Dye my eyes and call me pretty.
So I guess my writer's block begins to chip away as soon as I'm legitimately busy with school/work stuff anew; kinda awesome and annoying, that. Anywho, here's an end-of-summer 'fic!
Summary: Anakin walks a mile in Padme's shoes, so to speak, much to her dismay. Set during "Hostage Crisis," the season one finale of TCW. Title comes from Matt Nathanson's "Laid." Written for patientalien, and not just because I'm trying to guilt her into drawing fanart for it. (Really, really.) Rated PG-13 for cross-dressing and some salty behavior.
Dressed Me Up in Women's Clothes, Messed Around With Gender Roles
*
For a while, everything swirls inside of him, a maelstrom of frustration, anger, fear, and just a general discontent about how little control he truly has over his life. Then, paralyzing fury gives way to inaction, which quickly flatlines into boredom; crawling out from underneath Padme's oversized, underused desk in the Senate building, he slides open the bottom drawer, making the colored glass container inside clank against some other sparse items with which it's sharing the space. The bottle is a little over half-full, and Anakin's eyes narrow with bleary satisfaction as his hand closes around the neck. "That'll do," he mutters.
A negotiable amount of time later, the bottle is empty. Sluggish, now, Anakin's mind nonetheless churns on. "I'm Padme Amidala from Naboo," he mutters in a soft, slurred falsetto, and mimes taking exaggerated gulps out of the bottle's wide mouth. "'I don't have time for my secret husband 'cause I have sooo many Senator things to do, 'cause I'm a Senator.'" The last word is pre-empted by an airy burp, closely followed by a sudden flickering of lights overhead. Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Anakin's hold on the bottle tightens; instinctively, he reaches for his lightsaber, only to find ...
"Echutta." Another breathy belch trails behind the obscenity as the full realization dawns on him: Padme still has his lightsaber, having been pulled away mid-conversation/argument by Bail Organa. "'This piece of legislation is super important, you just don't understand, Ani.'" The falsetto is back. "'But Senator Organa does. I'll drop everything for him, even the first opportunity in months to spend time with the man I married and supposedly love.'" He trails off, bemusement at Padme's expense replaced by bitterness. The lights flicker again; Anakin, alcohol-addled and annoyed, stumbles with only the barest of Jedi agility into a standing position. Painstakingly, he arranges the empty booze bottle so that it's propped up in Padme's fancy orthopedic chair, and admires it for far longer than necessary. "Gotta go," he tells it, and it's by the sheer grace of the Force that it doesn't talk back.
*
C-3PO looks as flustered as a 'droid might be able to look and, if not outright flailing at the sight of his Maker heaved against his current Mistress' door frame, then at least tutting in nervous-sounding mechanical concern. "Master Ani," he proffers, and appears even more hesitant somehow when Anakin makes to enter the apartment. "I'm afraid that Senator Amidala is not here currently, but ..."
"'s fine," Anakin interrupts, and Threepio's servos whir in practically audible discontent as he quietly shuts the door behind the inebriated young man. Further dismay follows when Anakin makes to plop himself upon a light-colored and currently clean-looking couch. "I'm terribly sorry, Master Ani, but if you recall, Miss Padme is still quite upset about the last time you were received at her residence when she wasn't home and, as she put it at the time, 'wrecked the furniture' with your boots very shortly after you'd returned with Master Kenobi from the Outer Rim ..."
Anakin waves a hand lazily and sits down anyways, ignoring the small gasp of horror from Threepio's vicinity. "Can't have Miss Padme upset with us, huh?" When Threepio merely fidgets in response, he decides to throw the petulant protocol 'droid a bone, and ceases making himself comfortable across Padme's endangered species something-or-other-covered sofa, boots and all. "Better?" Anakin asks, and then without waiting for a response, pivots in the opposite direction of the entrance. Dutifully, yet unhappily, Threepio trails behind him, his attitude yet worsening when he watches Anakin tug open the doors to Padme's gigantic walk-in closet. "Master Anakin, may I inquire after what you are looking for?" he queries, but Anakin is already handsily thumbing through the thick fabrics and multiple layers that compromise the majority of Padme's wardrobe.
