Chapter Text
“Mrs. Amidala?” you called out tentatively, “is that you?”
You were descending the set of carpeted stairs leading down to the living room of the pretty, suburban home in which you'd just spent your evening. It was the same as all of the other homes in your neighbourhood, including the one you lived in with your parents and brother. You’d lived here your whole life, which meant that this house was nearly as familiar to you as your own.
You peeked around the corner when you reached the bottom of the staircase, looking around expectantly for the busy mother who had hired you to babysit her two young children. The kids were twins; a boy and a girl, and while sweet, they were both active and mischievous. It was nearly eleven at night, and you’d only just exited their room after getting what felt like a thirtieth glass of water for each of them.
As you squinted into the dim light, a deep but quiet voice that you hadn’t been expecting answered you instead of her’s, “No— she’s not home yet.”
You came around the corner at the bottom of the stairs, and looked into the foyer beside the living room.
Standing there was a man, wearing a dark suit. He was a tall man, with imposing shoulders and a wild-looking mop of golden hair hanging just past his ears. His hair stood out to you especially; it seemed so very incongruent with the rest of his highly-polished style.
He was older than you— likely by fifteen or even twenty years— but his face projected a grave handsomeness that made you stop in your tracks to examine him. You did just this before saying, “Oh,” and pausing... because ‘oh’ was all you had.
He was angular and serious-looking, but very suddenly, you understood where his small son had acquired the pretty, blonde charm that had made you let him get away with breaking minor rules all evening. You felt your face flush, but ignored that in the hope that it would go away.
The man only sighed; began to kick off a pair of shiny dress shoes, and continued, “She was supposed to drive you home, wasn’t she?”
You stepped closer; nodded. You’d never met him before, but this must have been Mrs. Amidala’s husband. You had heard her mention him, but not by name.
“She might have forgotten— I have no idea, honestly. I don’t have my car, though. I—“ He stopped; didn’t continue. As he steadied himself against the wall and took a very deep breath, you hazarded your own guess as to why he hadn’t been driving that night.
You weren’t sure what to do just then— you lived fairly close-by, but not enough to walk home at this time of night. You hadn’t even brought a jacket. “It’s alright,” you decided to say. “Is it okay if I— um, well, if I wait for her?”
He looked over your face, let go of the wall, and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter much to me. You might be waiting a while.” He paused. “Are the kids okay?”
You smiled, “Yes— finally both asleep.”
He chuckled, indicating to you that he knew his children well. “Good. Thanks.” He entered the living room then, and removed his jacket. He tossed it on the couch and walked over to a small chest with a door, out of which he retrieved a half-full bottle of what a black label indicated was dark, spiced rum. He opened it, and poured a generous portion into an already-waiting glass atop the surface of the chest.
There were more glasses beside it; empty, stacked. He looked back at you and asked, “Would you like some? While you wait?”
You were taken aback. He must have already had more to drink tonight than he was betraying with his relatively steady gait. “I— uh, I’m only eighteen, Mr. Amidala.”
You detected the mildest hint of annoyance in his voice as he corrected you, “It’s Skywalker. Amidala is my wife’s name.” Then, less brusquely, “I’m sorry— I knew you were in college; I just assumed—“
“That’s okay!” you interrupted him. Then, you thought: You were in college. You often did not feel like an adult yet— it was all still new to you— but the fact of it was that, now, you were one. Something in your head registered this with a tinge of rebellion, and you replied, “If it’s alright with you, I’ll have some anyway.”
He tilted his head, seeming to think. Then, he shrugged again in the same manner he had in the foyer, and in a way that told you he bartended for himself often, flipped a second glass over to fill it with rum for you.
You walked up to him, took it with a smile, and said, “Thanks.” You added as you looked up, “I’m sorry I got your name wrong.”
“It’s alright— almost everyone does.” He tossed his head back and took his entire drink in a single, smooth gulp. Then, he poured another and sat down in the middle of the sofa with it. The room was dimly lit by a lamp in the corner, but besides that, the house was mostly dark and quiet.
You stood, holding your glass. You weren't sure just what to do. Graciously, he motioned beside himself for you to sit, too. The only free spot was immediately next to him; the other end of the couch was taken up by his jacket, which you did not want to move. So, you sat down close to him; closer than you normally would have. It made you tense, if only slightly— you didn’t like to invade others’ space if you could help it. You apologized again, but he didn’t say anything that time.
