Old New Borrowed Blue
by indie
set in the The Senator's Wife au universe.
Takes place five months after 'Revenge of the Sith', three months after Small Mercies

Author's note:  this story is not beta read and will probably be updated to correct typos and non-GFFA compliance.

His hand plays lightly across her back, his warmth sinking easily through the thin material of her nightgown.  She lays there, perfectly still, allowing him to touch her.  She takes a deep breath, willing herself to calm.  He rubs her shoulder lightly, then the exposed flesh of her neck.
It's too much.  It's all too much.  She sits up in bed, curling herself into a little ball, resting her forehead against her knees.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly.  "I'm sorry."
He sighs and sits up in bed as well, turning on the bedside lamp.  "It's okay, Padmé.  We don't have to."
She looks up at him, mindless of the tears streaming down her cheeks.  "I want to," she insists.  "I want to be a real wife to you."
"It's okay," he says again, though the defeat in his voice is clear.  And she doesn't blame him.  How could she?  He deserves more than this.  But despite her desire to be a good wife, she simply can't.
"You need to speak to a physician," he says gently.
Wiping her tears away with the back of her hand, she shakes her head.  "No.  I'm fine.  I'll get past this.  I just need time."
"I'm not talking about the sex, Padmé," he presses.  "I'm talking about your life.  Depression after childbirth can be very dangerous.  You need help."
"I don't need help.  I have Sheltay."
"You know I don't mean help with the babies," he replies.  "Though you do need help.  You turn Sheltay away as often as you can.  You're not sleeping.  You're not eating."
"I'm fine," she says with finality.
He sighs and then sinks back down in the bed and turns off the light.  In the dark, she gets out of bed and makes her way into the twins' room to watch them sleep.  She curls into the rocking chair in the nursery.  Bail is right, of course.  She isn't eating or sleeping.  She feels awful.  But a trip to the doctor isn't going to fix that.  While Padmé doesn't doubt that the hormonal changes following the twins' birth are wreaking havoc with her body chemistry, that isn't why she's depressed.
She's mourning.  She has been mourning for the last five months.
But now, she's not certain if she's mourning the death of Anakin Skywalker or the life of Darth Vader.  She sobs quietly, biting down on her hand to stifle the noise.  She remembers her prayers in those dark hours and days after it was announced the Jedi were traitors and would all be hunted down and killed.  She remembers her offers to any power that would listen.  She would do anything, anything to spare Anakin's life. 
She never dreamed how painful it could be to have her wish granted.
Vader is equally abhorred and feared throughout the galaxy.  Murderer of children, exterminator of the Jedi.  He is the symbol of Imperial power and fear.  A month ago, he tracked Fang Zar, a trusted political ally, to Alderaan and murdered him in cold blood.  Like any sane person, she hates and fears Vader.
But the most shameful thing is that every day, she thanks the heavens he is alive.
“Ma’am!  Ma’am!”
Padmé turns around and has to look sharply down to meet the young boy’s gaze.  He is urgently trying to press a piece of flimsiplast into her hand.  Before she can ask any questions or even refuse, the boy is gone and she is left holding the flimsi.
Padmé glances around the busy open-air market, searching for Vader.  She can't find him, but she can almost feel him watching her.  Thankfully, Sheltay doesn’t seem to have noticed the commotion.  She is inspecting fresh fruit with Luke perched gregariously on her hip.  In Padmé’s own grasp, Leia makes a swipe for the flimsi and Padmé has to quickly pull it away.  With a sigh, Padmé finally looks at the flimsi.  There is a single symbol, the same rune that is carved onto her piece of Japor wood and a time and a set of coordinates.
Padmé’s heart pounds in her chest.  Not again.  In the two months since she spoke with Lord Vader – with Anakin Skywalker – he has pursued her relentlessly.  So far she has avoided speaking with him, but he isn't giving up.  He wants to meet.  Tonight.  She breaks out in a cold sweat, nausea tightening her gut.  No, Force, no. 
"Are you okay?"
Padmé looks into Sheltay's concerned eyes and smiles sadly.
Sheltay puts a gentle arm around Padmé's shoulders.  "Let's go home."
