiling cautiously. “Just thought it’d be…you know…good for you. Get you out of your head a little.”
“I need to be in my head. I should be back making plans, tracing Maul and Savage to the next—”
“If you should be doing anything, Master, it’s sleeping,” Anakin said. “Vokara Che’s orders. But since we both know you won’t do that, a ball is the second best thing.” He sped his pace, speaking over his shoulder. “Come on. What you need is a night off and a good time.”
“You and I have very different ideas of what constitutes a good time.”
They reached the doorways, which opened to a grand staircase descending to the ballroom. Anakin stopped at the top, and felt Ahsoka and Obi-Wan behind him do the same—and as he took in the jazz music, the sea of coattails and ballgowns out on the dance floor, the lantern lights and standing tables and the distant hum of laughter, Anakin felt an odd twinge of hope. Almost like a wedding reception, he thought. He’d never been one for fancy parties, but still he let himself imagine what might’ve been had he and Padmé been able to do things the traditional way. Music, dancing, sharing a first dance as the world looked on…
“Shall we?”
Ahsoka was looking at him with a lilted brow, and he shot her a smile. “We shall.”
The descended the staircase.
His eyes scanned the ballroom for Padmé the whole way down. She stood out in any room—elaborate gowns or not—but tonight, he expected to find his gaze drawn to her like a magnet. Yet instead, he did a double take as his eye caught someone else—someone blonde, someone familiar, leaning over the balcony across the room. Her hair was twisted into an updo, with pieces curling down to frame her face, and a small tiara fit her forehead.
“Wait. Is that—”
He elbowed Obi-Wan, but Ahsoka was already ahead of them both.
“Hey, it’s Duchess Satine!”
Two steps from the bottom of the staircase, Obi-Wan stopped walking.
Anakin looked back. “Did you know she was gonna be here?”
“No.”
“How convenient,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Guess you might end up having a good time after all.”
But Obi-Wan was staring straight ahead, looking somehow paler than he had moments before. He took a step back up the stairs.
“On second thought…Anakin, I’m not feeling well after all. Perhaps I should…”
He swallowed, and Anakin studied the tightness in his face. “What is it?”
“My, ah—my stomach,” Obi-Wan said. His voice was strained, and Anakin’s mind flickered to the worst—side effects of transforming into Rako Hardeen, complications from his last duel with Maul and Savage—but Obi-Wan seemed to predict his fears and wave them away. “It’s nothing. Just a bit queasy, that’s all,” he said. “I think…I think I’m going to go home.”
“Obi-Wan, is something—”
“No.” His eyes flickered to meet Anakin’s, then away. “I just…I’ll see you later. Have a nice evening.”
“But—”
“Master Kenobi, Master Skywalker!”
Anakin pulled his gaze from Obi-Wan and turned. And there behind then, striding forward in a deep violet gown, was Padmé. Her curls draped down her back and shoulders and he imagined running his fingers through it, breathing in her perfume, drawing her close to him—
Oh, and Bail Organa was there too. Not that Anakin really noticed.
“Padawan Tano,” Padmé said warmly, taking Ahsoka’s hand in both of hers and squeezing it. “It’s wonderful to see you. All of you. Especially safe and sound, after all that’s happened…”
“We know it hasn’t been…an easy few weeks.” Bail stepped forward, his face somber. He was looking at Obi-Wan as he said it, and Anakin wondered how much Obi-Wan had told him—wondered briefly if Obi-Wan had been talking to him in the days after Theed, when Anakin had been distant—then shoved that jealousy down. “And, Master Kenobi, it’s good to see you back on your feet. Master Yoda mentioned you sustained quite the grocery list of injuries after Florrum.”
“The Temple Healers are very skilled. I’m quite lucky,” Obi-Wan said.
A general hum rose from the group, and Anakin took the opportunity to glance back at Obi-Wan. His expression was groomed into the picture of calm and propriety—a negotiator if Anakin ever saw one—but his eyes were skittish. Like he could run at any moment.