"Don't wanna make Padme mad," he reiterates half under his breath; his hand catches on a dusky, complicated-looking bodice and he tugs on the garment a little to admire it more closely. "That'll do," he says for the second time that day, and Threepio steps in to assist with its clumsy removal from the hanger. "Sir," the 'droid tuts again, as close to a plea as possible, considering the source. "Master Ani, for what possible purpose -"
"Help me match the shoes," Anakin orders, and begins shirking his own clothing with alarming casualness. "Actually, help zip me into this first," he amends, and Threepio's much put-upon "oh, dear" would be breathy against back of the Jedi General's sweaty neck if he had the ability to breathe.
*
It's hours before Padme returns, looking sufficiently more bedraggled than might be expected for a day spent in cushy, individually air-conditioned Senate pods. "Threepio, I want a glass of Sunset Blush and a bubble bath drawn with that new Ithorian rose scent." This serves as the frazzled young woman's introduction, the front door not even closed. "Actually, just put the box of Sunset next to the 'tub, I'm gonna need more than one ..." She trails off, realizing just now that her audience extends beyond a single, gold-plated protocol 'droid, who, in point of fact, isn't even in the room proper. In his place, however ... "Ani, what are you doing h- IS THAT MY DRESS?!" A double-take confirms that, in fact, it is, as well as: "You better not have drank all my wine, Anakin!"
In response, Anakin burps. Sprawled across Padme's couch - now spotted with pale pinkish wine - the young man's tousled locks poke haphazardly out from one of Padme's wigs, styled in an elaborate up-'do whose effect is nonetheless somewhat marred by being somewhat askew atop Anakin's head. As a consolation, he's no longer wearing his boots, although the heels that Threepio reluctantly hunted up for him to match his current outfit perch only precariously on his feet via his toes, his shoe size considerably larger on a whole than the Senator's. "Hey, baby," Anakin finally musters, and gives his wife a once-over. "You look terrible."
Padme splutters. "I spent the afternoon being kidnapped by bounty hunters! The whole Senate did! We didn't even get to break for lunch! Thanks for helping, by the way."
Anakin sits forward, legs spreading and further stretching the narrowish confines of the skirt he's donned. Some things - Padme's long-standing return, the strange power outages earlier in the day - are beginning to fall into place, but inebriated though he is, his mind is only clunkily putting all the pieces together. Also, it seems as though there's little he can do besides further mismanage Padme's sour mood, and so he cups his hand around his mouth and yells into the next room: "Threepio! You gettin' that bath drawn, buddy? Also, I could use a plate of those frozen sliders right about now."
A chagrined Threepio trudges into Padme's eye line. "Miss Padme, your bath is being readied as we speak. Also, Master Ani, I'm afraid you already finished Miss Padme's reserve of frozen sliders several hours ago. I'm terribly sorry." The 'droid's mechanized voice is practically shaking, and he seems visibly relieved when Padme waves him away; he retreats muttering yet further apologies, and Anakin settles back against the soiled sofa, rubbing his groin suddenly. The sound of ministrated fabric is tell-tale; almost shaking now herself, Padme's mouth drops open in an astonished 'O'. "Are you wearing my panties?!" she screeches, and Anakin just grins sheepishly; then: "Hey, you've got my lightsaber, yeah?"
Padme's eyes blaze with righteous fury. "Yeah," she intones dully, "I do," and the sound of the igniting blade is picked up by Threepio's servos in the 'fresher. "Terribly sorry," he says again to no one in particular. "Terribly, terribly sorry." He hears Anakin shout ("baby, c'mon, dresses are gender-neutral, they're just like robes!"; "NO, THEY'RE NOT ANI!"), but stays knowingly hunched where he is because Padme has gotten awfully good at throwing shoes.