Padmé paces the veranda, absently turning the scrap of flimsi over and over in her hand.  She doesn't want to see him.  She can't.  But she can't continue this way either.  The constant push and pull from her former lover are driving her mad.  She knows she gives him every opportunity to approach her, every opportunity to make contact.  She can't help herself.  She so desperately needs to be reassured he's really alive.
Part of her doesn't care.  Doesn't care that he's Vader.  Doesn't care that he murdered his Jedi brethren.
And that terrifies her.
She doesn't trust herself.  She feels so helpless against the rushing tide of her emotions.
But as soon as she sees him, she flees.  She doesn't have the nerve to actually speak to him.  She doesn't even know what she could possibly say.  Certainly she has no intention of telling him about Luke and Leia.  And she has no intention of resuming their former relationship.  She is a married woman with a loving husband.
She steels her resolve.  She's going to do this.  She's going to meet him.  And she's going to make certain he never contacts her again.  She has to.  Luke and Leia and Bail deserve more from her than this wan, flighty creature she has become.  It's time for hard decisions.  She has to get on with her life.
She watches him slowly cross the landing platform and it's all she can do to stay rooted to the ground.  She wants to run – whether to him or away from him, she isn't certain.  Both scenarios hold a great deal of appeal.
He stops several feet from her.  "You came," he says, thrusting it at her like a challenge. 
There's that voice again – raspy and damaged, so unlike Anakin's.  But there, beneath the dark hood, when he looks at her … his eyes are the same blue as Luke's.  She tries to rein in her thoughts, to give him the speech she has been writing in her head for hours.  But when she looks at him, it all fades away.  "I can't – " she starts and then falls silent.
He smirks.  "You are."
She shakes her head and paces several feet away from him, already infuriated by his smug manner.  This is killing her to do this and he seems so flip.  "I came here to tell you this has to stop.  You have to leave me alone."
He follows, closing the distance.  "You don't want me to leave you alone."
She looks up at him, pleading.  It's night.  She snuck away from home with some lame excuse she can't even remember.  At least Bail isn't home.  He had to return to Alderaan, but he will be back tomorrow.  Padmé knows the twins are safe with Sheltay.
But what is she doing here?  A clandestine meeting with Lord Vader under cover of night?  Is she mad?  It's windy on the landing platform and the cold air cuts easily through her cloak.  She is shivering violently though whether from cold or nerves, she isn't certain.
"Kriff," he curses, pulling her close, wrapping his voluminous dark robes around her body. 
As much as her mind screams to push him away, she allows him to pull her close, luxuriating in the warmth of his body.  A sob catches in her throat.  He smells the same.  He shouldn't smell the same.  It's unjustly cruel.
Before she fully comprehends what is happening, he has her bundled into his private shuttle.  She sits there silently, in the co-pilot's chair as he takes the controls.  She knows this is inevitable.  They have to discuss things.  She has to end this. 
They don't speak or interact.  She sits, staring at his profile while he keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead.  What does he want with her?  She notes that they are leaving the Ambassadorial Sector and heading for Orowood.  Something inside her bristles.  Orowood is the priciest real estate on Coruscant, even Bail doesn't have enough capital to secure a residence there.  It's reserved to the financial elite – shipping magnates, heads of crime syndicates, presidents of technology and security conglomerates – and apparently for the Emperor's best henchman.  Does he think an address in Orowood will somehow legitimize him?  Does he think he can impress her with his newfound wealth?  He lands the shuttle on the upper level of some monstrous apartment building – the Vivendi Towers if she isn't mistaken.  She wasn't aware they were even finished yet.  The Towers are certainly the most exclusive residence in the galaxy aside from the Imperial Palace
He offers her a hand, which she refuses, pushing herself out of the chair.  He is clearly irritated, but says nothing, preceding her from the shuttle, across the small landing platform and into the apartment.  She looks around the apartment, shocked at the opulence.  She can only imagine the exorbitant amount of credits expended decorating the space.  She knows he brought her here in an attempt to impress her.  She smolders with anger.  Does he think her affections are available to the highest bidder?
"I guess the Empire pays better than the Republic," she says bitterly.  He turns and gives her a sharp look which she ignores.  "Or is this a perk of the job?  Become right hand to the Emperor, get a great bachelor pad?"
He shrugs out of the heavy zeyd-cloth cloak, leaving him clad in a black tunic and pants not unlike the ones he wore as a Jedi.  Take the bantha out of the dune sea, but you can't take the dune sea out of the bantha …
"The Emperor doesn't know about his place."