“Obi-Wan,” Padmé said, her eyes suddenly soft. “I’ve been meaning to tell you how sorry I am. About Master Gallia. To all of you, of course. But I just know…well, Obi-Wan was there when—”
“Master Gallia is one with the Force. She fought gallantly and lived virtuously, and we celebrate that life,” Obi-Wan said. Still, when Padmé waited expectantly, he exhaled. “Maul is a formidable adversary,” he said. “But I don’t have to tell you that, Senator.”
“No,” she replied, her eyes finally skirting away. “No, you don’t.”
The silence that followed was charged and gravid—as if the air between them held each and every unsaid word. Until finally, Obi-Wan bowed.
“It was nice to see you both,” he said. “But I was just telling Anakin that I won’t be staying.”
Padmé’s face fell. “Oh, but Master Kenobi, I was just talking to someone I think you’ll want to—”
“Thank you, Senator, but I really must go—”
“Obi-Wan?”
At the sound of the voice, they all turned.
And there, in an emerald gown with lacework sleeves, was Satine.
No one responded right away. The pause felt endless as Obi-Wan stared at her with his lips slightly parted, eyes a little wide—as if seeing a ghost or apparition, as if he wanted to flee. Satine stared back, her face a bit flushed and bright as if she’d been dancing, or maybe laughing.
“Duch—” Obi-Wan’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “Duchess. Good evening.”
Anakin made eye contact with Ahsoka, and found that she was trying not to laugh.
“Good evening, everyone,” Satine said warmly. Then, she nodded to Anakin, Obi-Wan, and Ahsoka. “I didn’t expect I’d be seeing you three here.”
“Likewise,” Anakin said. “What brings you to Coruscant?”
“Political business,” she said, shaking her head. “Ugly political business, I might add. So when Padmé suggested I tag along to the celebration, I thought it might be a nice change of atmosphere. There’s so little to celebrate these days.”
“The aversion of the Chancellor’s kidnapping is certainly worth celebrating,” Anakin said.
At that, something charged flickered through the group—though Anakin couldn’t identify what.
“Indeed,” Padmé said, though she was looking right at Bail.
A few long moments passed before he could shake the weird feeling.
Anakin glanced out onto the ballroom floor, where couples in formalwear twirled. The band was playing an upbeat jazz tune, people sampled hors d'oeuvres and drank champagne, and all around them rippled a sea of black ties and long gowns. And then—though he knew it was only a brief reprieve from the chaos, and though his own tie still hugged his neck a little too tightly—Anakin smiled.
“Milady,” he said, holding out a hand to Padmé. “Care to dance?”
He knew her smile was genuine when the corners of her eyes crinkled. “It would be my pleasure, Master Skywalker.”
She took his arm, and together they started toward the ballroom’s center. But before they had gone too far, Anakin glanced quickly back. He could just overhear Bail offering to teach Ahsoka some traditional Alderaanian dance, Ahsoka laughing and telling him she’d rather get a Togrutan group dance started. And then his eyes found Obi-Wan, who was standing a few awkward paces from the Duchess, avoiding her gaze. Maybe it was the reflection off Satine’s satin gown, but he looked a little green.
“Hold on.” Anakin turned to Padmé, releasing her arm. “Obi-Wan wasn’t feeling well before. Let me just give him the keys to the speeder in case he’s gotta leave early.”
“Of course,” Padmé said. “Tell him I hope he feels better.”
He started back toward the foot of the staircase, fishing the keys from the inside of his suit jacket. But he slowed a few paces away at the sound of Satine’s voice.
“You know, Master Kenobi, on Mandalore it’s customary for the men to ask the women to dance. But luckily, I’ve never been one for custom.” With a wry smile she stepped closer, extending an arm. “Dance with me, Obi-Wan?”
“No, thank you.”
