Chapter Text
Obi-Wan has no idea how he got into this situation. Working with initiates is one thing; while hardly self-sufficient, they can do simple things, like move their bodies on their own or tell Obi-Wan if they have some sort of issue he needs to help them with. Babies are another matter entirely.
Luke and Leia sleep peacefully in his lap, their pudgy faces poking out of the blankets swaddling them where Obi-Wan cradles them in either elbow. They’re so small, yet in the Force they shine like suns. It’s like when Anakin first became his padawan, all knobby knees and flyaway hair, the strongest Force-presence Obi-Wan had ever felt packed into a little body that only barely came up past his waist. Except the twins are even smaller.
Why did anyone think this was a good idea? He has never held an infant in his life and now he’s holding two and they’re Anakin’s and dear Force—
“You’re doing fine.” He looks up from fretfully watching the babies on either arm to shoot a truly venomous glare at Sabé. It was the kind of glare that would have unruly shinies apologizing with their shoulders hiked up to their ears, but the woman only scoffs, visibly amused by his predicament.
Their exhausted parents had been out cold minutes after the medics had swept away the newborns for their arcane medical purposes. Obi-Wan had sat in a chair and attempted to meditate, only to fall asleep himself. He jolted awake when two medics reentered the room, and was still blinking around at the rest of the people that had apparently snuck in while he was asleep—Sabé and Bail and a sly-looking Master Yoda—when the twins were unceremoniously placed upon his lap.
He had frozen, goggling at the tiny bodies suddenly in his arms, terrified that something bad would happen. The nurse shifted his grip until he was (hopefully) holding them correctly and then slipped from the room before he could offer any protest. All he could think is that the one thing he knows about babies is that they are fragile and he should not be holding them, what if he accidentally drops them or hurts them or—or something!?
The rest of the room has been no help. Bail had stepped out to make some calls, but was still too slow to hide his smirk, and when Obi-Wan looked to Yoda, the little green man just chortled at him in that way he had. Padmé’s friend has only seen fit to make fun of him.
He quickly looks back down from Sabé to the twins when Luke’s presence twitches a little in his sleep. Obi-Wan has with iron willpower not allowed even a single iota of his panic to infiltrate the Force. He will not disturb any of his family’s rest.
Bail is the one who finally takes pity on him when he reenters the room. His friend carefully lifts Leia from his lap, amusement at Obi-Wan’s expense still curling through his presence. With both hands, Obi-Wan feels secure enough to stand with Luke, carefully bringing him over to the little containers the nurses had left for the babies beside Padmé and Anakin’s bed.
(He’s quite sure that ‘container’ is the wrong word, but he doesn't know what else to call them. They’re small plastoid bins raised to the height of the hospital bed, with firm padding on the bottom and walls high enough to prevent a baby from rolling off the side.)
Leia is placed in the second container, and Obi-Wan spares a moment to check over his padawan and his padawan’s lover. (Or—wife? She’d said ‘husband,’ earlier, Obi-Wan suddenly realizes. Were they married?)
Padmé lies on her back, her upper body slightly elevated still. She sleeps deeply, despite likely being terribly sore. Anakin is curled on his side, the front of his body plastered against his partner, his face pressed into the top of her shoulder. Obi-Wan can sense faint stirrings of unrest in him. The beginnings of dreams, probably, not yet developed past muddled feelings and disconnected sensations. He runs a gentle hand over his boy’s hair and smooths down the unsettled spiking in his mind, banishing the proto-nightmares.
Obi-Wan spends a minute just watching them, before returning to his seat.
It’s Master Yoda who brings it up, some time later, after a while of silence.
“Failed, I have.” He speaks simply, quiet enough not to wake the sleeping quartet on the other side of the room.
Obi-Wan looks at him. There’s a lot he could be talking about. They’ve failed the Republic, the galaxy, both fallen to dictatorship. They’ve failed their fellow Jedi, dead and scattered. They failed Anakin, left him to the mercy of a predator.
He says, “We did.” He feels empty.
Yoda shakes his head, looks directly at Obi-Wan. “No. Failed, I have.” He frowns, but Yoda sighs before he can protest, long and impossibly weary.