She purses her lips together, walking away from him to inspect the rest of the apartment.  "I find that very hard to believe."
He follows, shadowing her closely.  "I don't want you involved in anything Imperial."
She turns and looks up at him.  "So aside from the obvious – like the fact that my husband is in the Imperial Senate - when you killed Fang Zar at my residence on Alderaan, it wasn't Imperial business?"
His expression is unreadable.  "Fang Zar died aboard a Jedi controlled shuttle."
"Semantics, Anakin," she counters waspishly.  "You tracked him to my home and you killed him on your Master's orders."
"Alderaan is Organa's home, not yours."
She turns away, walking to the expanse of windows and staring out at the night.  She watches his reflection in the transparisteel, studying him as he comes to stand behind her.
"How is your husband?" he asks with feigned casualness.  "Did you tell him where you were going tonight?"
Uncontrollably, she flinches, but tries to recover.  "Of course.  I tell Bail everything."
He tsks under his breath.  "Now who's lying, Senator?"
She turns to face him, glaring.  "My marriage is good."
"Your marriage is a joke," he says flatly.  "Organa is an old man.  It's a good thing you're getting practice changing diapers because soon they'll be his."
She grinds her teeth together.  "Bail is quite …vital."
He laughs.  "Yeah, right."  He crosses his arms over his chest, appraising her for a long moment.  He gestures toward her with his hand.  "I like what you've got going on here.  This general sense of dishevelment.
Fuming, she demands, "Are you saying I'm unattractive?"
"Oh, no," he clarifies vehemently, leaning in close, conspiratorially.  "I'm saying you look like you haven't been fucked worth a damn in a long, long time.  You look unsatisfied."
She opens her mouth, aghast, intending to say something about his parentage, but he abruptly pulls back, smiling nastily.  "I need a drink," he says and turns on his heel disappearing into the kitchen.
Padmé stands there, shaken.  What is going on?  What is she doing?  Even at their worst, she and Anakin never traded barbs like this.  She doesn't speak this way to anyone.
But the worst part about it is she likes it.  Her heart is pounding, her mind racing.  For the first time in months she feels something utter than crushing despair.  It's intoxicating.
He returns from the kitchen carrying two glasses.  He hands one to her.
"What is this?" she asks, looking at the amber liquid warily.
"Doesn't matter," he says, throwing back the liquor in one gulp.  "Drink it."
Grimacing, she sets the glass on a nearby table, untouched.  “I’m not having a cocktail with you in your … lair.”
He huffs.  “Now I’m a vornskyr?”
“I was thinking something decidedly more reptilian.”
He frowns.  “Do you any idea how many millions of credits I spent on this place?”
“Oh, I can imagine,” she says, clearly unimpressed.  She sighs deeply, crossing her arms over her chest.  "What are we doing?" she asks softly.
"Fighting," he says plainly.  "And hopefully fucking."  He gives her a wicked grin.
Padmé shakes her head, looking out at the skyline.  "I'm serious.  What are we doing?  What are you doing?"  She closes the distance between them.  "Who are you, Anakin?  What happened?  How did you end up the Emperor's executioner?"
He frowns at her, clearly unhappy with the change of conversation topics.
When he doesn’t answer, she presses, “How could you murder Jedi?”
“The Jedi betrayed the Republic,” he snaps.
She shakes her head sadly.  “There was no Republic left to betray, Anakin.  How could you do it?  How could you murder younglings?  What about Obi-Wan?  He was like your brother.”
“Obi-Wan tried to kill me!” he yells, his chest heaving with the force of his breath, his faced flushed, perspiration dotting his forehead.  He turns away and starts pacing the lavishly appointed living room like a caged beast.  “Your words are treason, Senator.  I could have you arrested.”
She watches him warily.  “Is that what you want?”
He stops and glares at her sullenly.  “No.  I want you.  I want to rule the galaxy with you at my side.  I’m stronger than Palpatine.  I can overthrow him.”
She pales, reflexively taking a step away from him.
“You appreciate nothing,” he bellows.  “I did it for you.  All of it for you and you throw it in my face.”
She stares at him, having no idea what to say, no idea how to quiet the rage – and possibly madness – inside him.  "Anakin, I never asked for this."
