by Karen Miller
Just like the good old days.
“I didn’t mean to be late,” he added, as the Temple dwindled into the distance behind them. “I got carried away.”
That earned him a chilly glance. “Now, there’s an excuse with a familiar ring to it.”
Right. Time for some serious damage control before this turned into a miserable night. “Okay. Okay. You’re annoyed. I get that. And you’re entitled. No argument. I was careless.”
Obi-Wan flicked him another glance then dropped them into the district’s residents-and-visitors-only lane so they could follow the locals’ leisurely, expensive speeders to their eventual destination. “Punctuality never was your strong suit, Anakin, but I was under the impression we’d sorted that out.”
“Yeah, well, some habits are harder to break than others. I remember Mom used to—”
“What?” said Obi-Wan, his voice abruptly gentle.
Memories of his mother were always bittersweet. Lurking in his shadows was her last touch on his cheek. Echoes of her dying pain. But remembrances of his childhood eased that unhappiness. When he closed his eyes he could feel her arms warm and tight around him, keeping him safe.
But I didn’t keep her safe. When she needed me most I—
With an effort he wrenched his thoughts from that unhelpful path. Like Padmé said, there was no point looking back. There was no way to undo past mistakes. His only choice was to find a way of living with them. But even with her help, that was proving a challenge.
Some things can’t be forgiven. Some mistakes shouldn’t be overlooked. I let myself get sidetracked. I—
“Anakin,” said Obi-Wan. Not quite sympathy. Not quite a warning. Almost a question. Obi-Wan tried, but he’d never truly understand.
“Mom used to get just as mad at me for being late as you ever did,” he said, after a moment. “She never tanned me, but she was tempted once or twice. That’s why I built Threepio. To say sorry. And to help her around our quarters when I wasn’t there.”
Irritation forgotten, Obi-Wan smiled. “And how often were you late to dinner, building that blasted droid?”
“Too often.” Recalling his mother’s exasperation with his chronic dawdling, how torn she’d get between aggravation and appreciation, he half laughed. “She used to say I’d be late for my own destiny.”
“But you weren’t,” said Obi-Wan. “So I suppose there’s that to be grateful for.”
“Well, yeah. Except…”
Except the prophecy hasn’t been fulfilled yet, has it? There’s no balance in the Force. The dark side’s winning. Planet by planet it’s creeping across the galaxy. And there doesn’t seem to be a thing I can do to stop it.
“Except?” prompted Obi-Wan.
He shrugged. “Nothing. Like I said, I’m really sorry.”
“I know,” said Obi-Wan, as he swung their speeder into an exit off the main residential traffic lane and threaded them along a narrower side lane. “Besides, I should be used to you by now.”
At last they’d reached the residential sector’s perimeter. Rising majestically on either side of them were the glossy apartment buildings that were home to some of the Republic’s most wealthy and influential citizens. Business magnates. Celebrities. Politicians. Sports stars. Aristocrats and their heirs. Ambassadors from more than thirty prominent systems. It had made Padmé uncomfortable at first, moving into this exclusive community, but Naboo’s Queen Jamillia and Supreme Chancellor Palpatine had insisted. Naboo’s former Queen and current Senator was a high-risk Separatist target. She might not want to live with a level of security second only to the Senate complex, but she needed it.
“Please, Padmé,” he’d said, adding his voice to the chorus of common sense. Using her love for him against her without hesitation or compunction. “If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for me. Do you want me on the front lines worrying about you while I’m fighting to save the Republic?”
She’d given in, of course.
The security that meant so much to his peace of mind slowed their approach to Bail Organa’s apartment block. As they traveled the designated visitors’ lane they passed numerous discreet checkpoints designed to read and record the speeder’s ID. Being Jedi they encountered no difficulties and eventually docked in the Senator’s guest parking bay. The visitors’ pedway was pass-coded. Armed with Organa’s private key, Obi-Wan tapped in the sequence and they were whisked up to Level 300.
To Anakin’s surprise, Organa answered his own front door. Dressed in casual trousers and an open-necked shirt, a glass of red wine in one hand and a kitchen towel tossed over his shoulder, he smiled when he saw them.