“So young, you are,” he murmurs. “All of you.” Obi-Wan doesn’t feel very young. He knows, logically, thirty-eight is considered young adulthood in Humans, but right now the years seem so very heavy. He looks to the right, at the room’s bed.
It’s Anakin who’s young. Twenty-two and an experienced general. Twenty-two and a father, stars. Obi-Wan was still a padawan at twenty-two. Still following dutifully in Qui-Gon’s footsteps, feeling like Knighthood was a million miles away. Padmé, too. She’s been a galactic politician for half her life, and she’s only twenty-seven.
“Blind, I was,” Yoda continues. Obi-Wan turns back to see he’s closed his eyes, ears lowered flat against his head in sorrow. “Foolish. Arrogant. Complacency, I allowed, and flourished in it, the Sith have.” Obi-Wan wants to refute this, wants to reassure his great-grandmaster. But he doesn’t know how.
“It’s not over yet.”
Bail. The two Jedi look at him. His face is solemn, but there’s a determination to it. A fire. “It’s not over yet,” he repeats.
Master Yoda says, “Lost, the war was. Lost in Darkness, the galaxy is.”
Without blinking, Bail replies, “Then we find it.” He meets Yoda’s eyes levelly. “It will be difficult. It could take years, decades. But it can be done. The fight is not over, yet.”
Obi-Wan is so tired of fighting. He closes his eyes and says, “The Sith won.” Images of the ransacked Temple flash behind his eyes. Anakin’s asleep right now, he doesn’t have to put up a strong front.
Bail nods. “For now, yes. But not forever. As long as there exist people who would fight for justice, there’s still hope. There is still time. The unjust can never truly, permanently prevail.”
“The Jedi are gone, Bail,” Obi-Wan’s voice is bleak, tired. A part of him is irrationally angry at the man for this conversation, though he can’t summon any heat to his words.
The senator is not deterred. “I see three Jedi right here.” Before Obi-Wan can think of how to respond, someone else beats him to it.
“The younglings.” Everyone starts at the soft-spoken voice. It’s Anakin. His eyes are cracked open, his head tilted away from Padmé so he’s not speaking directly into her ear. He hasn’t sat up, though, still laying on his side, even though it makes him crane his neck to look over at them.
“At the—the Temple.” An emotion jolts through Obi-Wan’s body. “The younglings, they—they escaped.”
Oh. Oh.
“When—” Anakin’s voice breaks, and he takes a shuddering breath. Padmé’s eyes flutter open, and she shifts a little against him. He lowers his voice further, though everyone can still hear him. “When we reached the—the Council chambers. The initiates w-were already gone. Someone got them out.”
Obi-Wan feels a new hope swell in in his chest, almost painfully forceful. Someone got them out.
“Not—not all of them,” Anakin says. There’s agony in his voice, horror in his eyes. Padmé blinks sleep from her eyes and presses a hand against his chest as his face wobbles. “But. Many.”
Anakin’s pain is leeching into the Force like oil through a sieve, but his children don’t stir. It’s Master Yoda, his ancient presence blanketing the infants in a protective buffer.
Obi-Wan breaks through his own stupor and moves to his padawan, sitting lightly on the edge of the bed, his hip against Anakin’s back. The young man reaches around to clutch at the hem of Obi-Wan’s shirt. He lays a hand on the back of his neck.
They’re going to have to talk about the Temple sometime. As much as it’s going to hurt, it’s not good for Anakin to keep it all bottled up. It was bad enough for Obi-Wan to see the aftermath, to watch some of the security footage. Anakin had to live through it, was forced to watch as his own hands cut down their people, his own body wrenched from his control.
“Into seclusion, I will go,” Yoda announces suddenly. The room turns its attention to him. “To meditate. Learn more of the Force, I must. Learn where I went wrong.” Nobody is really sure of what to say to that.
“Do you know where?” Obi-Wan asks.
Yoda bangs his stick on the ground. “Dagobah. Mm.” And that’s that.
“I would be happy to provide you a ship, Grandmaster,” Bail says to him.
The old Jedi dips his head in thanks. “Much, we owe to you, Senator.”
“Think nothing of it,” Bail waves him off. “It’s the right thing to do.”
