Chapter Text
The Star Wars Intro You Deserve
9 BBY, The Western Reaches
“Padmé?!”
Something snaps and sizzles in the flickering light of the hallway, but Anakin manages to dodge out of the sparks and flame that follow. The plume of smoke is more difficult to avoid and he quickens an already hasty pace to stay ahead of the worst of it. Between emergency lights barely keeping the way forward illuminated and the repetitive safety message endlessly entreating all occupants to follow orderly evacuation procedures, it’s all he can do to stay sane let alone moving forward.
“A little help here, buddy?!”
A quick glance over his shoulder confirms he’s definitely not getting out the way he came in, and a string of (mostly profane) binary over his wrist comm reminds him to be more concerned about that than whether or not they can make the migraine-inducing emergency announcement stop. Apparently. Anakin shifts his grip on the hilt of his lightsaber — momentarily wishing for the kyber crystal that isn't there, to make cutting his way through the rapidly deteriorating way station less difficult — and pushes forward.
“Padmé!” He coughs the end of her name, throat closing up in protest against the acrid smoke of electrical fires and fluctuating life support systems. Artoo beeps irritably through the comm in the same moment he pauses long enough to focus on gathering the dust and smoke into the tunnel behind him.
Then, the Force screams at him.
Anakin spins his blade up on thoughtless reflex and muttered curses. His first breath of fresh air, and of course the damned bounty hunter just sees it as a chance to fire on an unobscured target. More blasts fly through the corridor and his blade sings through the air, sludgy orange catching and redirecting the barrage of crisp, green light pelting him from some unseen distance ahead. The sound of his own pulse beats loud in his ears, the furious thunder of battle-born adrenaline an all too familiar metronome to his inexorable trudge through the hail of blaster bolts.
A soft, unexpected tinkling near his feet cuts through the cacophony.
Anakin whips around to catch sight of a small metal orb bouncing its way out of a smoke filled hall to his left. Artoo screams something crude and irritable through the comm. The orb bounces again, blinks a light, and rolls closer. The Force surges through him. He swings the arm he’d been using to hold the smoke at bay around with the surge, catching the ball mid-rotation and hurtling it back the way it came.
An explosion rockets through the corridor — clouds of flame slam into an unyielding wall of the Force two feet ahead of Anakin’s extended hand. Smoke and soot previously held at bay blast past him, billowing into the continuous hail of blaster fire that only falters with the station’s sudden lurch. Anakin stumbles back, struggling beneath the flood of smoke and the strain of holding the explosion at bay. The Force swirls around and within: a chaotic maelstrom desperate to be let loose, to survive, to — he twists on a heel and launches forward again, drawing on the frantic currents to speed his retreat forward, to safety.
Just through the next junction, he spins back, reaching out with an open hand until he can sense the Force swooping through the broken locks — and jerks a closed fist back. A pair of blast doors screech into place just as the explosion barrels into the newly-sealed entrance.
The durasteel doors shake and fall silent.
Only then does Anakin hunch over, his flesh hand pushed against a knee in support as he attempts to catch his breath.
.: Life Support Systems = critical. :.
“… I… hadn’t noticed,” he pants to the comm at his wrist.
Some irritable profanity follows, interspersed with demands for him to stop trying to get himself killed and hurry up. How he’s expecting far too much with this entire station falling apart. Why are bio-sentients like this and really he should be glad Artoo managed to find anyone at all let alone —
Anakin blinks and straightens slightly. “Threepio?”
.: Confirmation. Location = junction 2, left — :.
“Threepio isn’t equipped for combat functions!” Anakin incredulously announces to the floor — and, well, Artoo.
.: Correct. :. said droid dutifully whirrs in response.
“What was she thinking?”
.: @&$))^%. :.
Anakin sighs. “Helpful.”
.: Friend == Welcome. :.
A short chuckle slips out before he can entirely help it. “All right, all right.” Anakin pushes up off his knee and turns back towards the remaining three options in the junction, shoving back sweat-damp bangs that fell loose at some point in his mad dash for safety. “Think he’s with them?”
.: Probability = low. :.
“Yeah, I thought so too,” he says with a sigh, taking a moment to scan the remnants of the corridors around him. With the blast doors shut, there’s not as much smoke, but the lighting remains poor at best, and every direction seems to hold sparking wires, partially collapsed walls and — Anakin takes a step closer to the right hall and the large, crude looking blaster half buried beneath a dislodged segment of the wall, and nudges it with the toe of his boot.
Green plasma fizzles out of the collapsed barrel.
“Well, that makes four, then.”
.: Deceased hunters != reward. :.
“Yeah, but at least now I can focus,” Anakin mutters, finally retracting the blade of his saber and returning it to its holster with a flick of his wrist.
.: Junction 2 — :.
“Artoo.”
The comm goes silent.
“You know I won’t leave him behind.”
Artoo whirrs something petulant but accepting, and falls silent again.