Anakin could’ve sworn the temperature in the room dropped. Satine’s expression didn’t change—politicians, Anakin thought, remembering every argument with Padmé, how she steeled her expression just so and let all emotion drain from her voice—but he could see a change in her eyes.
“I see,” Satine said. “Still think you can’t manage to avoid crushing my toes like when we were children, is that it?”
“I don’t plan to stay,” Obi-Wan said, already stepping backward. “It was lovely to see you, Duchess. Maybe the Force be with you.”
“Obi-Wan—”
But he was already bowing and starting up the stairs. Satine stood rooted to the spot, her face at last betraying her—bewilderment. Worry.
Anakin passed her as he jogged up the staircase himself.
Obi-Wan was nearly to the doors by the time Anakin grabbed his elbow. “Hey,” he said. “What was that all about?”
“What was what all about?”
“You’re too smart to play dumb.” In the ballroom below the jazz music swelled, and Anakin had to raise his voice a little to be heard. “Are you and Satine in some kind of argument? It’s not politics again, is it? Or literature—”
“I—wh—no, Anakin, why would you think—”
“Because you just blew her off.”
When Obi-Wan huffed, a strand of his impeccable hair fell down across his forehead. Anakin was still getting used to the length of it—it had only just grown back to normal after Naboo. “I already told you,” he said. “I’m not feeling well, and all I truly want to do is go home and make myself a cup of tea and read until—”
“Until what, you’ve pushed everyone else away?” Anakin saw the way Obi-Wan’s eyes darkened, but still he didn’t stop. “I thought we agreed after your…transformation. No more secrets.”
Obi-Wan released a bitter laugh. “No more secrets. Of course. And Anakin Skywalker doesn’t keep any secrets, now, does he?”
Anakin didn’t flinch, but he felt like he’d been slapped.
Obi-Wan bit his lip. “I’m sorry. That was—”
“No. Fine. Let’s be honest,” Anakin said. “You didn’t trust me before, with something important. Apparently, you still—”
“Anakin, we already—”
“—still don’t trust me the way I trust you.”
Obi-Wan opened his mouth, then closed it again. Anakin found his throat feeling oddly tight, and tried again to loosen his tie.
It didn’t help.
Obi-Wan looked over Anakin’s shoulder, his gaze trailing down the staircase before they met Anakin’s again. “I trust you,” he said. “Anakin, I trust you more than anyone.”
“Then—”
“I just have a bad feeling.”
The words stopped Anakin short.
Obi-Wan’s ‘bad feelings’ were notorious. In the early days of his apprenticeship, Anakin had thought he was merely anxious. But it became clear very quickly that it was more—Obi-Wan was perceptive to things most people couldn’t even perceive. A bad feeling before Naboo had meant losing Qui-Gon. A bad feeling on the World of a Thousand Moons had meant their near demise in a cave of Reeksa root. A bad feeling before Zigoola had meant…well, Anakin didn’t exactly know what, but still. And a bad feeling now…
“What’s going on?”
Obi-Wan glanced behind him, though there was no one there to overhear. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said. “But I just—I don’t—” He cleared his throat. “I have a feeling I should stay away from her.”
Anakin’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I don’t know, I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, and Anakin didn’t miss the way it shook. “Too much is happening. And with—with Maul...”
And it all dawned on Anakin at once.
His face softened. “Well, he’s not here,” he said. “He’s not going to—”
“What’s going on?”
The voice came from behind him, and Anakin turned. And there, a few steps down the staircase, was Satine.
Obi-Wan took a step back.
“Nothing,” he said. “Goodnight, Anakin. Duchess.”
“Pardon me.” Satine stepped around Anakin and placed herself in the doorway, blocking the exit. She looked Obi-Wan square in the eye. “I believe I asked you a question.”
Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “And I believe I bid you goodnight.”
But Satine didn’t move. Anakin glanced wistfully behind him as they locked eyes, back toward the incredibly-less-uncomfortable atmosphere of the ballroom below. Force have mercy…
“Certainly you can find another dance partner, Satine,” Obi-Wan said. “I’m sure Anakin would be happy to oblige.”