Master Yoda turns to Obi-Wan and Anakin next. “Call on me, you may, at any time, should you need me.”
Obi-Wan nods. “Thank you, Grandmaster,” he says, Anakin echoing him.
Bail then turns to the three of them on the bed. “Speaking of plans,” he begins, “You all are welcome to stay on Alderaan for the foreseeable future, should you like to. We have a number of secluded properties we could host you at.” Obi-Wan blinks at his friend.
“We couldn’t put you in danger like that—” He begins to protest, but Bail shakes his head.
“We are already in danger,” he says calmly. “Every sentient living in this galaxy right now is in danger, because tyranny respects no one.” His eyes are intent, flitting between the two Human Jedi and Padmé. “They could come for any of us, at any time. Without democracy, there is no way to hold those in power accountable for who they turn that power upon.”
He crosses his right leg over his left, somehow looking regal despite his plastoid hospital chair and black eye. “Furthermore, Breha and I are already beginning to organize a group, a rebellion against the Empire, with some other like-minded representatives. Sheltering a few fugitives is rather a step down from that, I would think.”
Obi-Wan stares, his mouth slightly open.
Bail intones, “Alderaan stands with democracy, and it stands with the Jedi.”
Obi-Wan feels tears beading his eyes. He chokes out, “Thank you, my friend,” and receives a smile.
Padmé, fully awake now, says, “Thank you, Bail. I think that would be for the best, especially with the twins. Perhaps, once they’re a little older, we can assist you with your rebellion.”
Bail’s smile broadens. “My thoughts exactly. You should all,” a glance to Obi-Wan, “take this time to rest and heal and be with your family. Once you are ready, we would be glad to accept any help you wish to offer.”
The woman turns to Anakin, now. “Ani, is that alright with you?” He blinks, looking between her and Obi-Wan. The exhaustion that had never really left him seems to be pulling him back under.
“If you both think it’s a good idea, we should probably do it,” he says softly.
Padmé nods, but then a shadow casts over her features. After a beat of hesitation, she says, “Sabé…” The woman, up until now having listened to the conversation quietly, sits up to attention and waits until Padmé continues. “…Have you heard anything from my parents? Or Sola?”
Obi-Wan—jolts. It had…not occurred to him to worry about Padmé’s other family. The thought had just…not crossed his mind. His only frame of reference for family outside of Jedi is the few things Anakin has mentioned about his mother. He feels a little guilty about forgetting that Padmé likely has other people that would be concerned about her, aside from their group here.
Sabé grimaces. “Jobal commed me just before we left Coruscant,” she says. “She said everyone was worried about you. It did not seem like she was concerned for their own safety. That was about fifteen hours ago.”
Padmé nods slowly. “When you return to Naboo, please let them know that we’re safe, but don’t tell them anything else about where we are or what we’re doing.” Sabé affirms that she will.
“Are you sure?” Anakin questions, looking at her with concern.
She nods again, firmer this time. “It’s safer this way. The more they know, the bigger the target on their backs will be. If they end up needing to go into hiding, too, that’s one thing, but otherwise…”
Sabé still looks hesitant about something, and after a moment she asks. “…Should we tell them about the twins?”
“Yes. They should know.” The senator’s brow creases with consternation. “I just hope they aren’t too upset about me hiding it before…”
Obi-Wan, really not wanting to get involved with this but not seeing any other way, sits forward. “I…” he begins, wincing when everyone looks at him. “I think it may be best if you don’t.”
Padmé stares at him, something in her eyes chilling, and he hurries to explain. “The twins are…shockingly strong in the Force. Incredibly so.” The other Force-sensitives in the room confirm this.
Obi-Wan rubs at his beard a little anxiously, mulling over his words. Finally, he sighs, “Anakin…Palpatine was obsessed with you. What do you think he would do if he finds out about your children?” Obi-Wan feels his padawan go rigid against his side, head whipping to Padmé as sudden terror strikes through him. He begins to shake.
He feels terrible for scaring Anakin, and tries to rub at his back soothingly. Padmé looks between them, dismay creeping over her. Obi-Wan says a little helplessly, “I don’t want to tell you what to do about this, but—it’s a concern.”