Anakin shakes his head and closes his eyes. The shriek of twisting metal fades somewhere beyond the blast doors, the sizzle and spark of failing circuitry following not long after. Somewhere in the distance, the emergency evacuation recording drones on, but soon even the thundering pulse of his own blood falls to the smooth, resonating currents of the Force as it flows into him.
This deep into the sweet, enthralling miasma created by the sudden frenzy of safety-survival-failure-death-anguish, even the few seconds that pass feel like hours of toil. Each push-pull of the Force is a reflection of the chaos surrounding him that needs to be carefully turned away and parsed for the faint, lingering traces of the Force-blind.
All living things are connected in the Force… and so all can be connected to him.
Even now, the quiet, patient words of well-meaning old masters echo through his memory as he wades through the energy surrounding him.
When he was a child the mere thought of hearing so much, seeing so much, knowing so much at once was harrowing. Before he knew anything of shielding, he hid — deeply and instinctively curled into the dark and unseen folds. As he learned, his shadows turned into shields and his shields to walls that could weather the otherworldly storm constantly encroaching on the line that separated him from the rest. Always pushing, always blurring, always seeking him.
As it does now, when he immerses himself so far, so deep, so quickly.
As it does now, when he sifts and swims, and flows along with it until, finally, the soft, determined flare he knows too well to ever forget sings for him, with him, through him—
As it does now, when he follows a golden trail of warmth-love-serenity unerringly back to himself.
Blue eyes open and Anakin grins. “Found her.”
Distance, Anakin remembers seven minutes into a dead run, is so much more negotiable in the Force. The overhead lights flickered off three junctions ago, leaving only the partially hidden dots of red emergency lighting that skirt the floor to lead the way through shaking darkness. He's not really worried. Not yet. He has a direction and the commlink with Artoo has held up well enough through the collapsing corridors that he's not completely lost.
He can manage.
Still, somewhere deep in the flow of the Force through his limbs, the heavy draw of his breath, the pound of his pulse like a fluttering metronome for his desperate dash, he can't help but think this is so much easier when it's Obi-Wan. How did he ever survive for so long when it was Padmé and always Padmé he ran after? There's no guiding light leading him on. No gentle, unwavering line to follow. He can't fall fully into the welcome, tumultuous current of the Force in urgent chaos flowing all around and pushing him on.
At best he glides along top, skimming the surface of the strength he needs to push through the smoke, duck under the sparking wires, dodge the falling durasteel, and sidestep rattling debris. Artoo's familiar beeps are more direction than the Force can give, so he has to stay present. Has to feel the strain of his lungs, the heaviness of each footfall, the tired twitch of every muscle clenched to twist out of the way at the last second, to dip and dodge and dance around broken, smoldering remnants of the station as it slowly crumbles from the overzealous attentions of nearly successful hunters.
.: Left. :.
Anakin slows enough to catch the next junction, turning on the edge of his foot to dart into a dead end hall. "Here?"
The Force sweeps through even as he pants the question, telling him he's reached his destination in the same moment Artoo's exasperated whirr answers through the comm. He's three quick steps in, one hand raised and squinting into the smoke, when a blast of blinding blue light shoots out of the dark.
The blaster bolt hovers where he catches it — inches from his upraised hand — and even the curt, measured exhale isn't enough to ease the irritation-aggression-affront sinking into his bones. Padmé wouldn't shoot him. The energy wavers a moment as his fingers flex, a trembling wave of the Force collapsing in on the plasma straining to free itself from the crush of his hold. Worry-concern-anger rises within, twisting around his lungs and lurching forward until the air around him trembles.
"Ani?!"
"Padmé?!" Incredulity curls the edges of his voice as he flicks the blaster bolt off to the side. "I- you… you shot me?!"
"Oh, thank the stars,” says a second voice.
Ah. Not Padmé shooting. Sith Hells. What happened to make her hand the blaster to that man?
Anakin strides forward, eyebrow twitching against his best efforts. "You shot me?!" he repeats. Irritation seems to sweep the lingering smoke out of his away before he can consciously press the command into the Force, revealing a makeshift barricade and the culprit pushing himself up from behind the half burnt table in the middle of it.
Rush has enough survival instincts to hold his hands up – sans blaster – as he stands, at least. "We didn't know it was you."
"You didn't."
"Does it matter?" he testily answers with a broad gesture for the burnt gash in the metal wall where the blaster bolt ultimately landed.
Anakin's gaze narrows sharply. "Where's Padmé?"
"I'm–"
"Padmé, be careful," Rush immediately murmurs, turning away and down again to retrieve the woman in question from the floor beside him.
"I'm right here," Padmé breathes as she uses Rush's careful hold to haul herself to her feet.
"You gave him a blaster?!" Not the first thing he'd intended to say, but Anakin can't help it. He's two feet from the entire reason they're all in this mess to begin with and the asshole shot him. If it wasn't for Padmé, he'd have left the man to the consequences of his actions and saved them all a good deal of time and headaches, he's so sure.
