fic: lexicon [anakin, padmé, aotc]
Written for my Great Royal Wife, fialleril.
Title: Lexicon
Author: albumsontheside
Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala
Timeline: AOTC: refugee ship.
Word Count: 2059
Summary: Gen, humour, UST, it's all there. Anakin and Padmé, er, play Scrabble. Blame Isis. By which I mean, um, fialleril.
Senator Amidala leaned back on her bunk, scratched her arm where the cloth of her refugee disguise was chafing her skin, and sighed. “How long until we reach Theed?”
“Three days.” Anakin leaned back on his bunk, cursing as his long legs hung over the edge. “I don’t understand why we couldn’t take a consular ship.”
“Because I’m not supposed to have left Coruscant, as you well know.” Padmé snapped, looking up from her work. “And this way is more inconspicuous.”
“If slower.” He muttered, eyeing the empty bunks of the family whom they shared the cabin with. “And louder.”
“And safer.” She said firmly, overriding his protests. “And … I wish the same could be said for Dormé.”
“She’ll be fine.” He said nonchalantly. “They wouldn’t risk a second assassination attempt with the first one having failed so publicly.”
“Clearly, you’ve never met an assassin.” She snapped, and regretted it almost as soon as she’d said it. He was a Jedi, not a civilian. He raised an eyebrow. "I mean --"
"I know what you mean." Anakin lay back down on the thin mattress. “I say you’re overreacting.”
“And I say I’m not!” She took a deep breath. “Let’s go to the hold.”
“As you wish, milady.” He muttered noncommittally, sliding off the high bunk and following her out.
The hold was packed with refugees, mostly those fleeing from Coruscant’s lower levels in search of a better life, and the cramped space reeked of bodies, cheap perfume and the indescribable smell of humanity. Anakin hurriedly sat down at the last table before someone else claimed it, and Padmé followed suit.
“So …” He said quietly. “This is something?”
She frowned. “Better than that room. I’ve seen larger wardrobes.”
“I’ve lived in smaller.” He said quietly, and she instantly bit her lip.
“I’m sorry, I --“
“Don’t apologise. Everybody else forgets.” He looked around the hold. “Think I could find a round of Sabaac?”
“You’ve got nothing to bet with.” She reminded him. “And in any case -- oh!” Leaning over the table, she grabbed a square box from a vacant seat and produced it with a flourish. “Scrabble!”
“What?”
“Scrabble! You know! The game?” When he continued to stare blankly at her, she lowered the box in confusion. “You’ve never played Scrabble?” He shook his head, and she sighed. “Okay. Well. It’s easy, and I’m teaching you.”
“I assume it’s a word game?” He asked, eyeing the assorted tiles that Padmé was cramming into a small cloth bag.
“Yes. Maybe not your kind of thing?”
“I enjoy literature.” He countered, taking a small letter rack. “I just … have never really played games.”
Padmé didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t. “Make words with the letters, the numbers on the letters are the points each individual letter is worth, special spaces are marked on the board, no diagonals.” She handed him the bag. “Pick one.”
He dutifully placed a besh tile onto the table. “I assume this indicates who goes first?”
“Yes -- and it’s you.” She held up a qek. “Now take seven. Scoring’s pretty obvious.”
“Fine, let’s see …” He chewed on his lower lip as he rearranged his tiles, and Padmé suddenly remembered a nervous nine-year-old slave, biting ulcers into his lip as he tried to impress her. “There.”
“Sharp?” She said. “Not bad. Who’s keeping score?”
“Me. 22.” He scribbled down the number on his sleeve, and jumped slightly as she shoved a spare piece of flimsi under his nose. “Th-thanks.”
“Any time.” Their eyes met, and she suddenly looked down, cheeks flushing. “Gods, don’t the Jedi teach basic handwriting skills?” She joked, trying to decipher his cramped, bolded writing. “And my name’s spelled with an é.”
“Not to me, and sorry.” He looked away. “So I take five tiles from the bag now?”
“Yes. And now … I have seven vowels.” She blinked twice at the rack. “That can’t be right.”
“There’s a genus of plant with six vowels. Euouae.”
“No good.” A pause. “How do you know about plants, anyway?”
“I can read, Senator.” He deadpanned, and she hurriedly backtracked, stumbling over the words.
“No, no, that’s not what I meant at all, just … I didn’t realise that the Jedi would place emphasis on things like that.” She finished lamely.
“Some of them do.” He was silent for a moment, and she used the distraction to focus on his exposed neck. There was a faint scar there, and she wondered how long ago it was, and why she hadn’t noticed it. “I … I like plants.” He said hesitantly.
