( open. )

[apoptotic]

Who: anakin skywalker + you
Where: the station
When: days 165-166
Summary: man wakes up from bender to find all his problems still there
Warnings: violence well that took no time

I. EVERYBODY WAS KUNG-FU FIGHTING
SOMETHING SOMETHING FAST AS LIGHTNING.

[ after days spent comatose, anakin sleeps almost half a day. he might have continued sleeping but for a rather brusque awakening. not that he could blame ahsoka. were the roles reversed, he would have been waking her every hour on the hour, and likely earned himself a punch for his efforts.

that's gratitude.

rest is the obvious treatment for his sense of malaise, and anakin does try. considering a few hours later find him in the training hall, the results were about as successful as one would expect.

he was brought down during the time set aside to adjust. almost two weeks were spent aware of nothing while the others singlehandedly pissed off an entire population. he has a lot to catch up on.

his lightsaber remains clipped to his belt, which is the only reason his target(s) live still in one piece. with a sword, with a staff, with anything permitted to him, anakin takes down target after target in a demonstration that is all elegant violence and brash grace. his lungs ache, his muscles burn — but that’s the point. action does not necessitate thought. ]

II. DO YOU WANT TO BUILD A DROID, MAN
YES, IT HAS TO BE A DROID, MAN.

[ though at this point, it resembles nothing. spare parts in a pile on a table in the hangar, through which anakin sorts through for whatever he needs, stripping them out if need be. his fingers move with the ease of experience. the lack of ai is a crass limitation, but he doesn’t need an intelligent droid.

even with an audience, anakin doesn’t look up, too busy completing the first part: an arm, which he tests the articulation of by having it extend and close around his finger. ]

There’s a chair if you plan to keep watch, [ he observes idly. ]

III. THE THIRST OPTION
AKA I HAVE NO EXCUSE.

[ —or he’s seated on the edge of a pool after a swim to cool off, a glove over his mechanical arm, and focused entirely on the surface of the water. he holds his hand, palm out. a stream of water rises, collects into a ball before his hand. his fingers tremble from the exertion, and his brow furrows, and the ball collapses.

the force remains weak. his once instinctive awareness, blunted. anakin swallows thickly.

he’s still more ripped than kylo ren, though. ]

Comments

[snippycup]

Anakin.

[She keeps their minds separate, as separate as she's able to, but its impossible to shut out the flow of his thoughts entirely. Ahsoka isn't sure she'll ever master it until she learns to patch her bleeding heart. Her voice is firm, an attempt to return him to reality before they both end up trapped in the sea of his grief.

Her grip on him goes tighter. Her hands are rougher than Padmé's in spite of their difference in age. There are callouses from handling her lightsabers, there is a firmness in her muscles developed from years of training. And yet, there is a softness in the way she cradles his jaw when she forces him to look her in the eyes.

His grief reflects in them. But her eyes go soft, and understanding.]

Padmé is anything but weak. She'll be alright. And...she wouldn't want you to dwell now.

[And she believes that, it reflects in her tone. If anyone could weather the storm of the Clone Wars, it would be Senator Padmé Amidala.

And if anything she's seen through his mind holds true, she will wait for him. Its that thought that encourages her to smile down at him from where she's knelt.]

We'll go back together.

[apoptotic]

[ the last time he saw her she walked away from him. I need to sort this out on my own, she said. and then she walked away and did not look back. anakin watched her leave, her figure becoming small until she vanished down the steps. after he could not longer see, he remained. deaf to the sounds of the planet-city, wanting to run after her, to force her to stay, to leave with her. but his feet were rooted and obligations beckoned and the bitter taste of failure lay thickly on his tongue as the shadows lengthened around him.

her departure was a tipping point, one for which he has yet to become aware. what he knows: he failed her. failed her as he did his mother. as he is his wife.

steel fingers close around her wrist with infinite delicacy. he pulls her hand away from his face, though not away from him. his forehead drops onto her shoulder. his real hand spasms shut at the hem of her shirt. don't leave me, the action seems to beg, though the words never form. his shoulders shake.

after he has exhausted himself, anakin pulls away. he wipes at his face with his sleeve. but he hasn't yet let go of ahsoka. his fingers have since dropped from her wrist to her hand: a desire to keep her close, yet the hand with which he reaches for her lacks any true sense of touch. ]

[snippycup]

[She allows him her hand, the other moving to wrap around his head when he rests it on her shoulder. The tails from her montrals are warm against his cheek, and she doesn't bother to warn him not to lay on them, lest they go numb. She delicately and uncertainty runs her fingers through hair that is so much longer and wavier than she remembers. Affection is not entirely foreign to her, but she can never tell if something feels correct or not. She tries not to think about it too hard, particularly when he lifts his head to dry his tears.

When Ahsoka looks up for him, there is clear concern -- a certain sad understanding that her presence doesn't substitute for the one he is looking for. She had felt it while he was asleep, and while others had come and tried to comfort her. Her thumb smooths carefully over metal almost shyly. After all, affection of this sort was meant to be forbidden among their kind.

But they had never been very good at following the rules.]

I'm glad you're ok.

[apoptotic]

I'm sorry I worried you. [ anakin smiles for her sake. he cannot promise it won't happen again, not when he does not know what happened. something else to ask of their hosts.

when he moves to stand, he does so carefully. two weeks without moving is hell on muscle. but he is surprisingly well. strong. the back of his neck where the cord had been itches. he tugs at the neck of his suit instead. ]

Let's get out of here. [ he has not dropped her hand. ]

[snippycup]

[She follows him off of the nesting bed and doesn't bother taking her hand back. His smile is returned easily, much more genuine and earnest when worn on her. When she takes the lead on bringing them out of the nesting deck, she swings their arms together playfully.

There's not a lot of effort involved in it -- just something to try and cheer him up.]

You can make it up to me. I'll add it to the list.

[apoptotic]

[ it works. his smile comes more easily, a little of the heaviness in his eyes lightening. not a fix; not even a bandage. but every little distraction helps or so he can pretend.

anakin quirks an incredulous eyebrow. ] There's a list now?

[snippycup]

There's always been a list.

[She grins slyly in her peculiar manner, hiding her sharp canines behind pressed lips. Most of her coping mechanisms were picked up from him just the same.

So as long as she grins, she knows he'll grin back. Eventually, they'll round back to being content with each other's company.]

But most of the time, we break even, so I never bring it up.

[apoptotic]

[ anakin ducks his head with a chuckle. there is much to be said to that, largely along the vein of how if there were such a list it could never "break even" because she owed him twice as much as he did her. his name for her had not come about due to her being primness, after all. instead, he lifts their joined hands, bringing them over her head to settle over her far shoulder.

a simple act. friendly. it brings her closer. thoughts of impropriety and boundaries are far from his mind. anakin gives the action no real consideration. a friend and a friend, a sensation akin to the steady contentment brought on by one of his brood.

it almost feels like being happy. ]

[snippycup]

[Its not comfortable. His arm, made strong from years of training with a lightsaber, makes the set of her shoulders small. The press of his hand to bring her closer slots her against his side and traps her arm between the press of his body at her side and the act of moving her hand to her own shoulder. She has to adjust how she is walking to accommodate the sudden closeness, and she makes a noise against him for it.

But the sound transforms into a delighted (infectious, his contentment mixes with her own emotion -- humble, and awkward) chuckle once she finds her balance with her montrals pressed to his chest.

She releases his hand and follows suit -- she can't reach his shoulders, so her arm finds his waist. And she jabs a fist there for good measure.]