Work Text:
Does blood stain your skin if you cut enough throats?
Anakin picks at his fingernails, watching the blood from his nail trickle with the lethargy that seems to elude him. Everything about him is fidgety, boundless emotion, difficult to keep down, and uncontrollable releases that seem to boil out regardless of his desires. Any gesture feels empty, meaningless, like everytime he promises the Council that this time, yes I will not break protocols. His hands grip the steering of his speeder, and the blood from his wound rubs into the metal. His comm rings insistently at his side, and he resists the urge to hurl it into the traffic below. The buzzing finally stops for a few moments, and he relaxes, listening to the propaganda broadcasts that litter the HoloNet.
When the buzzing restarts, he pulls out the comm, crushes it, presses the shards into his gloved hand and tosses the rest into the traffic below. He senses irritation from passersby, but he can’t bring himself to care. Several comm pieces are jammed into his prosthetic, and the pain receptors are tingling, and he relishes the discomfort.
He doesn’t want to talk right now. He’s not ready to go back, and deal with hand-delivering the reports. He handed in the paperwork, and several Jedi Masters have the technical capabilities to read the papers themselves without him giving an audio transliteration. He doesn’t need the war right now. He doesn’t need to remember the fried blood and charred skin that coated his skin and seeped in the air and he cut through droid after droid, relentlessly until the Separatist stronghold fell, and the Republic was victorious. He doesn’t need to remember how cold the bodies of the clones felt as they dragged back what they could into the warships to hold funerals and mass prayers.
(He remembers his mother’s quiet prayers every time a slave lost their family, and tries not to remember how Jesse’s mourning posture was just like hers)
It’s slipping through his fingers: Ahsoka, the war, Padme, Obi-Wan. It all feels tethered from a string, and the cosmos will dangle it in front of him, and then snip the strings, laughing as he screams, unable to stop the fall. His actions seem to be performed by others: a brave warrior led the 501st into battle, a disappointing brother bickered and craved approval from Obi-Wan, a reluctant brother cared for Ahsoka, a small, weak boy missed his mother, a murderer slaughtered the Tuskens that killed her and a fierce lover would burn the world for Padme.
He parks his speeder on the landing platform near Padme’s house. Just before he can open the speeder, he pauses and sits, fingers shaking as he drums them against the steering. He turns his gloved palm over, and removes the pieces stuck in the metal, ignoring the strings from the sharp metal. He’s been stabbed, shot and cut with far more severity and it wasn’t even his actual hand. It wasn’t necessary to deal with.
Padme isn’t in the living room when he finally opens the door, and the ice in his stomach cuts into his insecurity. Why wasn’t she here? Did she… leave? Does she not want me any longer? Had Padme… grown tired of him? His breaths start coming out shorter and his surroundings grow quieter until his eyes are covered with two hands, and a smile of “guess who?” Anakin’s heart unclenches, and he almost slumps in relief. She wants me. She loves me. She hasn’t left me yet.
Ignoring the whisper of she will soon , Anakin attempts to play along. “I don’t know….” he pauses, “Threepio?” Padme laughs, and she uncovers his eyes. He turns around, and gazes into her warm eyes. He’s ready to drop in her arms, and release the airtight bundle of emotions that want to choke him, but he settles for pulling her in and resting his head against her shoulder. She first laughs at his affection, but her happiness turns to concern as he tightens his grip. She begins to gently stroke his back, and Anakin feels grounded in what feels like an eon.
“Ani, what’s wrong?” He only buries his face in her hair, afraid to look her in the eye.
Everything. Everything is fucking wrong. I killed two hundred people last week. I buried twenty thousand more. Rex told me to stop trying to remember people’s names because they’re more likely to get their heads blown off before I can even speak to them personally. Men died for a Republic that can’t even protect itself or practice any of its values.
“Nothing’s wrong, love. It’s been a lifetime since I’ve seen you.” Anakin withdrew his arms from her, but still carefully wrapped his fingers around her hand. He brings it up, and lightly kisses her wrist. “I’ve simply been trapped far too long in those hells, and I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too, Ani.” She runs her fingers through his hair, and tugs his head down for a kiss, and Anakin melts. His worries fade into the loud buzz in the back of his mind, and the dark voice that delights in pushing poison into his thoughts dispels.
*****************************
She curls up against his chest in their bed, and he absentmindedly draws circles on her back. His glove is ruined from the comm shards, and he makes a small note to replace it soon. She’s on her datapad, scrolling through looks to be a bill. “What are you doing?”
“I’m proofreading this bill. Bail wants to present it tomorrow in the Senate, and he’s asked me to look over any errors.” Padme sets the pad down. “We’ve been working on this for weeks; it’s a bill that would open up more humanitarian operations throughout the war-torn parts of the Republic. Worlds like Toydaria or Corellia.”
But not anywhere out beyond the eyes of the Republic. “That sounds great.” Anakin swallows and looks at her determined expression. “You’re doing great things in the Senate. It’s no wonder you’re such a beloved politician.”
“You’re sweet.” Padme picks her tablet up. “But it’s only placing a bandage over a gaping wound. To truly do anything, we need to stop fighting and resume diplomatic meetings.”
It doesn’t stop the fighting . “We can only hope that it ends soon.” It’ll just go back to normal, with the Republic ignoring anything as long as it wasn’t within their eyesight. Anakin presses a light kiss against her hair. “I’m tired of fighting.” He admits. “It’s… fraying.” Evil was only an eyesore if you can see it.
“War is awful .” Padme exhales shakily. “It kills me that you see it everyday.”
Anakin rubs her back, and tries not to think of how the Senate passed a bill that denied aid to several Outer Rim planets. “It’s a good thing nothing’s happened here.”
“You know it right?” She turns back to face him. No, don’t ask me this. He grips the sheet until his metal fingers cramp with the pressure. “You know, that I love you, and that everyday I die when you leave. I swore to you that day, in Varykino, that I would love you as the stars spun through the sky.”
All stars stop spinning one day, he bites through his tongue. “I know. I love you too.” He adds. “Go to sleep, my love. You’ve been working hard enough as it is.” Padme drops her datapad at her side, and sinks back into his hold.
He sleeps with his arms around her, and two parsecs between them.