"I know," he snaps, baring his teeth at her like a rabid beast.  "You asked nothing from me.  You didn't even do me the courtesy of telling me you were marrying another man.  You let me love you and then you treated me as if my love meant nothing!"
She rocks back on her heels, reeling from his vitriol.  Did she do this to him?  Did she drive him to commit these horrors?  She shakes her head, quickly blinking back the tears that threaten to fall.  She handled things with him badly.  She will own up to that.  But she will not be held accountable for the atrocities he perpetrated.  "You didn't do this for me," she whispers.
He growls, turning and throwing his empty glass at the windows.  The glass shatters on impact with the transparisteel, splintering into a million tiny shards.  Padmé flinches away despite being well out of range.
Her head instantly snaps to him and she watches as he grimaces, curling in on himself and clutching at his chest in pain.  He takes a few deep, shaking breaths and slowly pushes himself back to his full height, staring at her defiantly.
"Were you injured?" she asks carefully.
He sticks his chin out.  "I told you Obi-Wan tried to kill me."
She swallows thickly.  "What happened."
He shakes his head with finality, looking away.  "Nothing that concerns you."
He takes a step, but his gait catches mid step and it's more of a stagger.  She can see his jaw muscles flex as he grinds his teeth together.
Without thinking, she crosses the room to him, placing a gentle hand on his arm.  "Anakin, what happened?"
He looks at her and smiles a wry, bitter smile.  "My … injuries are slow to heal."  He bows his head and then looks to the side, away from her.  "The Emperor says it's mental.  As soon as I learn to control my powers, I will be able to heal myself."
"What kind of injuries, Anakin," Padmé presses forcefully.
He shakes his head again, taking several lurching steps away from her.  "I'll be fine," he says.  "I just took another dose of meds.  They'll take a few minutes to work and then I'll be fine."
She stares at him, aghast.  "You're taking drugs now?"
He glares at her.  "Not drugs.  Pain medication.  Do you want to see what dear Obi-Wan – my brother – did to me?" 
Without waiting for her reply, he rips open the tunic, revealing his horribly scarred and disfigured chest.  The wound – a burn, it had to be a burn – has healed, but not well.  The flesh is shiny and red with huge, disfiguring suture marks bisecting his chest.  It looks like he was slapped together by jawas, not surgeons.
She looks back to his face and he's staring at her defiantly, but his eyes are glassy with unshed tears and his breathing is labored.  He expects her to be horrified, revolted.
Closing the distance between them, she places one hand against his cheek and the other ever so gently against his chest.  "Oh, Anakin," she breathes, tears streaming down her cheeks.
She doesn't know how long they stand there, but a long time.  Eventually he lifts his hand, cupping her jaw and wiping her tears away with the pad of his thumb.  She looks up at him and his color is better, his breathing less labored. 
"I miss you," he says quietly.
Though she knows to the very depth of her soul that it's a mistake, she replies, "I miss you too."
He lowers his head, gently pressing his lips to hers.  She sighs, kissing him back.  It's slow and tentative, this thumb plays along her jaw as his lips nip hesitantly at hers.  Her tears start again, but she ignores them, threading her fingers through his hair and deepening the kiss. 
Somehow they end up on the sofa, face to face, her straddling him, sitting in his lap.  She pulls back, breaking the kiss.  "Am I hurting you?"
He shakes his head, pulling her back for another kiss.  She suspects he's lying, but he obviously isn't going to stop what he's doing.  What he's doing is slowly, but steadily working her out of her clothes.  He shifts, laying her back on the sofa.  She wears nothing but a pair of pale blue panties. 
She stares up at him, far more nervous than she's ever felt with him.  She blinks away tears, staring blindly at the ceiling while she removes Bail's ring, setting it on top of her discarded clothes.  She doesn't know what he thinks the gesture means.  She isn't sure herself what it means.  All she knows is she can't do this while wearing her wedding band.
He looks down at her and despite his earlier lewd comments, there is nothing obscene or vengeful in the way he touches her.  His fingers circle her wrist, reverently touching the japor snippet.  He eventually releases her wrist and splays his hand across her ribcage, grimacing at the clear outline of her bones pressing against skin.  He leans forward, pressing a kiss to one of her prominent rib bones, nipping his way up her torso. He licks the swell of her breast.