“There you are,” he said, mildly reproving. “I was about to send out a search party. Come on in.”
“Good evening, Bail,” said Obi-Wan, entering the apartment’s austerely elegant foyer. “My apologies for keeping you waiting.”
Anakin followed him inside. “Please, Senator, don’t blame Obi-Wan for our lateness. It’s my fault. I’m not always the most reliable timekeeper.”
Organa’s smile widened as he closed the door. “So I’ve been told.” He gestured. “This way. We’re in the kitchen.”
So he’d been told? Anakin let his accusing gaze slide sideways.
“Don’t look at me,” said Obi-Wan softly, as they made their way after Organa. “I’ve never mentioned you’re incapable of—oh.”
Oh was right.
They’d reached the kitchen. And standing behind a wide sweep of polished bench, knife in one hand, half-sliced tabba-root in the other, simply and beautifully clad in a sky-blue silk skirt and blouse… was Padmé.
One look at Anakin’s face and Padmé knew he hadn’t had the first inkling she was here. Shock, disbelief, pleasure, and alarm jolted through him in rapid succession, and that meant he hadn’t sensed her presence—which wasn’t like him at all. Considering her husband closely, she could see why. He was badly distracted and full of unease. His dearly familiar Jedi tunic looked just a little too loose on him, as though he’d recently lost some weight.
The war’s wearing him down. He takes it so personally. He wants to fix everything that’s broken. He thinks that’s his job.
“Master Kenobi,” she said, putting down the knife. She met his warily pleased gaze with every feeling masked. “It’s good to see you again.”
“And you, Senator,” said Obi-Wan, at his most urbane. “I take it you’re well?”
“Very well, thank you. You?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Thank you.”
Ah, the commonplace banalities. Where would they be without them?
The urge to throw herself into Anakin’s arms was almost overwhelming. But she wasn’t a career politician for nothing. She offered her beloved an impersonally polite smile. “It’s been awhile, Master Skywalker. How are you?”
Anakin swallowed. “Good. I’m good, milady.”
“I asked Padmé to join us at the last minute,” said Bail, wandering over to the impressive and immaculate kitchen’s other bench. “She only got back a few hours ago—which is a stroke of luck for our team.” He picked up the opened wine bottle, sloshed some more red into his glass, splashed a bit more into hers, then waggled the bottle at the Jedi. “I know you usually don’t drink, but courtesy compels me to offer you a glass.”
Obi-Wan sighed. “You really don’t need to, Bail. We don’t—”
“Thanks,” said Anakin. “I’d love some.”
Holding her breath, Padmé waited for Obi-Wan to object, to remonstrate, to tell Anakin no. Instead he raised an eyebrow. “I stand corrected. He’d love some.”
Grinning, Bail took down another wineglass from the wall-mounted rack beside the small window above the sink. He half filled it with some of the finest vintage his family’s vineyards had ever produced then handed it to Anakin.
“To your excellent health,” he said, lifting his own glass in salute.
Anakin returned the gesture. “And yours, Senator.”
�
��Why don’t you make that Bail? This is my home, after all, not the Senate.” Putting his glass down, Bail moved to the cook-top, where three saucepans were aromatically bubbling. He lifted the lid on the smallest one, grabbed a spoon and tasted. “Good. That’s good.” Then he glanced over his shoulder. “Well, gentlemen, pull up a chair. I’m pretty sure I can manage to cook and talk at the same time.” He grinned again. “And you there, kitchen wench. Get chopping.”
Padmé bobbed a sarcastic curtsy. “Sir, yes, sir.”
“I’ve got chilled bolbi juice in the conservator, Obi-Wan, if you’re determined to pass on the wine,” Bail added, checking the contents of the next saucepan. “Second pressing.”
Settling himself on one of the kitchen’s tall breakfast bench stools, Obi-Wan nodded. “Perhaps later. Bail, are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”
“Ah!” Bail said sharply, spoon raised. “Set one foot closer to this food, Obi-Wan, and I’ll have you arrested.”
“Bail,” she said, surprised. Anakin was staring, too, wineglass raised halfway to his lips.