Sitting beside him, you noticed two new things— first, that Mr. Skywalker was very formidable. The way the fabric of his plain, white office shirt wrapped around his arms and stretched over his chest and back told you that he was not built like the other dads in the neighbourhood: He was neither bony nor portly; you rarely found yourself so very close to men who looked like him. The second thing you noticed was the way he smelled, which was incredible— some likely-expensive cologne, mixed with a more natural scent that you knew belonged only to him.
It was lovely, it distracted you, and he noticed.
“You alright?” he asked, as he stared out the front window to his house, holding his own glass close to his lips.
“I’m fine,” you said, and took a sip. It was difficult not to recoil at the strength of it, but you tried.
A chuckle from beside you told you that you’d failed. “You don’t have to drink that, you know.”
“No, it’s— um, it's nice.” It wasn’t, really, but it made you feel like an actual grown-up. You wondered, briefly, how used to drinking it he was, given the way he'd just thrown it back down his throat. “Thank you,” you added, as you caught his eye with yours. You looked at one another’s faces; he smiled back, finally, putting you more at ease.
You both sat in silence for what felt like many minutes, and then Mr. Skywalker turned back to look at the window. He finished his second drink, and put his glass down on the floor by his feet. You continued to sip at yours tentatively, trying to catch up, but stopping each time the warmth beginning to spread through you became a bit too much to handle. You felt a bit awkward, but less and less tense as the moments ticked by.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” he finally offered. He was still looking out the window.
“It's okay.” You moved your head to look at him again, but found that even seated, you were a bit wobbly by now. The edges of the objects in the room seemed to blur around you; instinctively, you reached out and grasped the first solid thing you felt. That 'thing' happened to be Mr. Skywalker’s right forearm.
“What the...!” you began to exclaim. Something about it didn’t feel right. You pulled your hand back, turned your body in his direction (making the blur worse, of course), and looked up, trying to focus your vision.
A wry smile spread over that hardened, handsome face of his as you did so, and he laughed loudly before confirming, “It’s not real.”
You panicked; you hadn’t meant anything by your reaction, but you realized at once how insensitive you’d been. Through a thin, fresh, rummy haze, “I’m so sorry! I was just surprised; I—“
He turned to you, and placed his left hand— the one that had not alarmed you— on your shoulder; seemed to know it would quiet you. “Relax,” he said. “I’m used to it.” Before you had a chance to really register the touch, he ceased it. Then, he pulled the sleeve of his right arm up a bit to expose a tiny sliver of a sleek, metallic-looking prosthetic arm. In the dim light, you hadn’t even noticed the short, black glove he was using to cover the hand.
Embarrassed, intrigued— and now definitely a bit tipsy— you offered, “It’s cool.” Realizing how very much your own age you had just sounded, you added to that, “It looks complicated,” which you guessed really didn’t help.
He chuckled; quietly this time, and said, “It is.” He must finally have begun to feel the effects of his own drinking about then, because he rubbed his eyes with his natural hand, and proceeded to rest his elbows on his knees as he hung his head.
Less inhibited in your concern thanks to the small amount of rum you’d consumed, and still facing him on the couch, you (foolishly) placed your hand on his back. You felt him tense, briefly, but he soon relaxed again.
Seemingly out of nowhere, he mumbled, “At least it’s not just me.”
You hadn’t been sure if that had been directed at you, but you asked anyway, “What?”
“Nothing.” He sat back up; took a deep breath. Your hand ended up on the small of his back, very close to his belt, but you didn’t move it. He seemed to change his mind about what to say, then, and continued after a pause, “My wife forgets about me a lot.” He looked down at you; grinned lopsidedly. “But she forgot about you, too, so that means it’s not me, right?” He laughed again.
You weren’t sure if he was being sarcastic or not, so you laughed too, albeit more nervously. Your hand was still on his back. He sighed and his face seemed to fall, so you said in the hopes of lifting his mood, “It’s not you. She seems pretty busy,” which was certainly not a lie. Mrs. Amidala was a member of the state Senate; it was all you really knew about her, but you had an idea of what the job entailed.