“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” she said, her voice suddenly so low the music nearly drowned it out. “You know perfectly well that I’m not asking you to dance. I am not asking you to tell me all you’ve gone through recently, or even to speak to me at all.” Though Anakin couldn’t see Obi-Wan’s face, he could practically feel him stiffen. “But the last time I saw you, I was looking into your casket at your funeral, and every night since in my nightmares—you, leaving me, over and over and over.”
“Satine, I’m—”
“I’m not asking you to apologize,” she said. “But I am asking you this.”
She reached out. Took one of Obi-Wan’s hands in hers.
“Don’t walk away.”
For a moment, it was a standoff—Satine looking at him hard, Obi-Wan staring down at their linked hands, his eyes flickering with something Anakin couldn’t quite identify. Until finally he looked up at her, and his face held resolve.
“My dear,” he said softly, “that is the only thing I cannot do.”
He dropped her hand and pushed past her into the foyer beyond. Satine stood there, looking shellshocked, before she turned and followed. At the edge of the staircase, Anakin stood alone as the music swelled along with Obi-Wan’s words in his ears.
The speeder keys hung forgotten in his fist.
»»-------------¤-------------««
Obi-Wan hadn’t been lying when he’d told Anakin he was nauseous.
These kinds of events always made him unsettled—celebrating the life of a single individual, someone like the Chancellor no less, when millions continued to die every day in a war these politicians insisted upon but knew nothing about. He would’ve felt queasy on a good day. But now, with the weight of Satine’s words sitting in the pit of his stomach like hot coals, he felt like he could throw up.
“Obi-Wan, stop.”
He kept walking.
“Obi-Wan—”
Satine grabbed his wrist a few paces from the long windows, pulling him back. He didn’t turn around—just let her touch his arm, feeling her warmth through his sleeve, hating it and bathing in it and memorizing the spark in every nerve ending. He tried instead to focus on the foyer surrounding them—on the stained glass and pink city light that shone through and painted the room, on the swirling pattern of the carpeted floor.
He pulled his arm away.
“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said. “For putting you through that.”
“I told you I didn’t want an apology.”
He turned then, slowly. When his eyes found hers, he was careful to keep them blank.
He exhaled. “But you still can’t be seen with me.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I said why not?”
Satine reached for his shoulder. He tried to shrug it off, but Vokara Che had told him his collarbone would take longer to heal after Florrum, and the movement sent a hot spike of pain through his chest. When he couldn’t help but wince, Satine dropped her hand.
“You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “It just surprised me.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she bit her lip. A curl had slipped loose from her updo, draping past the silver diadem on her forehead.
“I heard rumors, you know,” she said. “Raydonia. And then—”
“Satine,” he said, a twinge of desperation in his voice as he stepped further away. “I really can’t do this right now.”
“Do what?”
“I—go back to the ball. Don’t even tell anyone you spoke to me.”
“Is this because of Maul?”
“It’s because of me,” he said. “Now go on, before—before—”
He looked down, staring at his cufflinks, his too-shiny shoes. He suddenly missed the way his robe sleeves covered his hands, so Satine couldn’t see them shaking. The muffled music from the ballroom was drowned out by their silence, and her eyes were on him, and for what felt like the first time in his entire life, Obi-Wan was at a loss for words.
Fortunately, as it turned out, he didn’t need them.
“You think he’ll come for me next,” she said. “Maul. To get to you, like he did with the people on Raydonia, like he did—”
“I don’t know what to think, Satine,” he snapped, “but I do know that everyone around me seems to have some terribly unfortunate luck. And you are no exception.”
“Anakin and Ahsoka seem to be exceptions.”
“They can defend themselves.”
“And I can’t?”
“You won’t.”
“Obi-Wan,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “You know better than anyone that I’m more than capable of looking out for myself.”