"Well. My arm's broken, so–"
"WHAT?"
"– I'm not sure what you expected.” Padmé's lips quirk wryly, in spite of the breathy tiredness in her voice.
Alarm and concern washes the irritation away in a split second. It takes less than two strides to cross the remaining distance between them, and barely a thought to swing up over the barricade to meet her. "What kind of a break? How bad is it?" One moment to the next, he's in Padmé's space, gently catching the wrist of the right arm he's only just noticing she's holding very carefully to her chest.
"Not that your care is not appreciated," an unwelcome voice says from the other side of Padmé. "But perhaps triage can wait until after we get out of here?"
The sound of something crashing into the far wall accompanies the irritable flick of Anakin's gaze from Padmé's injury to Clovis' tense presence. "You are so lucky Padmé married your sorry ass."
"Ani—"
"I am well aware I would be left for dead in an any other situation," Rush primly snaps. “But right now my wife needs medical care, which would be best given away from here.”
Anger that was once molten hot and possessive flashes briefly and slithers out into the Force with a strained, cleansing exhale. "Fine." A short inhale follows and he turns away, calling a familiar bundle of bandages into his hand from a pouch at his waist.
"Ani—"
"Hold still."
"He's just worried."
"I know."
"He didn't mean to—" Padmé inhales sharply, strangling her own words and blindly reaching for her husband the moment Anakin sets the bone.
"Easy, easy— slow breaths."
"You have it, my dear," Rush murmurs soothingly, stepping in closer and doing an admirable job of suppressing his own wince at the grip actively crushing his hand.
Anakin tries not to pay attention to the soft stream of encouragement that follows, focusing instead on binding the break well enough to keep everything in place long enough for them to get the hell out of dodge. It just needs to not get worse before they make it to his ship and then — the room tilts and Anakin's wrist comm trills Artoo's frantic warnings. He reaches out, instinctively wrapping the three of them, the barricade, and the entire room in stillness until Artoo manages to get the gravity under control again.
"We need to go," he announces as he settles them carefully back on the slightly tilted floor once more.
Padmé exhales shakily, but nods, shifting her weight to steady against Rush, who, thankfully, seems more concerned with making sure she's okay than running his mouth again. Artoo whirrs over the comm, half warning and half admonishment, and Anakin turns back for the entrance.
"What's the plan?"
He doesn't bother hiding the smile that breaks through with the return of clear, unwavering confidence to Padmé's voice. "Artoo's bringing my ship around to the nearest port—"
"Wait, wait, did you already get Threepio?"
A curse skips out under his breath before he can catch it. "Right." Anakin exhales roughly, pausing to shove messy bangs back again and trying to actively reconfigure his original plans on the fly. "Blast it, I had planned on picking him up on our way out —" He turns back, hand half raised to urge Padmé forward with him, but stops short when he sees Rush tugging her along with a hand at her waist instead. Swallowing down the surge of protective irritation that spikes with the image, he turns on his heel for the exit again. "I can't believe you brought him."
"Of – I'm fine, really – of course I did." Padmé huffs three steps behind.
Rush's tired sigh is nearly imperceptible even in such close quarters.
Anakin reaches out in the Force for a partially detached ceiling tile and tears it down with a rough jerk of his mechano-arm. "I've told you he's not suitable for combat," he mutters, closing his fist as he secures his hold on the scrap metal and uses it to scrape away a sparking tangle of circuitry that's fallen out of the corridor wall.
"I didn't bring him for combat."
"Then why’s he here?”
"He really is quite good at data analysis," Rush answers like it's some sort of peace offering.
"No one asked you." Anakin quickens his pace without looking back.
"Ani—"
"Is now really the best time for—?”
"Well he's here either way," Padmé overrides her husband somewhat breathlessly and Anakin finally stops to wait for them to catch up, his stance easing slightly only when he glances back to re-assess her condition.
"Maybe you should head for the ship," Anakin suggests with a frown, noting the strain and the flush and the blossom of blood staining her bandages.
"No, I —"
"He's probably right, my dear, this place is —"
"Too dangerous to wander around by ourselves right now," Padmé flatly interrupts, straightening up on her own to direct a pointed stare at Anakin too.
He really hates when she's right about these things. "Okay, well, at least Threepio managed to keep his commlink," Anakin sighs and turns back to lean out into the first junction. "Artoo?"
.: Right 2. Breach left. Friends == careful. :.
"That's not our fault," Rush insists.
Anakin sets his jaw, steps forward, and focuses his attention on keeping the way clear of danger, debris and smoke rather than who he's leading through it all.
"They were tracking us through the comms," Padmé explains. It's impossible to make out her breathing with so much of his attention elsewhere, but her voice is steady, at least. It will have to do for now.