Somewhat depressingly, it was conceivable that she might be in the habit of forgetting about people— even people like her husband. (Although to look at him— and to hear his voice— you, personally, couldn’t imagine ever not realizing he was there.)
He leaned back into the couch, so you pulled your hand away from him before it became trapped. You were just about finished your own drink, now, so you placed your glass on the floor the way he’d done with his, and put your hands in your lap.
Looking at the ceiling, he said without much expression, “You’re right. She is busy.”
You sat in silence for another little while this way: Him leaning back with his head up; you sitting up straight with your body turned to face him. Between your lack of tolerance for rum, and the fact that he wasn’t looking at you, you felt somewhat emboldened in running your eyes up and down his body.
As before, you examined the way his shirt covered him; tried (shamefully) to discern the details of his musculature through it. You traced his neck and jaw with your eyes; looked with fascination at a few scars and odd little marks on his skin you now had time to notice. Somehow, he both did and did not look his age; also somehow, you were completely overcome with an urge to touch him.
Embarrassment and anxiety made you tense up at that thought; rum and youth made you reach out to place your palm on the upper part of his leg. It was hard, thick, and warm— you looked at your hand, then, instead of at his face.
“What are you doing?” he asked, in that rich and captivating voice of his, from several inches above you.
“I— um, I just wanted you to know... well, I’m just trying to say, you know— it’s okay.” Incoherent, maybe, but he seemed to understand you well enough.
“Thanks.” He didn’t move his leg, or your hand.
“Mr. Skywalker?”
“It’s Anakin. Just Anakin.”
“Oh. That’s nice. Anakin.” You’d never heard a name quite like it; it was handsome. It suited him. It felt awkward to say it, but you were both adults, you reminded yourself.
Just as your fingers began to squeeze his leg, headlights shone arrestingly into the window before you. He moved his head to peer outside, and then stood slowly as your hand fell from him. You stood, too, and were very careful in your movements as you went to retrieve your bag and get ready to leave.
You pretended to rummage through your things somewhat sloppily as the door opened, and Anakin’s wife started to berate him about having been inconsiderate to you. You also pretended not to hear as you steadied yourself, but it was impossible not to.
“Have you ever heard of a taxi, Ani? You take them all the time. I know that the kids are asleep, and that you... ’can’t drive’ most evenings anyway, but this girl has school; how could you make her wait up for me like that?”
“I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Amidala sighed audibly. “That’s it?”
“I think I’m going to go lie down...”
“Go for it, Ani. I’ll drive the babysitter home.” You turned to look just in time to see her shake her head at him. Clearly fed up, she walked quickly out the door; you knew you ought to follow along with your things. She looked back at you briefly, and said, “I’m sorry you had to watch him, too,” before briskly leading the way back to her car.
You looked back as well, before you left, to see Anakin standing on the bottom step of the staircase, watching you leave. With his gloved hand— that cool, modern-looking prosthesis— he gave a tiny wave. Then, he pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocked it, and began to look at one thing or another as you smiled and closed the door behind you.
The car ride home with his wife was mostly quiet, and very short— after all, you did live close by. This was good, because you were still feeling the effects of your glass of rum, and you didn’t want to betray even a hint of drunkenness in front of her. (Particularly given your age, and what you’d just witnessed.)
She was cordial as she dispatched you to your own home, and you thanked her for hiring you to watch her kids; made sure to mention they had been lovely.
On your way out of the vehicle and up your own family’s driveway— as Mrs. Amidala was pulling away— your phone buzzed from inside your pocket, and you pulled it out to look.
thanks for being nice.
You were slightly taken aback. There was no name attached to the number, but you knew who the text was from. You hadn’t been that nice, you’d thought. It felt good to be thanked for it anyway, though. You stopped, looked around (uselessly), and thought before typing back with unsteady fingers, np! thanks for the rum. You cringed as you sent it, and comforted yourself by picturing him deleting it.
You were already in your room beginning to undress when your phone finally buzzed again; this time, the screen blinked with a simple, any time.
Eyes very heavy, you decided to wait to respond to that, if you responded at all. You laid down on top of your comforter in just your underwear, and wondered with a hazy, tired mind if Mrs. Amidala would forget about you again the next time she called you to babysit.