She closes her eyes. “No. You’re right.” Her voice is defeated. “Don’t tell them, Sabé.”
The Nubian agrees solemnly, and the conversation peters out after that. Obi-Wan stays sitting next to the two younger adults until the twins start fussing for food.
—
Anakin has no idea what time it is or how long they’ve been here. After the big serious conversation, he spends his time sleeping, his body recovering from its ordeal, or quietly watching his children. They spend most of their time either sleeping or eating, but Anakin never gets tired or bored of just looking at them. They’re so precious, and they’re his. He loves them more than he had thought it was possible to love anything. He would do anything for them.
His own sleep-wake schedule has been as erratic as the babies’, him dozing in an out, exhausted but troubled by indistinct nightmares and the constant rotation of people entering and leaving the room. Yané and Sabé cycle through to speak softly to Padmé and coo at the babies, Senator Organa sometimes conversing in hushed tones with her or Obi-Wan. He thinks Yoda came in once before he left for his swamp planet, but isn’t sure.
(He isn’t too put out about not being told goodbye. As nice as he’s been to Anakin over the last few days, he’s never felt very comfortable around the old Master, not after his first meeting with the Council when he was nine. They’d never spent much time together, either, despite technically being lineage.)
Their group had been moved to a longer-term room, small, but with two cots. Anakin has been alternating between sleeping next to Padmé on one and curling up with Obi-Wan in the other. The one time he tried to rest alone, he woke up screaming. Thankfully, Padmé had stepped out with the twins when that happened and Obi-Wan was just outside the door. He’s keen to avoid a repeat.
Jur’laand, the tall Mandalorian medic, is the one that eventually talks to him about his hand. She’s been checking and changing his bandages regularly, slathering on more bacta when needed. Every time she asks if he wants some painkillers, and every time, Anakin refuses. The pain isn’t so bad that he can’t sleep, so he’s fine. It’s hard enough to force himself to choke down the antibiotics they insist on, anything that would interfere with his ability to think, his ability to move is…not something he can handle.
She examines his hand now, holding his wrist with his palm up. It’s probably been a few days since the twins were born, but he doesn’t know for sure. “I think you’re good to leave the bandages off. The bacta’s done about all it can.” She gently turns his arm to look at the other side. “It shouldn’t reopen as long as you don’t do anything too to it.” Anakin, without really meaning to, glances down to see. He’s been avoiding looking at his hand before now.
He has the majority of his palm, still. A tiny nub of a thumb. Most of his knuckles are gone, the tissue covering the just-healed wounds pink and irritated, not yet resembling the thicker, tougher scarring on the end of his right stump. It’ll be a few more weeks until it does, if he remembers right. This isn’t his first amputation.
A hand touches his shoulder and he jumps, tearing his eyes away. It’s Padmé, sitting beside him on the bed. She’s holding Luke, who had started fussing when the nurse began Anakin’s checkup. Leia is sound asleep in her bassinet besides Padmé’s bed. Obi-Wan stands in the background, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The man’s shields are up, so Anakin can’t feel it in the Force, but his posture radiates his guilt just as clearly as his presence would.
Anakin doesn't know what to do about that. He doesn't want Obi-Wan to be upset, but he isn’t sure what he can do to help. He’s been avoiding thinking about having lost his other hand, avoiding the squirming, swooping sensation in his stomach he gets when he remembers how it was his brother who did it this time.
(He doesn’t blame him, knows it’s not Obi-Wan’s fault, truly. He’d thought Anakin had gone Dark, had betrayed them all, committed atrocities. Going after him was the right thing to do, to prevent further harm.
But he can’t get it out of his head, can’t forget the look on his Master’s face when they fought on that awful planet. The frozen fury that was in his father’s ice-chip eyes, directed entirely at Anakin.
Obi-Wan had wanted to hurt him, then.)
Jur’laand is watching him. He’s been quiet too long. “So,” Anakin says, strangled but trying to hide it. He clears his throat. “So. Prosthetics?” He looks up at her with something that tries to be hope, and Padmé squeezes his shoulder.
“Prosthetics,” she responds with a sigh. It’s grim.
The situation is this.
