Sins
of the Father: Chapter 14
TEEN rated version
by indie
***
"I'm leaving," she
says firmly, crossing her arms
over her chest as she stares at the doctor.
Padmé understood the need to stay overnight, but she is quickly
tiring
of this hospital room. She wants to go home.
The doctor
shoots a pleading gaze at the Emperor.
Anakin
shrugs.
"I'm not going to stop her," he says. Darkly, he adds, "And I
wouldn’t
recommend you have anyone else try."
The doctor sighs
in resignation. "Fine," he snips, "but you
need rest."
Padmé
nods in agreement, but heads for the door. If she has to spend
another second smelling
bacta she may lose her mind.
***
Padmé
sighs blissfully as the water washes over her
body. She scrubs her hair three separate
times, trying to rid her tresses of the inescapable stench of
bacta.
She thought her
long years on Tatooine made the concept of
home forever elusive. However, her
absolute gratitude upon returning to her own apartment is testament to
the
contrary. She has never been so happy to
be home.
Anakin is still
here, waiting in her bedroom, guarding her
until Lorian arrives to take his place.
Mehht, undoubtedly is anxiously anticipating the event. As much
as Padmé loves Mehht and as much as
she wishes to see Mehht happy, she does not share the sentiment.
Padmé can’t remember the last time she had
the luxury of turning to someone during a crisis, of truly sharing her
burden
and her fears with a partner. Experience
taught her to depend on no one save herself, yet she can’t bring
herself to pull
back from Anakin when he is finally within her reach.
With a sigh, she
turns off the water. She knows there is certain danger is
allowing
herself to hope Anakin will see reason, to hope he can and will return
to
her. But she can't stop herself. She needs to believe it is
possible otherwise
all is lost.
Standing in
front of the mirror, Padmé runs the towel over
her hair, patting it dry. Her long
chestnut locks trail over her shoulders and back in soft curls.
Wrapping the towel around her body, she
stares at the 'fresher door. She
onpurposeforgot to bring her change of clothes into the 'fresher with
her
despite the fact that Anakin is waiting in her bedroom. She feels
rather ridiculous. Anakin is her husband. He fathered her
children. He saw her naked only a few days ago.
But this is
different.
Something has
undeniably changed between them. She isn't going to let him pull
away,
regardless of how viciously Lord Vader fights her on that front.
Anakin – her
Anakin - is
there; she knows that in her heart.
She has no
intention of parading around in front of him to
provoke a sexual response. He obviously
desires her physically and she can no longer deny that she feels the
same. However, she isn't worried he will find an
implied invitation in her manner of dress – or undress. Rather,
she feels trepidation about
escalating the intimacy of their relationship.
Not physical intimacy, but emotional.
Often times, such small gestures hold incredible power.
If she walks
into her bedroom dressed only in her towel
knowing he is there … the gesture holds power.
It implies he is entitled to watch her in this manner. It implies
that she views him as more than a
husband in name. And it requires a great
deal of vulnerability on her part which is incredibly difficult
considering she
spent the last decade and a half inuring herself to his very
presence.
Steeling her
resolve, Padmé opens the 'fresher door and
steps into her bedroom. Anakin is there,
his back to her as he stares out the window.
Realizing there is a change of clothes laid out on her bed,
Padmé
crosses the room. She stares down at the
clothes quizzically.
"Did Mehht set
these out?" she asks quietly. It is a sand colored tunic and
pants she
brought from Tatooine. While she would love
nothing more than to wear the blissfully comfortable garments, they are
hardly
befitting the Empress.
Anakin continues
to stare out the window for several more
moments before finally turning to meet her gaze. "No, I did."
Padmé
blinks at him.
He steps
closer.
"I wanted you to be comfortable."
His words are
bland and reasonable enough, but there is
something in his manner, something close to embarrassment onto which
Padmé's
thoughts latch. She remembers an
exchange they had shortly after her return to Coruscant where his
attention
seemed unaccountably fixed on her moisture farmer attire.