"I did try to use that to our advantage," Rush sighs somewhere further back. Anakin picks up his pace again, measuring his steps against Padmé's footfalls as they reach the next junction. "I had intended to create a distraction while we still had a ship—"
"Yeah, I can see how well that worked." Anakin can't quite help smirking as he says it, imagining Padmé's righteous anger the moment she figured out Rush's intentions.
"Yes, well, at the time—"
"It was just as terrible a suggestion then," Padmé mutters as they come to the last junction. Anakin glances back in time to see the fear-anger-love flooding her presence in the Force twist her expression into something all too familiar. "I didn't chase you down to the middle of nowhere to let you die trying to save me."
"Padmé, Sweetheart —"
"I told you I should have come in the first place."
"There should have been no need—"
"Five bounty hunters, Rush. Five."
Anakin pulls up short. "Wait. I only counted four?"
Padmé stops with him, using her good hand to irritably claw half-unwound ribbons from her hair. "That's how I broke my arm," she says on a sigh.
Rush steps into her space a moment later, gently brushing aside her attempts to corral her hair, and taking over the job himself. "She was brilliant," he quietly affirms, eyes never leaving her as his hands detangle enough of what was once some sort of elaborate up-do into something he can quickly tie back out of her face. "Just one shot — I don't think I've ever been quite so in love…"
She colors briefly and huffs, but leans into his hand with a small smile.
Anakin looks to the ceiling, inhaling all the calm he can manage while holding a wall of smoke at bay, and wishes he were literally anywhere else. "Well, I'm sure you can be in love without the imminent threat of grisly death."
"Anakin!"
He drops his gaze in time to see Clovis's protective arm around her shoulders and gives up with a broad sweep of his hands. "In case you forgot: this entire mess is his fault."
"Ani," Padmé tries again, straightening in Rush's hold, a frown on her lips. "We've been over this—"
"I'm not saying I'm not going to help — obviously, I mean, I'm here — but we both know it's his stupid obsession with the Chancellor that keeps putting you in danger!" Anakin snaps with a pointed jab.
"Ani, I know he's your friend, he's… he was … he is still or at least I like to think he was mine, but I—"
"I should think the fact that we've been targeted so intently says all it needs to regarding his culpability," Rush curtly points out, his hold only tightening beneath the wrathful gaze that lands on him as a result.
"Oh that's banthashit and you know it." Anakin turns towards the open junction with a wide swing of his arm that dislodges a large section of pipe and sends it screeching down a side hall. "You've had it in for him ever since the Republic's loans came due."
"Anakin, that is hardly—"
"Oh, and I suppose it's just happenstance that the amount of people trying to kill us has increased the closer I've gotten to proving the Chancellor—"
"The Office of the Chancellor," Anakin growls, moving forward into the hall again.
"Rush, Ani, please," Padmé tiredly attempts, following quickly after. "I know it's difficult for you—"
"This isn't difficult, it's stupid."
She stops, a wash of stubborn pride pushing forward in the Force. "Anakin. You know damn well the last time I had this many people out for my head, we were in the middle of a war. Am I supposed to believe this is Dooku all over again?"
"Padmé—"
"Because I'm pretty sure it would have been a lot easier for him to just stab me the last time we spent the week reviewing accounts on Serenno!"
Several concerned beeps from Anakin's wrist breaks the tense silence that follows.
"Is this… really the best time to be—?”
"Not now, Rush." Padmé throws her words over her shoulder with a quelling glance.
"I just think— Maybe we should—"
"Maybe you should stick to your numbers," Anakin shoots back.
Rush throws his arms up in defeat.
Artoo's beeps become shrieks.
The Force bellows.
Everything hurts.
There's a constant, throbbing pain lodged deep in the back of his head; a wet, dull thump and a high-pitched, distant ring echoing out through his ears. He inhales, and the air tastes like electricity. It's okay. He exhales and lungs that no longer feel like his own stutter through the effort. It will be okay. Blurry smears of color remind him he still has sight, so that's something, at least.
He can do this.
Anakin presses his eyes shut and sinks back into the Force.
It's a different strain, but infinitely more manageable. In the Force, there's nothing he needs to see, there's nothing he needs to hear. It's not peace — it's too overwhelming to ever be peace — but it is welcoming. The Force always welcomes him. For the moment, that's fine. It's preferable, even, to the chaos and terror he's barely keeping frozen in place somewhere just beyond desperate, outstretched arms.
In the Force, the fire beside him is familiar and warm. The currents are knowable and eager. The darkness is soothing. The light gentle. His husband a solid, unmovable anchor mooring him to the physical, the present, and the painful. And that one, tremulous strand is worth following back through the pain and the struggle and the fear. He knows it instinctively, even when he barely knows himself.
This deep in the Force, he barely knows anything but instinct.
He knows the strand, though. He knows the love that anchors him. He knows Obi-Wan and so he follows it back.
Anakin opens his eyes.
Everything still hurts, but he can handle this.