They don’t make integrated prostheses for fingers. There are a number of external prosthetic options he can try, graspers and claw grips and hooks. But those are going to be less coordinated and will take much longer to learn how to work than something directly hooked up to his nervous system. If he wants something as smooth as his right arm—something that is capable of wielding a lightsaber—they’re going to have to amputate the rest of his hand to the wrist.
She says they can do the amputation and implant the connection ports in the same surgery, if that’s what he chooses to go with. She says the decision is up to him, and he should pick whichever option best fits his lifestyle and future goals.
Anakin takes a deep breath as the information brings a wash of cold over him. He opens his mouth, but his throat is too tight to speak. His next breath shudders. Clinging to his composure, he forces himself to nod in acknowledgment to the nurse. Luke makes a breathy little whine from Padmé’s arms and Anakin clamps down on his shielding.
There is movement from the corner of his eye, and he looks up to see Obi-Wan having pushed off the wall. He doesn’t approach them, just looks over, arms still crossed, devastation on his face. Anakin watches watches his eyes well with sorrow.
“I—” Obi-Wan’s voice breaks. “I’m so sorry.”
“Master…” he croaks out.
“Oh, Anakin, dearheart, I’m so sorry…” Tears spill over his brother’s eyes, and it’s too much for Anakin. “It’s all my fault.” He can’t keep himself together if Obi-Wan is going to fall apart.
Anakin ducks his head and his shoulders begin to shake, lips pulling back from his teeth as he breaks down despite his best efforts. Nurse Jur’laand says, “I’ll give you all a moment.” Anakin hears her step out. He lifts his hand to his face, trying to muffle his sobs. The metal is cold.
He hears Obi-Wan step closer to them, stuttering out apologies around his own tears. He doesn’t reach out though, doesn’t try to touch Anakin or hug him. Anakin can hear the misery and wretched guilt in his Master’s voice, and it just makes him feel so much worse.
Despair crashes over his head, all the awfulness in the last few days, the last few years, really, overwhelming him again.
His mother and the war and Palpatine and the rest of the Jedi and now his hands. He won’t be able to feel Padmé under his fingers ever again, won’t be able to comfort his children the way Mom comforted him, a warm hand on his cheek, gentle fingers carding through his hair.
It’s such a stupid thing to get hung up on with all that’s happened to them, everything else they’ve lost, the death and destruction, but he can’t help it.
It’s…it’s just not fair! Why does he have to loose both his hands? What else is the universe going to take from him?
(And why, why did it have to be Obi-Wan who did this to him?)
Obi-Wan is hovering over him. He babbles, “Oh, Anakin, dear, please don’t cry, oh, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please—” He still won’t touch Anakin, won’t hug him, and he starts crying harder. Padmé has her free arm around him, leaning into his side, but he wants his Master, too. He just wants Obi-Wan to hold him, but he can’t speak, and he can’t reach out in the Force without exposing the twins to his miasma of grief and anguish.
But then Padmé, his ingenious, magnificent angel, steps in, intuiting exactly what he needs. She says, “Obi-Wan, stop,” and continues into his startled silence, “You’re not helping. Anakin isn’t mad at you, but he can’t also take care of your feelings while dealing with his own right now.”
Anakin lifts his head, nods rapidly through his sobs, amazed all over again at his brilliant wife’s ability to look at a situation and just know. He’s so, so incredibly grateful for her.
Obi-Wan looks lost. He says, “Then what—what…” Anakin holds out his right arm, still crying too hard to speak. His Master hesitates, but then finally accepts the invitation, slotting himself into Anakin’s side, wrapping him up in his arms. He smells like the hospital’s unfamiliar soap and their borrowed clothes’ unfamiliar detergent, but underneath that he just smells like Obi-Wan. Like home.
Bracketed on either side by the only two people still alive who he can trust to take care of him, Anakin is slowly able to calm down. He wipes his eyes on his sleeve and takes a deep breath before he speaks.
“It’s n-not your fault.”
“B—”
“No,” he cuts Obi-Wan off, a little harshly. “I can’t—” he breaks into another little, gasping sob. “I c-can’t h-handle you blaming yourself, r-right now. I need—I n-need you to—to n-not do that.”