*
Summary: Anakin walks a mile in Padme's shoes, so to speak, much to her dismay. Set during "Hostage Crisis," the season one finale of TCW. Title comes from Matt Nathanson's "Laid." Written for patientalien, and not just because I'm trying to guilt her into drawing fanart for it. (Really, really.) Rated PG-13 for cross-dressing and some salty behavior.
Dressed Me Up in Women's Clothes, Messed Around With Gender Roles
*
For a while, everything swirls inside of him, a maelstrom of frustration, anger, fear, and just a general discontent about how little control he truly has over his life. Then, paralyzing fury gives way to inaction, which quickly flatlines into boredom; crawling out from underneath Padme's oversized, underused desk in the Senate building, he slides open the bottom drawer, making the colored glass container inside clank against some other sparse items with which it's sharing the space. The bottle is a little over half-full, and Anakin's eyes narrow with bleary satisfaction as his hand closes around the neck. "That'll do," he mutters.
A negotiable amount of time later, the bottle is empty. Sluggish, now, Anakin's mind nonetheless churns on. "I'm Padme Amidala from Naboo," he mutters in a soft, slurred falsetto, and mimes taking exaggerated gulps out of the bottle's wide mouth. "'I don't have time for my secret husband 'cause I have sooo many Senator things to do, 'cause I'm a Senator.'" The last word is pre-empted by an airy burp, closely followed by a sudden flickering of lights overhead. Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Anakin's hold on the bottle tightens; instinctively, he reaches for his lightsaber, only to find ...
"Echutta." Another breathy belch trails behind the obscenity as the full realization dawns on him: Padme still has his lightsaber, having been pulled away mid-conversation/argument by Bail Organa. "'This piece of legislation is super important, you just don't understand, Ani.'" The falsetto is back. "'But Senator Organa does. I'll drop everything for him, even the first opportunity in months to spend time with the man I married and supposedly love.'" He trails off, bemusement at Padme's expense replaced by bitterness. The lights flicker again; Anakin, alcohol-addled and annoyed, stumbles with only the barest of Jedi agility into a standing position. Painstakingly, he arranges the empty booze bottle so that it's propped up in Padme's fancy orthopedic chair, and admires it for far longer than necessary. "Gotta go," he tells it, and it's by the sheer grace of the Force that it doesn't talk back.
*
C-3PO looks as flustered as a 'droid might be able to look and, if not outright flailing at the sight of his Maker heaved against his current Mistress' door frame, then at least tutting in nervous-sounding mechanical concern. "Master Ani," he proffers, and appears even more hesitant somehow when Anakin makes to enter the apartment. "I'm afraid that Senator Amidala is not here currently, but ..."
"'s fine," Anakin interrupts, and Threepio's servos whir in practically audible discontent as he quietly shuts the door behind the inebriated young man. Further dismay follows when Anakin makes to plop himself upon a light-colored and currently clean-looking couch. "I'm terribly sorry, Master Ani, but if you recall, Miss Padme is still quite upset about the last time you were received at her residence when she wasn't home and, as she put it at the time, 'wrecked the furniture' with your boots very shortly after you'd returned with Master Kenobi from the Outer Rim ..."
Anakin waves a hand lazily and sits down anyways, ignoring the small gasp of horror from Threepio's vicinity. "Can't have Miss Padme upset with us, huh?" When Threepio merely fidgets in response, he decides to throw the petulant protocol 'droid a bone, and ceases making himself comfortable across Padme's endangered species something-or-other-covered sofa, boots and all. "Better?" Anakin asks, and then without waiting for a response, pivots in the opposite direction of the entrance. Dutifully, yet unhappily, Threepio trails behind him, his attitude yet worsening when he watches Anakin tug open the doors to Padme's gigantic walk-in closet. "Master Anakin, may I inquire after what you are looking for?" he queries, but Anakin is already handsily thumbing through the thick fabrics and multiple layers that compromise the majority of Padme's wardrobe.