“You’d like my mother, then.” She smiled. "So, anything in particular I should know about Euouae?”
“I -- yes, actually.” He sniggered. “In fact … no, I can’t tell you that. That’d be too cruel.”
“What would?”
“When O-- no. I can’t tell. Obi-Wan has ears everywhere.” He made a show of glancing furtively around the cabin, and seemed to cheer up immensely when she giggled. “He’ll find me.”
“I’m sure he would.”
“He knows things. People tell him things.”
“But I’d never tell.”
“Indeed.” He mimed taking a deep breath. “Very well, milady. I shall entrust you with my life. Euouae … Master drank it on a diplomatic mission once, to please the chieftain. I was excused due to still retaining the, er, ‘innocence of youth’. This rather naïve assumption, might I add, was supported by a man who didn’t know what a rent boy was until I told him. I think I was … eleven.” She was shaking with laughter by this point, and he looked mildly amused himself. “Anyway, Euouae is a very potent hallucinogenic drug.”
“No!” Several people glanced towards them, and she realised that she had shrieked. Still laughing, she lowered her voice. “What happened?”
“He seemed convinced that I was some woman called … never mind. Suffice it to say, he sucks at pick up lines. Majorly.” He studied her in silence for a moment, all traces of laughter gone. “You have a beautiful smile.”
She swallowed, unsure how to reply. Eventually, she dropped her gaze, and sighed faintly. “So … seven vowels.”
“A worthy dilemma.” He teased. “And since you clearly can’t prove your vast botanical expertise --“
“Okay, fine.” She slapped two tiles onto the board in frustration. “5 points. Pass the bag, Talstai.”
He took one look at her word and burst out laughing, and she wondered if she’d ever actually seen him let go and smile. “Poo?” He asked incredulously. “Didn’t you go to school?”
“Well, what would you have done, Master Jedi?”
He thought for a moment. “Aa. Aa, as and ah. 9 points.”
“Aa?”
“A type of lava found only on Mustafar. Nasty kind. Very acidic.” He shuddered.
“Ever been there?”
“No.” He said firmly. “And if I have my way, I’m never going to.” Click click. “Poor and ravish. 30.”
Padmé looked down at the board. And swore. “Damn it to hell, I’ve got vowels again!”
***
“Okay, let’s see. I got amen and another … that’s 89 … and you got …”
“Crap. 8.” She sighed, delving into the bag. “Talk about beginner’s luck.”
“I refuse to attribute my vast vocabulary to luck. Well, maybe to Obi-Wan.” He grinned. “Did you know that he actually uses words like ‘theoretically’ in everyday conversation?”
“So do I.”
“Quite.” He said quickly, and she hurriedly babbled on, desperate not to lose the atmosphere.
“But that’s not, you know, as bad as what happened to my friend.” She gabbled. “She wanted to impress this man, because she wanted him to propose to her, you know? And she mixed up ‘replicate’ and ‘copulate’ …”
“Hmm.” Anakin paused for a moment, aimlessly moving his tiles around. “And what about you? Have you … received any proposals yourself?”
She stared at him, all talk of Leité forgotten. “I was Princess by that point. And then … I became Queen. I didn’t -- don’t -- have time for such things.”
“Wouldn’t you like to?”
“I … wouldn't know”
“So, you wouldn’t ever …”
“Ever what?” She asked quietly.
“Fall in love?” He looked right into her eyes as he said it, and she felt her throat tighten, and something was there, damn it, something was there but she didn’t know what it was, and how she could use it to her advantage, so she ignored it instead and focused on the board.
“I wouldn’t know.” She swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady even as a hot flush crept up her cheeks. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” He let the word hang in the air, and all its implications with it.
“If I found the right man.” She kept her voice a throaty whisper, unconsciously meeting his eyes. He was looking right at her. She dropped her gaze. “If I found someone …”
“Rich?” He whispered, the game forgotten. “Influential? Powerful?”
“Perhaps.” A smile. “Or maybe I just want to settle down with a man, in Varykino, in the middle of nowhere, and forget.”
“Forget what?”
She shook her head. “Never mind.” She picked four tiles. “Let’s go with rich.”
“Rich.” He repeated, tasting the word. “Not like me, then?” He smiled as he said it, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“No.” She said, licking her dry lips and pretending not to notice as he hungrily followed every move that her tongue made. “Not quite.”
“Quixotic. 81 points.”
Padmé stared at the tiles on the board. She blinked.
“You cheated.”
Anakin looked as innocent as a newborn pitten. “Me? Cheat?” He gasped. “As a Jedi Knight who strictly abides by the Code, I can assure you --“
“Who’s read all of Kanim, you or me?”