She squeezes her eyes tightly shut, feeling the tears roll down her face to wet her hair.  He nips along her collarbone and she threads her fingers through his hair, dragging his face to her, kissing him hard.  He complies eagerly, using a knee to part her legs, insinuating his body against hers until her hips cradle his own.  He's hard, rubbing against her between their clothes and she feels like she's on fire.  She pulls at his tunic and he immediately captures her hand, pinning it to the sofa cushions.  With a wave of his hand, he uses the Force to douse the lights. 
There is enough light streaming through the windows to see him, but not clearly.  Emboldened by the darkness, he strips out of his tunic.  His boots and pants quickly follow and he skims her panties down her legs before once again covering her body with his own.  She gasps at the feel of his naked body against her own, wrapping her legs around his waist.  She runs her hand lightly down his side, her fingers skimming over barely healed scar tissue.  Her heart aches at the extensiveness of his injuries.
With a growl – of impatience, not pain – he pulls her hand away, once again pinning it to the cushions.  Capturing her lips in a searing kiss, he insinuates the other hand between their bodies, rubbing her intimately.  She gasps into his mouth, her back arching as his finger slips inside her.
He bites her neck and then repositions himself to slide into her.  He presses forward slowly, groaning around his bite as his cock slides into her slick, wet heat.  She is beyond words, lost in the feel of him.  When he is finally buried to the hilt, he stills, breathing hard.  He kisses her once and then breaks off, nipping at her earlobe.  His lips brush against the shell of her ear and with surprising tenderness and desperation he vows, "You may be Organa's wife, but you are mine."
Unable to speak, she nods, dragging his lips back to hers.  While their tongues duel, he pulls back and once again slides into her.  He starts a steady, sustained rhythm that has her tipping over the edge into bliss in a matter of moments.  He groans at the feel of her orgasm rippling along his rigid length, biting down on his bottom lip as he struggles not to follow her.  When her sweet tremors have finally stopped, he thrusts once more and then pulls out, bracing himself above her and spilling low on her abdomen.  They stay like that for a long moment, him braced above her, both breathing hard, both slick with perspiration.
He eventually pushes himself up so he's kneeling between her legs.  He grabs a piece of clothing – she's not sure whose – and wipes her clean.  Neither of them says a word, but Padmé silently acknowledges his wisdom.  The last thing they need right now is another pregnancy – especially when he doesn't even know the first one was his too.
He gets up, standing next to the sofa and pulls her into a sitting position.  He wraps her in his tunic before pulling his trousers back on.  He turns on a small lap that provides meager illumination and then disappears into the kitchen.  She can hear him rummaging around and he appears moments later with an assortment of food and a glass of wine, which he hands to her.
She sips it tentatively, watching him unwrap the food and set it on a small table he dragged close to the sofa.  He hands her a piece of cheese and she looks at him warily.  "You need to eat," he says plainly.
No doubt he's right.  She nibbles at the cheese and is shocked to find that for the first time in months, she's actually hungry.  He laughs as she pushes him out of the way, grabbing a piece of bread.  They sit there in comfortable silence.  He watches her eat, occasionally stealing sips of wine, his fingers playing along the bare skin of her leg.
It's late morning before she returns to the penthouse at 500 Republica.  Sheltay gives her a questioning look, but says nothing as Padmé heads for the fresher.  She and Anakin eventually moved to the bedroom which was as ridiculously lavish as the rest of the apartment.  They made love again and finally slept. 
It was morning when she woke alone.  She suspects he let her sleep both because she needed it and because it would make her excuses to Bail all the more difficult.  A shuttle and driver were waiting to convey her home.  She spent the entire ride staring at her wedding band and her Japor snippet. 
She's disgusted with herself for betraying Bail.  She knows it isn't right.  But last night nourished her in ways she cannot explain.  It gave her proof that something of Anakin Skywalker remains – that he hasn't been entirely consumed by Darth Vader.
She has no idea what she's doing.  She has no idea what will happen.  She loves Anakin.  And she loves Bail.  And for the first time in a very long time, she feels like she can live with that, no matter how uncomfortable it is.

[End Section]

Feedback to indie

Back to Story Index

Back to Ouroboros main page
Back to indiefic.com main page