“What—what do you need?” His brother asks, sounding desperate. “What can I give you?”
“Be with me,” Anakin answers instantly. That’s all he needs. “Just—just, s-stay with me.”
“Okay,” Obi-Wan says into his hair, pressing closer. “Okay. I will.” He takes Anakin’s prosthetic hand in both of his own. He can’t feel the temperature or texture of his Master’s skin, but he can feel the pressure of his grip, the strength of him. “I promise.”
Anakin slumps completely against Obi-Wan, and Padmé takes the chance to carefully untangle herself just long enough for her to get Luke settled back down next to his sister. Miraculously, both infants have remained asleep through his fit. Perhaps the Force cares for him after all.
The three adults remain curled together on the bed until Nurse Jur’laand returns. She brings with her a cup of water, which Anakin accepts gratefully, and waits patiently while he gathers himself.
Clearing his throat one more time, Anakin asks, “Are—are you able to set up the surgery for me?”
“I can,” she says, and then, perhaps reading the unhappiness in his expression, asks, “You’re certain that’s what you want?”
It’s not. He wants to keep as much of his body as he can, wants to hold his children’s hands with his own flesh and blood. Would give up his lightsaber in a heartbeat if it meant he could have that.
But he needs the surgery if he wants to fight, and he needs to fight if he wants to survive under the shadow of Palpatine and his Empire. If he wants his family to survive.
He would give all of his limbs to see his children safe and free.
Anakin’s voice is steady when he says, “Yes.”
—
Padmé has no idea what it will take for her idiot husband and his idiot brother to just come to bed so they can all hug each other, but she is willing to do just about anything at this point. They had scheduled Anakin’s surgery for tomorrow, and he would hopefully be healed enough for them to leave Polis Massa after another couple of days.
After talking with the nurse, she had fed the twins while Obi-Wan went to get the adults some food, and they’re now taking some time to just hold them before they try to get some sleep.
Anakin, sitting in one of the visitor’s chairs with Luke, looks back and forth between where Padmé lays on her own bed and the empty one a few feet away that Obi-Wan has been sleeping in. He chews his lip. His thoughts could not be more obvious.
Obi-Wan sits in another chair, pretending to meditate. She knows this because he keeps opening his eyes to look at Anakin when he thinks her husband can’t see.
Padmé watches this playing out and summons the energy to roll her eyes. From her bed, she asks (read: orders) Obi-Wan to push the room’s other cot up against hers. Her two boys blink owlishly at her, and she delicately arcs a brow.
“All five of us are hardly going to fit in just one of them.” The babies will be put in their bassinets when they actually go to sleep, of course, but right now Padmé is going to get cuddles, come hell or high water.
The older man looks on the verge of protesting out of some sort of self-sabotaging martyrdom, but Anakin has lit up with hope and longing and fragile joy from where he sits cradling Luke against his chest, and Obi-Wan gives in immediately.
She takes their son while her husband crawls onto the bed(s) beside her, and once he’s settled, she trades him their daughter. Padmé drinks in the awed, adoring way he looks at the tiny people they’ve created and feels her heart swell. She doesn’t think she’ll ever grow tired of it.
“You’re so beautiful, love,” she murmurs without really meaning to. Anakin blinks up at her, and then she has a front row seat to witness as something fractures in his eyes, shame and self-loathing tearing across his face like a knife wound.
His eyes skitter away from hers, his chest heaves once, and he whispers brokenly, “No. I’m not.” The two infants start to wriggle, burbling unhappily, and she sees panic stutter in Anakin’s chest as he notices. “No, oh no—”
Obi-Wan slips into place on her husband’s other side, laying a hand on either infant’s head. He tilts his own head slightly to the side, eyes focused on something she cannot perceive, almost eerie in how it perfectly mimics the look Anakin gets when he’s focused on the Force. After a moment, the twins settle back down.
Padmé takes an educated guess and assumes that the babies began picking up on the emotions Anakin was feeling. (It hits her for the first time that her children will have powers, abilities that she cannot truly comprehend. She takes this thought, gives it a pat on the head, and sets it aside for later.)