“I have, actually.” He said defiantly, and she blinked in surprise.
“Really?”
“It’s Huttese.” He shrugged. “Sure, I read it in translation, but --“
“Okay, okay, fine.” A small part of her mind wondered why she was acting like a child, but a competitive, must not lose to Anakin Skywalker instinct that she hadn’t even known existed instantly silenced it. “Get a dictionary.”
“From where?”
“A datapad?” She asked, looking around the crowded transport.
“Senator, you stowed all your electronic devices within your luggage for protection.” Anakin reminded her. “Alongside your comlink, mission reports and spare overnight bag.”
Damn it. “Well, fine. We’ll settle it a different way. Which one of us has a university degree?”
He laughed. “Padmé --“
“I do. And I’m telling you: quixotic is not a word.”
He was silent for a moment. Then, he spoke quietly, using a calm, measured tone of voice that only a Jedi could ever hope to master. “I believe we must settle this democratically, since the main interest of our mission is to preserve peaceful democracy within the Republic.” He met her eye, and she could have sworn that he winked at her, but the moment passed too quickly for her to be sure. “Therefore, we should ask a neutral third party.”
“But who is--“ Padmé broke off as Artoo rolled into view, beeping a query. “No.” She snapped, pointing at the astromech. “No. You are not asking that droid anything.”
“Whyever not?”
“Because you … you and him are biased! You know each other!” She exclaimed, wondering if it was stupid that she was basing her judgement on Anakin’s relationship with a droid. “He listens to you!”
“And he’s a member of whose household?”
“I …” She glared. “Fine. Go ahead.”
“All right, Artoo.” Anakin grinned, and she felt her heart do something that wasn’t quite rational. “Please tell … Her Ladyship here …” She shot him a mock-offended glare, and he blushed, “that quixotic is a word.”
The droid beeped an affirmative. Anakin turned back to the board with a smug expression.
“Let’s see that’s 81 … plus 567 … brings my running total to … 648 points.”
She blanched. “That can’t be right.”
“Well, I got zygote … and shatter … and -- and quixotic …”
“Well, you must have added it up wrong.”
“Which one of us has passed university-level maths papers?” He asked, and she scowled.
“Fine. 648. And how many am I on?”
He glanced down. “Um … 59.”
A pause. Then, “you know, I vote we adjourn for a while.” She smiled at him, and he blushed. “What about some dinner?”
Title: Lexicon
Author: albumsontheside
Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala
Timeline: AOTC: refugee ship.
Word Count: 2059
Summary: Gen, humour, UST, it's all there. Anakin and Padmé, er, play Scrabble. Blame Isis. By which I mean, um, fialleril.
Senator Amidala leaned back on her bunk, scratched her arm where the cloth of her refugee disguise was chafing her skin, and sighed. “How long until we reach Theed?”
“Three days.” Anakin leaned back on his bunk, cursing as his long legs hung over the edge. “I don’t understand why we couldn’t take a consular ship.”
“Because I’m not supposed to have left Coruscant, as you well know.” Padmé snapped, looking up from her work. “And this way is more inconspicuous.”
“If slower.” He muttered, eyeing the empty bunks of the family whom they shared the cabin with. “And louder.”
“And safer.” She said firmly, overriding his protests. “And … I wish the same could be said for Dormé.”
“She’ll be fine.” He said nonchalantly. “They wouldn’t risk a second assassination attempt with the first one having failed so publicly.”
“Clearly, you’ve never met an assassin.” She snapped, and regretted it almost as soon as she’d said it. He was a Jedi, not a civilian. He raised an eyebrow. "I mean --"
"I know what you mean." Anakin lay back down on the thin mattress. “I say you’re overreacting.”
“And I say I’m not!” She took a deep breath. “Let’s go to the hold.”
“As you wish, milady.” He muttered noncommittally, sliding off the high bunk and following her out.
The hold was packed with refugees, mostly those fleeing from Coruscant’s lower levels in search of a better life, and the cramped space reeked of bodies, cheap perfume and the indescribable smell of humanity. Anakin hurriedly sat down at the last table before someone else claimed it, and Padmé followed suit.
“So …” He said quietly. “This is something?”
She frowned. “Better than that room. I’ve seen larger wardrobes.”
“I’ve lived in smaller.” He said quietly, and she instantly bit her lip.
“I’m sorry, I --“
“Don’t apologise. Everybody else forgets.” He looked around the hold. “Think I could find a round of Sabaac?”
“You’ve got nothing to bet with.” She reminded him. “And in any case -- oh!” Leaning over the table, she grabbed a square box from a vacant seat and produced it with a flourish. “Scrabble!”