Before him, what was once a cluttered corridor tilts away, a ring of crumpled durasteel and wires creating a jagged edge beyond which only darkness peeks through. To his right, what should have been another hall is nothing by a jumbled mass of metal panels and wire, fused together by the sheer force of his desperate attempt to contain the breach. To his left, Padmé struggles to maintain a one-handed grip on a bent hand rail still attached to the primary structure. The Force radiates around her in equal parts fear and determination.
His hold on her is firm, but it won't last. None of it will last. He's bought them minutes at most, but every second that ticks by is another ounce of strength he can't use to get them to safety. It's another inch closer to the darkness creeping in through the cracks and even the Chosen One has limits. The corridor itself, maybe, he could hold longer if that's all he had to focus on, but gravity control escaped with the breach in the hull, the atmosphere is rushing out at a rate he knows should be alarming and he's trying to keep Padmé from being pushed out in the same moment he's struggling to pull that stupid, spineless, paper-pushing banker—
"Padmé!" Rush shouts against the fleeing air, struggling to pull himself forward in a way completely at odds with Anakin's ability to maintain a non-crushing hold on any part of his body. His fear is a strangely fluttering thing, overwhelmed by determination-love-acceptance. "Padmé, you have to—"
"Don't!" For a Force blind woman, Padmé seems remarkably capable of simply knowing the same thing Anakin can only just sense Rush has already decided.
It makes her struggle more, which is, of course, not in any way helpful to his attempts to keep all three of them alive. There's no arm available for her to reach with, but the intent is obvious in the way she drags herself forward by a single arm and sheer willpower. It would be impressive if he weren't trying to keep her in one place.
"Padmé, you know—" Clovis gasps for quickly vanishing air, pulling himself closer to the junction — to Padmé — again. "You know I love you—"
"Don't! Don't you dare!" She shouts, and the fear spikes, along with at least a million other things that would have Anakin's head spinning if he had the ability to focus on any of it.
"I—"
"STOP. MOVING," Anakin manages through grit teeth, tugging with a bit less grace to emphasize his need for cooperation.
Padmé, at least, goes still, but she glares determinedly forward and keeps talking — to him, even if her eyes never leave her husband. "Don't you dare let him go, Ani. I mean it!"
He draws a steadying breath. "I know… I make this look easy, Padmé," he fumbles through with a wince he thinks might count as a confident smirk, "but… it… really isn't."
"It's okay," says Rush to Padmé, while somehow, miraculously, holding himself still and turning his attention to Anakin instead. He knows what's coming and ignores it in favor of focusing on adjusting his hold. "Anakin, focus on her."
"Rush, stop–"
"Padmé knows everything I do—"
"Don't!"
"There’re backups," Rush continues, gaze boring a hole in Anakin's head, and yeah, he gets it already but the man is basically flooded with nothing but love-acceptance-determination and it's impossible to ignore. "Threepio has them. Stars, the Count—"
"Don't you dare— Don't you dare let go, I swear—"
"Not. Helping," Anakin grits out, and the corridor slips just the bit more out of his grasp. Artoo's urgent beeps attempt to interrupt, but the scrape of the tearing hull overrides him and the two lovebirds are already well out of earshot, besides.
"It's okay," Rush is saying to Padmé, holding her gaze as his grip on the wall loosens. He looks back to Anakin, the swell of his emotions a messy flood that tells him everything he needs to know before Rush ever says the words. Then, of course, he says them anyway. "Let me go!"
And, oh, if that's not tempting.
"Anakin Skywalker, I swear to Shiraya, if you let him go—" Padmé cries, somehow stubbornly unmoving still, and all the more incredible for it. Then, for one, terrible moment, the waves of determination-love that's been radiating so firmly from every part of her being in the Force are overwhelmed by desperation-terror-pain and it washes back through him like he’s a boulder in a lake. "I know— I know you hate him, Ani, I know you don't— don't think he's good enough—"
"Padmé—" Rush tries.
"Shut up —!”
"Sweetheart, it's o–"
"Shut up, shut up, you impossible idiot!" She's kept herself still, somehow, in spite of the sudden, painful flare of love-hope-anger that swallows the fear so suddenly, Anakin gasps against the intensity of it. "I won't ever forgive you, do you hear me?! I won't—" At this point, he can't even tell which of them she's yelling at, and so swallows back his shaky uncertainty to focus through the still cresting, overflowing wave of affection-devotion-need billowing out like smoke in the Force. "I love him Ani, and so help me, if you think I give a damn what you think about it —"
It's too much.
He lets go of everything but the two lives in his hold and yanks the three of them back with enough force to send them careening away from the shattered fuselage that used to be a hallway. Several feet past the final junction, a pair of blast doors snap shut, and they crash to the floor in a flurry of atmospheric re-pressurization and emergency gravitation systems finally kicking in. Anakin pants for lost breath and tries to blink his way back to functioning thought.
.: You're welcome :. beeps Artoo, amidst a flurry of other, less complimentary noises.