“You don’t understand,” said Bail, replacing the lid on the third saucepan. “He may be a Jedi Master, but when it comes to cooking he’s a dirty low-down spice smuggler. Trust me. I’m doing us all a big favor.”
“Once,” said Obi-Wan, over their laughter. “Once I had an unfortunate encounter with some minced maravia, two diced dipplis, and a pinch of Rodian spice.”
“Once was enough,” Bail retorted, emphatic. “You just—just sit there and be wise or something.”
More laughter followed. The undercurrent of tension in the room eased. Padmé, quickly thin-slicing the rest of the tabba-root, risked a look at Obi-Wan. He smiled back, a shade wryly, sympathy in his eyes now. She lifted one shoulder in swift acknowledgment.
Not your fault. You weren’t to know.
Anakin, declining a seat, wandered over to the kitchen’s panoramic window. He sipped his wine and stared at the vista of bright lights and streaming traffic beyond the double-shielded transparisteel.
“So you’ve been away, Senator Ami—ah—Padmé?”
“On Chandrila, yes,” she said, layering the tabba-root slices into a baking dish. “I wasn’t due back for a few days yet, but there was an outbreak of Ralltiiri measles in the enclave where I was staying.” Quickly she seasoned the vegetable with salt and pepper and chunks of the butter she’d cubed earlier. “Since there was nothing I could do to help, I came home.”
“Well, Chandrila’s loss is our gain,” said Bail, ever the gallant. “Are you done with the tabba?”
“Obi-Wan, I heard about Kothlis,” she said, handing Bail the dish so he could get it into the compression oven. “That was good work—and a lucky escape.”
“In more ways than one,” he said soberly. Like Anakin he looked fine-drawn. Weary. Not as awful as after Zigoola or even the battle on Geonosis, but…
The war’s beating him down, too. It’s so unfair.
“Didn’t you tell me you don’t believe in luck?” said Bail, teasing.
Obi-Wan gave him a half smile. “Yes, but too many more last-minute reprieves and I may be forced to change my stance.” His wry amusement faded. “Speaking of Kothlis, Bail, what’s the latest from the task force investigating Grievous’s attack on Fleet communications?”
Bail closed the oven’s door and hit the start button. “It’s still investigating.”
“They know we can’t twiddle our thumbs indefinitely, right?” said Anakin, turning around. “They know we can’t keep… strategically retreating?”
“Yes, Anakin, they know,” said Bail. “And believe me, everyone on the team is working the problem as hard and as fast as they can. But if the Separatists weren’t a formidable foe, well, this war would be done and dusted already, wouldn’t it?”
“True,” said Obi-Wan. “But Anakin’s right. We can’t afford to lose our offensive momentum. Dooku and Grievous are too skilled at taking advantage of our every stumble.”
Padmé, watching Anakin while pretending to focus on cleaning up her section of the bench, saw his face tighten. She felt his tension reignite. Oh, my love.
“That may be the case,” she said, “and I know we’re here to talk serious business… but I suggest we leave that till after our meal, yes? Bail tells me you’re both on furlough for a few days. So why don’t we eat, drink, and be merry for a little while, before we tackle the Republic’s latest crisis?”
A warm hand came to rest on her shoulder. Bail. Such a good, dear friend. “I second the motion,” he said cheerfully. “Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t you three go through to the dining room? I’ll be with you in a few moments.”
Walking with Obi-Wan, so aware of Anakin behind her, his burning gaze on the back of her neck, she glanced up. “Rumor has it you were hurt defending the spynet facility.”
Obi-Wan sighed. “Is there no shred of idle gossip that escapes your attention?”
“None. Just tell me there weren’t any lightsabers involved this time.”
He smiled, faintly. “Anakin flew to the rescue before that became an issue.”
Anakin. Oh, she wanted to turn and feast her eyes on him. She wanted to hold him and kiss away his cares. “Of course he did,” she said, so terribly lighthearted. “I believe that’s his job description, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Anakin. “And I’m starting to think I should ask for a raise.”
“By all means you can ask,” said Obi-Wan, at his most droll.