“What?”
“Scrabble! You know! The game?” When he continued to stare blankly at her, she lowered the box in confusion. “You’ve never played Scrabble?” He shook his head, and she sighed. “Okay. Well. It’s easy, and I’m teaching you.”
“I assume it’s a word game?” He asked, eyeing the assorted tiles that Padmé was cramming into a small cloth bag.
“Yes. Maybe not your kind of thing?”
“I enjoy literature.” He countered, taking a small letter rack. “I just … have never really played games.”
Padmé didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t. “Make words with the letters, the numbers on the letters are the points each individual letter is worth, special spaces are marked on the board, no diagonals.” She handed him the bag. “Pick one.”
He dutifully placed a besh tile onto the table. “I assume this indicates who goes first?”
“Yes -- and it’s you.” She held up a qek. “Now take seven. Scoring’s pretty obvious.”
“Fine, let’s see …” He chewed on his lower lip as he rearranged his tiles, and Padmé suddenly remembered a nervous nine-year-old slave, biting ulcers into his lip as he tried to impress her. “There.”
“Sharp?” She said. “Not bad. Who’s keeping score?”
“Me. 22.” He scribbled down the number on his sleeve, and jumped slightly as she shoved a spare piece of flimsi under his nose. “Th-thanks.”
“Any time.” Their eyes met, and she suddenly looked down, cheeks flushing. “Gods, don’t the Jedi teach basic handwriting skills?” She joked, trying to decipher his cramped, bolded writing. “And my name’s spelled with an é.”
“Not to me, and sorry.” He looked away. “So I take five tiles from the bag now?”
“Yes. And now … I have seven vowels.” She blinked twice at the rack. “That can’t be right.”
“There’s a genus of plant with six vowels. Euouae.”
“No good.” A pause. “How do you know about plants, anyway?”
“I can read, Senator.” He deadpanned, and she hurriedly backtracked, stumbling over the words.
“No, no, that’s not what I meant at all, just … I didn’t realise that the Jedi would place emphasis on things like that.” She finished lamely.
“Some of them do.” He was silent for a moment, and she used the distraction to focus on his exposed neck. There was a faint scar there, and she wondered how long ago it was, and why she hadn’t noticed it. “I … I like plants.” He said hesitantly.
“You’d like my mother, then.” She smiled. "So, anything in particular I should know about Euouae?”
“I -- yes, actually.” He sniggered. “In fact … no, I can’t tell you that. That’d be too cruel.”
“What would?”
“When O-- no. I can’t tell. Obi-Wan has ears everywhere.” He made a show of glancing furtively around the cabin, and seemed to cheer up immensely when she giggled. “He’ll find me.”
“I’m sure he would.”
“He knows things. People tell him things.”
“But I’d never tell.”
“Indeed.” He mimed taking a deep breath. “Very well, milady. I shall entrust you with my life. Euouae … Master drank it on a diplomatic mission once, to please the chieftain. I was excused due to still retaining the, er, ‘innocence of youth’. This rather naïve assumption, might I add, was supported by a man who didn’t know what a rent boy was until I told him. I think I was … eleven.” She was shaking with laughter by this point, and he looked mildly amused himself. “Anyway, Euouae is a very potent hallucinogenic drug.”
“No!” Several people glanced towards them, and she realised that she had shrieked. Still laughing, she lowered her voice. “What happened?”
“He seemed convinced that I was some woman called … never mind. Suffice it to say, he sucks at pick up lines. Majorly.” He studied her in silence for a moment, all traces of laughter gone. “You have a beautiful smile.”
She swallowed, unsure how to reply. Eventually, she dropped her gaze, and sighed faintly. “So … seven vowels.”
“A worthy dilemma.” He teased. “And since you clearly can’t prove your vast botanical expertise --“
“Okay, fine.” She slapped two tiles onto the board in frustration. “5 points. Pass the bag, Talstai.”
He took one look at her word and burst out laughing, and she wondered if she’d ever actually seen him let go and smile. “Poo?” He asked incredulously. “Didn’t you go to school?”
“Well, what would you have done, Master Jedi?”
He thought for a moment. “Aa. Aa, as and ah. 9 points.”
“Aa?”
“A type of lava found only on Mustafar. Nasty kind. Very acidic.” He shuddered.
“Ever been there?”
“No.” He said firmly. “And if I have my way, I’m never going to.” Click click. “Poor and ravish. 30.”
Padmé looked down at the board. And swore. “Damn it to hell, I’ve got vowels again!”
***
“Okay, let’s see. I got amen and another … that’s 89 … and you got …”
“Crap. 8.” She sighed, delving into the bag. “Talk about beginner’s luck.”