Anakin mumbles, “S-sorry, ‘m sorry…”
With all the skills Padmé has seen him develop over the last few days, Obi-Wan deftly scoops Leia up into his left arm and pulls Anakin into a hug with his right.
“It’s alright, dear one. See? No harm done.” Anakin shudders, and Padmé grabs at his right hand and grips it tightly, the way that’s grounding to him.
Obi-Wan is sat up beside them, his hip against Anakin’s ribs, while the she and her husband are half propped up with a mountain of pillows. The Jedi Master starts to smooth his hand over Anakin’s frizzing hair.
“I…” Anakin says, voice tight. “I sh-should stay away from them.”
Padmé feels cold. “What?”
“Anakin…”
“I’m—I’m n-not good, anymore…”
“Padawan, no…” Obi-Wan sounds as bereft as she feels.
She hates seeing him in pain like this. “Why would you say that, Ani?”
“It’s—i-it’s true,” Anakin persists. “P-Palpatine put that thing in me, and n-now I’m—I’m dirty.” He sobs, and Padmé feels her heart break. She has to fight to prevent her breath from catching. Oh, Ani, is that what you think?
“It’s not true.” Obi-Wan’s voice is gentle and calm and so sure of himself. Padmé doesn’t know how he does it. She can’t keep up her mask with her family, can’t suppress her feelings when Anakin is suffering. “I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it, dear one. You’re not broken or tainted or bad. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“I’m weak.” He stares at Leia’s smushed, ruddy face. “I was too weak to s-stop him, stop him from—” He cuts himself off with a whimper.
(She makes a mental note to sit her boys down to talk about this in detail later. She doesn’t want to push Anakin right now, when they’re all exhausted and they have to worry about upsetting the babies, but she needs to know what happened to her husband. And Padmé needs to know just how badly she’s going to hurt Palpatine when the time comes.)
“No,” Obi-Wan says, gentle, simple as that. He shifts his hand from Anakin’s hair to cradle his jawline. “You are strong and wise, Anakin. I’m so very proud of you.”
“He’s right, my love,” she chimes in. “You were hurt by someone you trusted. There’s nothing wrong with needing help, now.”
“And you are going to be an amazing father,” Obi-Wan finishes. “There’s not a doubt in my mind.”
Anakin’s face crumples, but he doesn't fall apart completely this time. Just tilts his head into Obi-Wan’s hand, closing his eyes and sniffling. Obi-Wan rubs his thumb against Anakin’s cheek, leans down to kiss him on the forehead, and then uses both hands to return Leia to the crook of Anakin’s left arm.
Padmé, catching on, shifts Luke until he’s resting against her husband’s chest, next to his sister. Anakin opens his eyes to look at them, and the remains of his anguish let him go with a sigh. He ever-so-gently brushes Luke’s cheek with one bare durasteel finger.
“They’re perfect,” he whispers, his breath stirring the fine, downy tuft of hair on Leia’s head.
Padmé smiles and turns her head into his shoulder, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “They are.”
Obi-Wan murmurs, reverence stirring his voice, “They’re so bright. Like little stars.” She rubs her thumb on the back of Anakin’s hand and wonders what it it feels like, having this strange sixth-sense that tells you so much about the world.
“Little stars,” Anakin says, low and sweet, no hint of his earlier tears.
Tears from betrayal. Because someone Anakin trusted—that both of them had trusted, someone they’ve known since they were children—did something horrible to him.
And he’ll do it again, if he gets the chance. Padmé knows this.
If Palpatine gets his hands on her husband, on her children, he will harm them in ways she can barely imagine. And it’s pretty likely he’ll get that chance. He’s the most powerful man in the galaxy, with essentially limitless resources. They’ll have to face him someday.
But. That’s all out there, for now. Padmé is in here, in a little room on a little asteroid with her little family. She looks at her two little miracles, gifts from a universe that so often seems cold and unfeeling. Watches them breathe, and imagines she’s gathering up all the love in her heart for them and gently pressing it into their chests. She hopes they can feel her.
It’s true there’s danger out there, in the world, in the future. There will be hardship to come. But it will be worth it, for this. Her children, her husband, her husband’s partner.
Right here, right now, in their little bubble of five, everything is all right.