She cocks her
head to the side as she regards him. "Do you like these clothes?"
she
asks quietly.
He scoffs,
looking away, but there is a slight blush to his skin
that betrays him.
"Anakin,"
she prompts softly.
He turns back to
her with a sheepish expression. "It … reminds me of home," he
says
softly.
Her lips curve
into a smile.
"That's sweet," she replies gently.
Seemingly
mortified by the entire exchange, Anakin switches
tactics. He crosses the room to her and
reaches out, running his fingertips over the edge of her towel.
"I prefer you in nothing at all,"
he says wolfishly.
She gives him a
wicked grin.
"Is that so? I thought
Lorian was on his way over so you could leave."
His leering grin
borders on lecherous. "Lorian can wait. I'm sure Mehht can
keep him
entertained."
"What about
Korto?"
He shrugs.
"Korto can wait too. He's
not going anywhere. Ever."
Anakin reaches
for the spot where her towel is tucked over
on itself, securing it closed.
Reflexively, Padmé's hand covers his.
She stands
there, feeling her heart pound in her chest. He is so close, his
breath puffing against
her face. He waits and she can almost
feel how tightly his muscles are wound, how he is fighting himself,
waiting for
her cue on how to proceed.
She takes a deep
breath and releases it on a shaky
exhale. Gripping his hand more tightly,
she twists it back in a motion that tumbles the knot free, sending the
towel sliding
to the floor. They stand there for a
moment, neither moving. She is acutely
aware of her nudity and his clothing.
His tongue wets
his upper lip and she has the sensation that
he is going to say something.
Apparently, he changes his mind.
With a muffled
curse, he grabs her, one of his hands
threading through her wet tresses, gripping the back of her head, the
other
banding across her lower back, pulling her tightly against his
body.
Their mouths meet in a voracious kiss. Her lips part instantly
and he takes full
advantage, pulling her close as he arches her backward, deepening the
kiss,
demanding her submission. Never one to
go quietly, she nips at his lips, biting down gently, marking her
territory in return. From the rumbling growl at the back of his
throat, she knows he approves.
Her arms twine
around his neck and she pushes herself
against him, fighting to get closer. The
coarse material of his black tunic and the supple texture of his
synthleather
tabard are exquisite torture against her naked skin. With an
impatient snarl, he pulls away long
enough to tear at his obi and tabard, shrugging out of his tunic until
the
clothing joins her towel on the bedroom floor.
And then he is
there, bare from the waist up, tumbling her
back onto the bed. And Padmé's thoughts
are blissfully vacant of anything save her husband for a very long
time.
***
Anakin is
sleeping on his right side, his body turned toward
her, his face half-buried in a pillow.
Looking exhausted, he snores softly.
In his sleep, his flesh and bone arm is banded possessively around her
waist, holding her against his body. She
takes careful note of the scrapes and scabs on his knuckles that he
must have
sustained in the explosion.
His bare feet
stick out from beneath the blanket loosely
draped around both of them. It strikes
Padmé as oddly vulnerable to see a Sith Lord's bare feet.
She can’t remember the last time she had the
opportunity to watch him like this, his expression relaxed and
peaceful.
He doesn’t look like the Emperor or a Sith
Lord. He looks like her Ani. He looks like the brave young
soldier who
shared her bed so many years ago. There
are differences to be certain. He is
more scarred. And more tired. And more broken.
So is she.
The cut across
his left cheek is starting to scab and there
is some bruising. A simple bacta patch
would heal his skin perfectly and leave no scar but apparently he was
too
agitated to worry about his own vanity.
Or maybe not. It gives him a
certain roguish look – not that he ever needed any help in that
department.
She gently runs
her fingertips over his abused skin and his
eye flutters open. He watches her
carefully, pushing himself up on his right arm.
She can tell that it takes him a moment to get his bearings, to
remember
where he is and why she is here. Padmé
can’t point out any one thing he does, but she gets the distinct
impression he
is not accustomed to waking up in bed with another person.