“Then why won’t you do it now?” Obi-Wan turned, pacing away before stopping again in front of her. His voice dropped low, and he stepped so close to her he could feel her breath—close enough that he was certain no one else could hear. “Get out of here. I have a bad feeling about this,” he breathed. “And my feelings are rarely wrong.”
Satine looked straight back into his eyes. This close, the blue was a Kaminoan storm—drawing him down toward turbulent waters, to be carried off by the tides, to drown.
“You’re paranoid,” she said.
“I’m realistic.”
“And you’re afraid.”
“I’m right.”
“And did it ever occur to you that you’re not the only one?” She rose her voice, and Obi-Wan took a step back. “I lost you once. I have felt the weight of that grief already, and I feel it even now. But after Naboo…when I found out you were still alive, that the whole thing was a hoax, I expected perhaps that weight would be lifted. Yet it hasn’t been,” she said. The stained-glass light made her face look flushed, and her eyes flared. “It hasn’t been, because I lost you a long time ago. No, I’ve lost you a million little times—on Mandalore, on the Coronet, on Coruscant—yet still I fear the day I’ll lose you again. And I’ll be grieving you preemptively for the rest of my life.”
She finally looked away, and the loss of her gaze felt like something had been ripped from him.
“Satine—”
“You Jedi always prattle on about letting go,” she said, turning away to face the stained glass. “Well, my life has been a grand exercise in letting go, in letting be what must be, in losing. I have made my peace with that, and I am prepared to face whatever end may come to meet me. Whatever end, except one—one where the phantom weight of losing you becomes real. Where I’m the one left behind, instead of the other way around.”
He followed her to the window. Stood behind, looking over her shoulder out into the skittering lights and high-rises, the inhales and exhales of a city alive. And there, he heard the breath leave Satine’s lungs too.
“You’re starting to grieve me now, before you’ve even lost me,” she nearly whispered. “But I’ve been grieving you my whole life.”
She didn’t turn back around. He’d lost her eyes, couldn’t see whether they were filled with fury or tears or something else, couldn’t see in them the path he’d chosen to pass by. Instead, he had her hair—twisted in braids and curls, tinted pink from the stained glass. He had the stars that mixed with the metropolitan blaze, starlight and lamplight one and the same. He had smooth jazz music that drifted in from the ballroom, muffled through the walls and doors but loud enough to make out words—heureux, heureux à mourir, quand il me prend dans ses bras. Je vois la vie en rose…
In the stained-glass glow, he stared. Watched the rosy light bathe her—like blood diluted with water, like red ray shields on Naboo long ago. Watched her inhale, watched her exhale, watched her turn back to him through a looking glass of loss.
Obi-Wan opened his mouth—whether to apologize or shout some more or bid her farewell forever, he wasn’t sure.
Instead, what came out was a quiet sob.
Satine’s face crumbled too—when she turned, her eyes were damp and her lip was in her mouth. And though Obi-Wan didn’t know who moved first, next thing her head was against his chest and his face buried in her hair, breathing, breathing. Holding on as if grip and grit alone could stop the inevitable.
And still, already, grieving.
»»-------------¤-------------««
It was Ahsoka who finally dragged him away from the door.
“You shouldn’t be eavesdropping,” she’d said. “Come back to the ball. Senator Amidala’s been trying to decline a dance with Jar Jar for like fifteen minutes, and I don’t think she can deter him much longer.”
The echo of Satine’s and Obi-Wan’s voices was ringing in his head louder than the music. But still Anakin let himself be pulled back toward the staircase, toward the dancing below.
“I’d love to see that,” he said at last. “Honestly, maybe we should take our time. Jar Jar’s a nice fellow.”
“You’re cruel.” Ahsoka laughed as she dropped his arm, nearly tripping over her gown as they reached the bottom of the stairs. But the amusement slipped from her eyes when she looked at Anakin again. “Are you and Obi-Wan okay?”