"Don't wanna make Padme mad," he reiterates half under his breath; his hand catches on a dusky, complicated-looking bodice and he tugs on the garment a little to admire it more closely. "That'll do," he says for the second time that day, and Threepio steps in to assist with its clumsy removal from the hanger. "Sir," the 'droid tuts again, as close to a plea as possible, considering the source. "Master Ani, for what possible purpose -"
"Help me match the shoes," Anakin orders, and begins shirking his own clothing with alarming casualness. "Actually, help zip me into this first," he amends, and Threepio's much put-upon "oh, dear" would be breathy against back of the Jedi General's sweaty neck if he had the ability to breathe.
*
It's hours before Padme returns, looking sufficiently more bedraggled than might be expected for a day spent in cushy, individually air-conditioned Senate pods. "Threepio, I want a glass of Sunset Blush and a bubble bath drawn with that new Ithorian rose scent." This serves as the frazzled young woman's introduction, the front door not even closed. "Actually, just put the box of Sunset next to the 'tub, I'm gonna need more than one ..." She trails off, realizing just now that her audience extends beyond a single, gold-plated protocol 'droid, who, in point of fact, isn't even in the room proper. In his place, however ... "Ani, what are you doing h- IS THAT MY DRESS?!" A double-take confirms that, in fact, it is, as well as: "You better not have drank all my wine, Anakin!"
In response, Anakin burps. Sprawled across Padme's couch - now spotted with pale pinkish wine - the young man's tousled locks poke haphazardly out from one of Padme's wigs, styled in an elaborate up-'do whose effect is nonetheless somewhat marred by being somewhat askew atop Anakin's head. As a consolation, he's no longer wearing his boots, although the heels that Threepio reluctantly hunted up for him to match his current outfit perch only precariously on his feet via his toes, his shoe size considerably larger on a whole than the Senator's. "Hey, baby," Anakin finally musters, and gives his wife a once-over. "You look terrible."
Padme splutters. "I spent the afternoon being kidnapped by bounty hunters! The whole Senate did! We didn't even get to break for lunch! Thanks for helping, by the way."
Anakin sits forward, legs spreading and further stretching the narrowish confines of the skirt he's donned. Some things - Padme's long-standing return, the strange power outages earlier in the day - are beginning to fall into place, but inebriated though he is, his mind is only clunkily putting all the pieces together. Also, it seems as though there's little he can do besides further mismanage Padme's sour mood, and so he cups his hand around his mouth and yells into the next room: "Threepio! You gettin' that bath drawn, buddy? Also, I could use a plate of those frozen sliders right about now."
A chagrined Threepio trudges into Padme's eye line. "Miss Padme, your bath is being readied as we speak. Also, Master Ani, I'm afraid you already finished Miss Padme's reserve of frozen sliders several hours ago. I'm terribly sorry." The 'droid's mechanized voice is practically shaking, and he seems visibly relieved when Padme waves him away; he retreats muttering yet further apologies, and Anakin settles back against the soiled sofa, rubbing his groin suddenly. The sound of ministrated fabric is tell-tale; almost shaking now herself, Padme's mouth drops open in an astonished 'O'. "Are you wearing my panties?!" she screeches, and Anakin just grins sheepishly; then: "Hey, you've got my lightsaber, yeah?"
Padme's eyes blaze with righteous fury. "Yeah," she intones dully, "I do," and the sound of the igniting blade is picked up by Threepio's servos in the 'fresher. "Terribly sorry," he says again to no one in particular. "Terribly, terribly sorry." He hears Anakin shout ("baby, c'mon, dresses are gender-neutral, they're just like robes!"; "NO, THEY'RE NOT ANI!"), but stays knowingly hunched where he is because Padme has gotten awfully good at throwing shoes.
*