"… anks…" Anakin wheezes, rolling to his side. He takes a slower, more deliberate breath to steady himself before pushing up enough to check on his companions.
Padmé is hardly any better off now than she was clinging to a piece of metal about to fly off into the void, but she also hardly seems to care about this fact. Her presence in the Force is a non-stop torrent of love-relief-love-terror as she scrambles up to her knees and uses her good arm to steer herself quickly over to Rush's slower recovery. The man, Anakin has to admit, is more stubborn than he lets on. He clearly took the brunt of every blow dealt — via physics or Force — through the entire ordeal, and still drags himself up far enough to meet Padmé's desperate scramble with (barely) outstretched arms.
They meet in a shaking, crying mess of hope-love-relief that spills out as they tuck in closer. A flurry of teary kisses accompanies the sick-sweet torrent swirling in the Force and Anakin drops back to the floor with a silent groan of despair. He's happy for them, really. Unfortunately. Ugh, he kind of wishes he wasn't.
"Don't you ever do that again, Rush Clovis," Padmé demands against her husband's lips, her good hand tangled deep enough in soot-stained hair to drag him easily into another, urgent kiss. "Never again."
"… Padmé—" Rush tries between the frenzied stream of affection and what is probably a pretty uncomfortable angle for his neck.
"Promise me," she demands with another, demanding jerk of his head.
"My dear, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I was so worried for you, I—"
"Promise me—"
"I swear it!" he gasps out, raising shaky hands to cradle her face so he can stare into her eyes with every nauseatingly potent ounce of tender, intimate devotion humming through the Force surrounding them all. "I swear to you, I won't ever let you go."
Padmé's smile is a slow, tremulous thing, and she leans forward, touching their heads together with weak affection. "You mean it?"
"… Padmé Amidala," Rush breathes, "you have my most solemn vow."
All at once, the miasma of love-devotion-anticipation clears.
"I want a family," says Padmé.
"I want some bactade," Anakin croaks from the floor.
Artoo's displeased beeps continue well past the jump to hyperspace.
"Oh, now, I really don't think—" Threepio starts, only to be cut off by another terse stream of utterly irate binary. "Well, it's your own fault, you know."
Anakin leaps from the pilot's seat the moment the navigational computer engages with an absent, "Good run, buddy," to the astromech droid similarly in the midst of decoupling itself from the co-pilot terminal.
The series of whistling beeps that answers is less than complimentary.
"Oh, why, I never— "
Artoo beeps tersely, bumping pointedly into Anakin's calves hard enough to elicit a sharp hiss and hasty dance away. "Ow—" Three short whistles accompany Artoo's roll backward and Anakin hurriedly jumps back with a wave of his arms. "I'm going, I'm going!"
"The medical facilities are already at full capacity," Threepio unhelpfully reminds him.
Anakin tries not to shudder at the thought of what profane acts are currently being performed in the sanctity of his triage room and takes a longer stride towards his own quarters. "It's fine, Threepio."
"There is an immense quantity of data which suggests—"
"Seriously, I have bacta," he says over Artoo's irritable whirr. He gives the astromech a dry look. "Yes, I restocked it." He makes it several feet further before the droid's nagging beeps inspire yet another round of offended commentary from their newest droid companion. Anakin stops short of the door, taking a moment to settle into the infinite calm that is Obi-Wan's hazy presence somewhere in the depths of the Force, and spins to face the two droids. "Honestly, guys. It's fine. I'm fine. There's a med kit by the bed—"
Artoo's whistle is softer this time, but no less potent for it. Threepio turns to his short companion with a baffled, "Why should we—?”
"Is this about the repairs?" Anakin interrupts.
Artoo beeps.
Anakin sighs and scrubs at his eyes. "Five hours," he bargains.
Artoo whistles, clearly disgruntled.
"Look, do you want me to—?
A trill.
"Six then!" he announces with a throw of his hands.
The hum of the engines fills the silence as Threepio glances between the two glaring combatants, but it's Artoo that finally moves, his dome spinning first in open agitation before his base follows suit, a sequence of low, unimpressed binary spat out at the end. Anakin makes a face too fond to be actually upset and turns back for the door controls, swiping his hand to open it. Left with no other choice, Threepio turns to totter after Artoo back the way they came.
Anakin steps into his room to the retreating sounds of Threepio's decisive, "— definitely needs a nap. What? Of course I'm sure. Well, which of us was programmed to notice these things, hm?"
The doors snap shut and he's left to blissful silence once more.
Immediately, Anakin reaches out for the med kit on the wall, unlatching it on his way to the bed. The belts and various pouches strung across his hips are next, unceremoniously staining the sheets with soot and grime he'll probably care more about later. After he's collapsed for at least five hours, dragged himself through the sonics, and managed to inhale more than a single protein cake. And, he decides as he drops on to the edge of the well-worn mattress, after he calls home. The commlink's shaky journey from the room's sole, small table to his hand is all the confirmation he needs to set his plans to motion.