“I refuse to attribute my vast vocabulary to luck. Well, maybe to Obi-Wan.” He grinned. “Did you know that he actually uses words like ‘theoretically’ in everyday conversation?”
“So do I.”
“Quite.” He said quickly, and she hurriedly babbled on, desperate not to lose the atmosphere.
“But that’s not, you know, as bad as what happened to my friend.” She gabbled. “She wanted to impress this man, because she wanted him to propose to her, you know? And she mixed up ‘replicate’ and ‘copulate’ …”
“Hmm.” Anakin paused for a moment, aimlessly moving his tiles around. “And what about you? Have you … received any proposals yourself?”
She stared at him, all talk of Leité forgotten. “I was Princess by that point. And then … I became Queen. I didn’t -- don’t -- have time for such things.”
“Wouldn’t you like to?”
“I … wouldn't know”
“So, you wouldn’t ever …”
“Ever what?” She asked quietly.
“Fall in love?” He looked right into her eyes as he said it, and she felt her throat tighten, and something was there, damn it, something was there but she didn’t know what it was, and how she could use it to her advantage, so she ignored it instead and focused on the board.
“I wouldn’t know.” She swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady even as a hot flush crept up her cheeks. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” He let the word hang in the air, and all its implications with it.
“If I found the right man.” She kept her voice a throaty whisper, unconsciously meeting his eyes. He was looking right at her. She dropped her gaze. “If I found someone …”
“Rich?” He whispered, the game forgotten. “Influential? Powerful?”
“Perhaps.” A smile. “Or maybe I just want to settle down with a man, in Varykino, in the middle of nowhere, and forget.”
“Forget what?”
She shook her head. “Never mind.” She picked four tiles. “Let’s go with rich.”
“Rich.” He repeated, tasting the word. “Not like me, then?” He smiled as he said it, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“No.” She said, licking her dry lips and pretending not to notice as he hungrily followed every move that her tongue made. “Not quite.”
“Quixotic. 81 points.”
Padmé stared at the tiles on the board. She blinked.
“You cheated.”
Anakin looked as innocent as a newborn pitten. “Me? Cheat?” He gasped. “As a Jedi Knight who strictly abides by the Code, I can assure you --“
“Who’s read all of Kanim, you or me?”
“I have, actually.” He said defiantly, and she blinked in surprise.
“Really?”
“It’s Huttese.” He shrugged. “Sure, I read it in translation, but --“
“Okay, okay, fine.” A small part of her mind wondered why she was acting like a child, but a competitive, must not lose to Anakin Skywalker instinct that she hadn’t even known existed instantly silenced it. “Get a dictionary.”
“From where?”
“A datapad?” She asked, looking around the crowded transport.
“Senator, you stowed all your electronic devices within your luggage for protection.” Anakin reminded her. “Alongside your comlink, mission reports and spare overnight bag.”
Damn it. “Well, fine. We’ll settle it a different way. Which one of us has a university degree?”
He laughed. “Padmé --“
“I do. And I’m telling you: quixotic is not a word.”
He was silent for a moment. Then, he spoke quietly, using a calm, measured tone of voice that only a Jedi could ever hope to master. “I believe we must settle this democratically, since the main interest of our mission is to preserve peaceful democracy within the Republic.” He met her eye, and she could have sworn that he winked at her, but the moment passed too quickly for her to be sure. “Therefore, we should ask a neutral third party.”
“But who is--“ Padmé broke off as Artoo rolled into view, beeping a query. “No.” She snapped, pointing at the astromech. “No. You are not asking that droid anything.”
“Whyever not?”
“Because you … you and him are biased! You know each other!” She exclaimed, wondering if it was stupid that she was basing her judgement on Anakin’s relationship with a droid. “He listens to you!”
“And he’s a member of whose household?”
“I …” She glared. “Fine. Go ahead.”
“All right, Artoo.” Anakin grinned, and she felt her heart do something that wasn’t quite rational. “Please tell … Her Ladyship here …” She shot him a mock-offended glare, and he blushed, “that quixotic is a word.”
The droid beeped an affirmative. Anakin turned back to the board with a smug expression.
“Let’s see that’s 81 … plus 567 … brings my running total to … 648 points.”
She blanched. “That can’t be right.”
“Well, I got zygote … and shatter … and -- and quixotic …”
“Well, you must have added it up wrong.”
“Which one of us has passed university-level maths papers?” He asked, and she scowled.
“Fine. 648. And how many am I on?”
He glanced down. “Um … 59.”
A pause. Then, “you know, I vote we adjourn for a while.” She smiled at him, and he blushed. “What about some dinner?”