"I fell asleep,"
he says, his voice rough from
sleep.
"You were
tired," she says softly, pressing a
gentle kiss to his lips.
He makes an
appreciative sound and pushes her back against
the pillow, deepening the kiss. He
finally pulls back far enough to look her in the eyes. "I missed
you," he says
seriously. "And I don't mean the
sex."
"Speak for
yourself," she huffs. "I missed the sex."
"I missed the
sex too," he clarifies, "but
that's not what I'm talking about."
He growls in frustration.
"You're ruining my moment."
She tries not to
laugh, propping herself up on her elbow. She kisses him gently on
the end of the
nose. "I'm sorry," she says
unrepentantly.
He frowns,
pulling her closer. " I missed you," he says
intensely. "Everything about
you. Talking and touching and sex."
“Really?” she
asks, narrowing her eyes at him. “But you had Angel to keep you
company.” It’s petty and jealous and yet Padmé cannot
stop herself from uttering the words.
She needs to know the intimacy they shared is not typical for him, that
it is as sacred to him as it is to her.
“She’s not you,”
he says firmly, but he won’t meet her gaze.
She presses her
hand to his cheek and forces him to look at
her.
“I’ve had
moments of weakness,” he says seriously, “but
Angel is not you. Not in any way that
matters and honestly, she disturbs me deeply.”
Padmé is
surprised by his candor and more surprised by the
fact that she believes him.
“Angel should be
the perfect revenge,” he muses wryly. “She looks just like you
and her only desire
is to please.” He shakes his head,
frowning. “But to be so close to her and
realize none of the things that make you … you
are present is … unsettling.”
“I thought I was
nothing but a headache,” she says cattily,
turning his words from the Hapan dinner against him.
“Oh, you’re
definitely a headache,” he counters, grinning
mischievously as he forces her on her back and crawls over her
body.
“But you have a way of making up for the
trouble you put me through.”
She returns his
smile and pulls him close, pressing her lips
to his. He sighs, kissing her back.
The door to
Padmé’s bedroom hisses open and Leia charges
inside. “Mom, have you seen Dad? Lorian said he was –
“
Leia comes to a dead stop in the middle of
Padmé’s bedroom, her shock instantly morphing into horror.
Padmé
stares at her daughter. The sheet and blankets cover Padmé
and Anakin
from head to toe, Leia can’t see anything.
But there is absolutely no mistaking exactly what is transpiring.
With a strangled
sound somewhere between mortification and
revulsion, Leia flees, closing the door behind her.
Padmé
groans, dislodging Anakin as she rolls onto her side,
burying her face in the pillow. The bed
shakes with the force of Anakin’s laughter and she lifts her head to
glare at
him.
“Why is it that
you can remember to lock the door to your
office, but not my bedroom?” she demands waspishly.
“Leia will
recover,” Anakin replies casually. “It serves her right for
barging in. She’s lucky she didn’t do it a half hour
ago.”
Padmé is
significantly less amused than her husband. While Leia's presence
at the medcenter and
obvious concern assuaged many of Padmé's fears, she knows Leia
still perceives
her as a rival for Anakin's attentions.
This certainly will not help matters.
"Maybe we should
go to my place next time," he
says. "The kids can't open those
doors."
Padmé
frowns at him, secretly wondering if Anakin knows Luke
went through his personal files and that is why he decided to make sure
neither
of the twins could access his personal quarters.
"I hate your
place," she says seriously. "It reminds me of the garage at the
farmstead."
He chuckles,
pressing kisses to her neck while one of his
hands tries to find its way under the sheet.
"Me too," he says.
Padmé
rolls her eyes, well remembering that the garage was
the first place she and Anakin made love.
"You've improved since the garage," she says, hoping to knock
him down a peg or two.
It doesn't
work.
"I know," he says smugly.
She looks at
him.
"You are an odd creature, Anakin Skywalker."
He waggles an
eyebrow at her.
"That wasn't
supposed to be a compliment," she
clarifies.
***
End Chapter
***
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