Smiling, that undercurrent of tension eased again, they entered Bail’s dining room. One entire wall was shielded transparisteel, offering breathtaking views across Coruscant’s fantastically lit cityscape. Gleaming silver in the distance, stood the Senate Building, the symbol of everything they fought for and suffered to protect. As they crossed the lushly appointed room’s threshold, soft music started playing from its hidden speakers.
She recognized it immediately: The Spring Symphony by celebrated Naboo composer Tofli Argala. She’d mentioned once, in passing, that Argala was her favorite of all Naboo’s music makers. Trust Bail to remember. He knew she’d been homesick of late, having to miss little Pooja’s birthday celebrations again. Of course she’d sent a gift and commed on the day, but a holographic aunt wasn’t the same. Pooja deserved better.
“Milady… your seat…”
Anakin held out a dining chair for her. So old-fashioned. So sweet. So dangerously close to betraying himself. He’d recognized the music, too. There were questions in his eyes.
Oh my love. Don’t be silly.
“Thank you,” she said, sliding onto the chair. The dining table was already set, silverware and low, wide vases of fresh flowers on a filmy white cloth. Anakin’s fingers brushed against her arms as he slid the chair into place. She shivered—and felt him shiver. She didn’t dare look at Obi-Wan, already seated.
Does he feel it? He must. Oh Bail. What have you done?
As though summoned, Bail wheeled a cart into the dining room, laden with their meals and a fresh bottle of wine, clean glasses and a chilled pitcher of second-pressing bolbi juice. “Masters, milady, dinner is served,” he said grandly. “Spiced tikrit, steamed yyla greens, herbed rice, and baked buttered tabba.”
“What are you doing, Bail?” said Obi-Wan, staring. “What’s happened to your server droids? Have they broken down? If they have, you should ask Anakin here to fix them for you. Provided, of course, you’ve nowhere urgent to be.”
That had Anakin shaking his head. “You’re not going to let that one go anytime soon, are you?”
“Certainly not,” said Obi-Wan. “Only a fool discards a blaster with some charge left in it.”
Warmed, Padmé watched her husband and his best friend exchange wicked smiles. It helped her a great deal to know that the difficulties of the past were put behind them, that they’d found such solid ground upon which to stand as equals. She wasn’t sure if Obi-Wan understood what he meant to Anakin. How much his rega
rd mattered. How far Anakin would go to keep him safe.
And I can’t tell him. But oh, he needs to know.
Feeling the weight of her troubled gaze Obi-Wan turned, quizzical. “Padmé?”
And now she could feel Anakin looking at her. She pretended distraction. “What? I’m sorry?”
“I thought—nothing,” said Obi-Wan, with a swift smile. “Never mind.”
Bail passed around the fragrantly steaming plates, poured the wine and juice, then took his own seat. He raised his glass, his eyes warm with affection. “To friends,” he said quietly. “And an end to this blasted war.”
“Friends,” she and the Jedi echoed, and drank.
After that, while they ate, Bail regaled them with the latest gossip from the Senate. They laughed, they poked fun, they dredged up tales long-buried and worth retelling and for a couple of rare, precious hours the war receded. They were just four friends enjoying fine food and fine company… and pain was a dim memory from a long time ago.
“So,” said Bail at last, nudging his dessert plate aside. “It’s been fun, but all good things come to an end. I’m afraid the time has come for us to stop pretending we’re not at war.”
A moment’s silence was followed by exchanged glances and soft sighs.
“Agreed,” said Padmé, dropping her napkin on the table. “But let me clear the table first.”
“That’s all right, I’ll take care of it after—”
She stood. “No, Bail. First rule of the kitchen: the cook never cleans.”
“I’ll help,” said Obi-Wan, starting to rise.
“Actually—” Anakin leapt up. “Let me. My penance for making us late.”
Another silence, awkward this time. Then Obi-Wan nodded.
“All right.”
“Come on into the study, Obi-Wan” said Bail easily, as though he hadn’t noticed a thing. “I’ve got a little show-and-tell set up.”
“We’ll join you there shortly,” she said, collecting their used silverware. “Don’t start without us.”