He cleared his throat, biding for a sliver of time. Because that’s not a loaded question at all.
“I think things are just getting to him,” he said at last.
“And…Satine?”
He shrugged. “They’re…sorting stuff out.”
Ahsoka nodded. She looked like she was about to ask something else when they got to the edge of the dance floor—just in time to see Jar Jar spinning Padmé around with both hands, so fast her feet nearly left the floor. Ahsoka covered her mouth with her hand. By the time they approached the lovely couple, Anakin could barely contain his laughter.
“Mind if I cut in?” he said to Jar Jar, bowing.
“There you are.” Padmé smoothed out her hair, righting the headdress that had fallen lopsided. “Representative Binks was kindly showing me how to dance the Gungan Deesco—”
“Me-lady is quite skilled! Quite skilled!”
“I see,” Anakin said, and he swore the willpower it took not to laugh should’ve earned him a seat on the Jedi Council. Beside him, Ahsoka had to turn away to keep from doubling over. “Well, perhaps you can teach Padawan Tano, instead. She’s a very fast learner—”
“I—Master—”
“—and I know she’d love to learn some moves.”
“Padawan Tano!” Jar Jar bowed. “Mee-sa would be honored!”
While Ahsoka shot him a look that clearly said you’ll pay for this later, Anakin smiled. He took Padmé’s hand in his, and they moved to the center of the ballroom floor.
The rest of the evening was nothing but this—Anakin with his wife in his arms, laughing with her, talking without the cover of darkness and paranoia. Aching with the realization that this was what he wanted, always. No hiding. Just her. The ache was so deep and visceral that he could make himself forget about the rest—about Obi-Wan and Ahsoka and the war, about dead troopers and dead mothers, about Jedi and Sith and faceless armies. Just here and now and her and her and—
They were the last ones left on the dance floor. Any remaining company had begun to wander home, most drunk and giggly, though the band played on. Anakin let the jazz melodies wash over him and tried to memorize this feeling before it was gone.
“We should go,” said Padmé at last, lifting her head from his chest. “We’ve been out here too long already.”
Anakin didn’t have the resolve to nod.
They broke away and found Ahsoka with Jar Jar, snacking on leftover hors d'oeuvres and arguing about who could jump the highest (“I’m just saying,” Ahsoka was insisting, “if I wasn’t in heels, it’d be no contest. You may be Gungan, but I have the Force—” “Well you-sa don’t be havin’ cartilaginous bones!”) Anakin nodded her over, and she followed him and Padmé to the staircase.
“Did Obi-Wan go home already?” Ahsoka said when they were nearing the top.
“I guess,” Anakin replied. He pulled the speeder keys from his coat pocket and jingled them. “He must’ve gotten an air taxi.”
“I hope so,” she replied. “It’s awful far to walk. Speaking of, these kriffing shoes—"
“Language, Snips.”
“—are turning my feet to carbonite.”
She bent down to take off her heels and carried one in each hand, just as Anakin pulled open the door.
But he got no further.
From the doorway, he could see them there in the middle of the foyer—Obi-Wan and Satine. Her head lay against his chest, one of her hands intertwined with his and the other resting on the back of his neck. His cheek was against her hair, his eyes closed as they swayed—moving gently to the muted ballroom music that seeped through the walls and cracked door.
They both looked like they’d been crying.
Ahsoka and Padmé had stopped behind Anakin, looking over his shoulders. No one dared breathe. Behind them, the music mellowed and trailed quietly off, the band perhaps deciding it was no use performing for an empty hall.
It was silent.
Yet they didn’t break apart—like figurines in a broken music box, they moved soundlessly. The hand on Satine’s back slid up to her hair, and Obi-Wan’s lips brushed her forehead, and they swayed to silent rhythms no one else could hear—dancing to a melody that had died midway through, though they’d never hear the final chord resolve.
Anakin stepped back. Nodded for Padmé and Ahsoka to follow.
He shut the door, and left them to their last dance.