"Busy day?" Obi-Wan greets somewhere between the fourth ring and the fifth. A warm burst of affection sweeps through the bond in the same moment his image settles into focus over the old tech.
Anakin's smile accompanies a flurry of exhausted relief-love-adoration that spans the lightyears between them in an instant. "You could say that, yeah."
Obi-Wan's gentle smile is somewhat more reserved than his own, but Anakin doesn't need a better connection to envision the way the corners of his husband's eyes crease with that small show of affection. The sweet, solidifying strength sweeping through their bond supplies the rest, regardless. "I wasn't sure if I should be worried."
"You felt something?" Anakin prompts with a curious tilt of his head, immediately distracted from his own weariness by something far more intriguing.
"Well, I thought of you quite suddenly," Obi-Wan lowly answers. "I'm not certain I— what was— are you— Anakin."
"What?" Anakin projects innocence as he pulls back from the bond.
Obi-Wan's displeasure is clear enough in his expression alone. "You are clearly in no shape to be tampering with things like that."
The unsaid command to cease immediately just sparks an impish grin and a teasing, "Yes, Master~"
"… Honestly…" Obi-Wan says under his breath, and tucks his hands back into his robes like the Jedi Master he hasn't been in years. Anakin can't help but find the residual habit entirely too endearing. His husband settles quickly, however, glancing offscreen momentarily before looking back with a small, apologetic glance. "I had really hoped it wasn't all that bad."
"Well, I look a good deal better than the way station," Anakin announces with a shrug. It causes his hair to fall forward again and he tiredly reaches up to undo the last tie keeping the majority back out of his face. Not like it was really doing anything at this point, anyway.
"Should I inform—?"
"Don't bother," he cuts back in with a shake of his head. "It's a total loss. I'm sure some scavengers will get to it before any authorities will, at any rate."
"That was the… surge, then, I take it?"
His husband is nothing if not quick. Anakin doesn't bother withholding the wave of fondness that washes over him at the thought of how easily Obi-Wan still keeps pace with him. Judging by the wry twist of the man's expression, he has something to say about the stream of memory, but Anakin just grins and calls over a bacta patch rather than bother looking away to dig it out of the med kit. "Probably," he needlessly confirms around an edge of the bandage as he tears off the outer layer. "The bounty hunters were pretty easy, but really messy. At one point, I'm fairly sure I was holding together half the station."
Obi-Wan blinks. "Only half?"
"Half a way station and two people I was trying not to get killed!” Anakin defensively shoots back.
Humor streaks through the bond seconds later, and Obi-Wan's expression softens just the bit. "Oh?"
Anakin huffs and slaps the patch around the side of his neck, restraining himself to only a small wince at the sting. "Yes, oh."
"Padmé is well, I take it?"
"I'll have to restock our bandages, but yes, her and Rush."
"You sound a bit… affronted, Dear One."
"I had to save Rush Clovis," Anakin reiterates with an irritable wave of his hand.
"… Which is a good thing…?"
"He shot me!"
A flicker of surprise shows in Obi-Wan's expression, while a brush of protective confusion sweeps across the bond, despite the distance. "… He injured you?"
"Well. He tried." It's not as smug as he wants it to be, and in the face of his husband's genuine concern, a little too difficult to hold to the righteous indignation that came so easily in the moment. So he lets it go with a small sigh and continues blindly rifling through the med kit. "They were holed up in one of the rooms… he couldn't tell it was me."
"So he was protecting his wife.”
Anakin tries not to wince at the reprimand in Obi-Wan's dry tones, focusing instead on using the small towel he's dug out to wipe away some of the more egregious layers of soot and grime. "Poorly."
"He's Padmé's husband, Anakin; of course he's going to try."
"She deserves someone better."
"I very much doubt she wants anyone else, Dear One."
Anakin huffs, but allows them to lapse into silence with an affectionate curl of begrudging understanding across the bond.
The corner of Obi-Wan's lips curl with a hint of hidden mischief, and he teasingly adds, "You were accepting enough at their wedding. In fact, I seem to recall you had quite an enjoyable time."
Oh, if they're going there— "You mean before the wedding, Master." His wolfish grin is hardly dulled by the weak connection.
Obi-Wan clears his throat. "Yes, well—"
"You know, maybe we could do something like that again when I get back? Just the two of us, maybe some —"
"Anakin, there are children present."
Anakin stops short and splutters, "You never said there were kids around!"
"Yes, well I—"
"And you brought up the wedding!"
"In an attempt to remind you of a time you at least pretended to approve of their relationship!"
"You don't know what I was dealing with this time!" Anakin argues amidst a flood of nauseating memories he's all too happy to shove through the Force and into Obi-Wan's signature to share in his misery. "Ugh, it was worse than the wedding. At least that was happy? This was just… it was so melodramatic. They have pet names."
"Oh wow," says a new voice somewhere to Obi-Wan's right, "pet names."
"I can't imagine what that's like," another, this time feminine, voice adds with the same, perfectly flat delivery.
Obi-Wan's stare alone seems to be actively drilling blame straight on to Anakin's forehead.
Anakin puffs up defensively. "Hey, you weren't feeling all the—"
"Sickly sweet burst of warm gooey affection?" says Voice One.
Anakin narrows his eyes. "Ch'llock? Is that—?"
"The suffocating desire to be near someone?" suggests Voice Two.
"An air of desperation, and the dawning realization that you've ceased to exist in someone else's reality?" Yeah, that airily deadpan delivery is definitely Ch'llock.
The holocomm isn't showing a self-conscious blush, but Anakin's pretty sure he can sense it and the distinct sensation of Obi-Wan restraining the urge to place his head in his hands. All he actually sees, however, is the slow, measured breath before his husband resumes staring him down.
"Zedra, Ch'llock, I seem to recall dismissing you to take this call."
"So?"
Anakin attempts to repress his snicker, but judging by Obi-Wan's put out expression, isn't all that successful. He shakes his head and punts good humor through the bond. "All right, all right, since you're clearly busy—"
"Wait, so when are you coming home?" It's the more feminine voice again, so Anakin isn't exactly surprised when the image gets turned enough to include a young rodian woman apparently leaning forward towards the holocomm. "Soon, yes?"
"Well, I need to—"
"The sooner, the better." The image spins again, this time angled slightly up so that Ch'llock's zabarakian circle of horns looks more crownlike than usual. "There's a backlog on the last set of med droids, Uncle Darth is three trips behind on site 59, Uncle Rex really needs someone to put him on leave, and —"
The image blurs and suddenly Obi-Wan returns, this time much closer. "I regret to inform… all three of you, apparently… that there's been a change in plans."
"Eh?" Anakin straightens where he sits, blinking his alarm into the holocomm in the palm of his hand.
"We're needed on Serenno."
He deflates immediately. "Oh."
"Ana—"
"Can't you handle it?" There are (fully grown) kids present, so Anakin tries to curb the whine. Really, he does.
Obi-Wan's sigh is… surprisingly terse. "No, Anakin, I cannot."
Well that's… weird. "But—"
"The Count was really quite insistent that both of us be present."
"… But he doesn't even like me?" Anakin announces in wide-eyed bafflement.
"He specifically requested you."
Something itches at the edges of the bond, but with Obi-Wan's carefully neutral expression it's difficult to tell if it's even coming from him, or something deeper in the Force.
"Well, that can't be good."
His husband, of course, is so much better at managing a room, and so merely raises his eyebrows as he presses vague concern into their bond. Meanwhile, Anakin's exhausted mind has already dissected the changes in routes, the timelines, the—
"You feel anxious, Dear One," Obi-Wan murmurs, just low enough that the others present may have missed it.
"Well, yeah. I have to change half my route. I'm going to need to make a longer stop for fuel and Artoo's already on my case about repairs to the sublight drive—" He gives an explosive sigh and rubs at his eyes. "It's just… not how I wanted to end the day."
"I know."
"I was looking forward to getting home, you know? Seeing the kids, taking a long bath… maybe getting up to a little—"
"Anakin!"
But a thought a little too good to let go has wriggled its way into Anakin's head in that moment, and he's never been one to let these things go silently. "Hey, if I give you a blowjob in the castle—"
"Anakin, I swear to the Force—"
(“Ewww!” comes a duet of youthful voices off-camera.)
"… you think it'll piss Dooku off?"
Obi-Wan's exhale is entirely too measured. "Just. Get to Serenno. Please."
"But do you—?”
"Oh, probably."
Anakin grins. "Great! Race you there!"
"Dad."
Obi-Wan looks up once the connection cuts, meeting Ch'llock's vaguely disconcerted expression with his own admirably blank one. "It's your own fault for eavesdropping, you know."
"You answered the comm right next to us!" he immediately defends.
"While asking you to leave, if I recall," he drawls, deadpan and pressing lingering embarrassment deep into the suddenly hazy bond once more.
"That doesn't mean we need to hear you— your— foreplay."
Affront seeps into the Force before Obi-Wan even really consciously wills it. "That was hardly—"
"Not like Grandpa Darth will even care anyway," Zedra mutters, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.
Obi-Wan releases anxiety-embarrassment into the Force with a tired sigh and gestures for the door. "Just… find Krayt for me, will you?"
"Fine," Ch'llock gives in with a warding raise of his hands against — near as Obi-Wan can discern — any further discussion of his dads' love life.
Zedra is less easily chased off, and turns to him radiating concern-love-curiosity. "… Something worries you."
Obi-Wan inclines his head, seeing no point in denying the obvious. Instinctively, he wants to sink back into the surety of the bond and the strength it had had moments ago when they could see and hear one another — no matter how worse for wear Anakin had felt at the other end of it. Instead, he raises a hand to his beard and ruminates on the source of his worry.
"I... have a bad feeling about this."