Sunday Snippet, trying to get back into the swing of things. The opening of a 3 chapter short fic. A/B/O, Fuck or Die, No-So-Dubious Consent
The crackle of the fire in the Chancellor's hearth has left a fog in Anakin’s mind. The scent of the smoke; the low, flickering lights; he is floating between a time and place so far away from now. He’s here, in Palpatine’s office, bundled in one of the man’s heavy blankets that smells faintly enough of his musk that the crossed wires in Anakin’s brain can almost mistake it for another. There’s a mug of warm tea that he’s unlikely to finish cupped between his palms, and the man’s familiar voice is a gentle croon in his ear. He’s thousands upon thousands of light years away, the musk of wet foliage heavy in his lungs. There’s a heat burning in his core that has nothing to do with the warmth of the fire, and the insects of the night are barely audible over his own panting breaths.
“I was so worried when the Council couldn’t reach you, my boy,” Palpatine says, and Anakin catches from the corner of his eye the way the old alpha’s gaze lingers on the bandage at the join of his neck. He hasn’t noticed himself worrying at it, but when he runs the pads of his fingers along the edge of the wide, flat patch, he finds that the corners have started to peel away, exposing raw, angry skin beneath. “I’m still worried for you, Anakin,” Palpatine finishes softly, finally looking away to pour himself a drink from the decanter on the table. Another night, Anakin might have joined him, but the Healers have warned him off of alcohol until his tests come back. Maybe longer, depending on their results.
“I’m fine, Chancellor,” Anakin assures. His tone is flat, despite an attempt to lift it, and he suspects his smile to read more closely to a grimace. However, this is a song and dance that he’s quickly grown tired of–a performance put on one too many times for the seemingly endless stream of visitors demanding his attention on his return. “We’re recovering well, and the healers don’t expect any long term complications from the poison.”
“There is that to be grateful for, at least,” Palpatine grumbles, something in his tone leading Anakin to suspect there may be more feelings hiding behind the Chancellor’s carefully neutral expression than he has cared to reveal. “I trust appropriate action is being taken in the wake of all of this?”
Anakin sets his tea down on the ornate coffee table in favor of drawing the blanket tighter around himself. He bumps the table with his knee as he shifts, the brown, cooling liquid sloshing over the lip of the cup and disturbing the reflection of himself trapped within. Pallid, thin, and bruised. Wide-eyed and unruly. “The bounty hunters have been detained,” he assures, “and the data secured from their communications systems is being analyzed. As I said before, we’re healing well. All things considered, I don’t see what more action could be taken, in these circumstances.”
“Anakin,” Palpatine sighs, and the pitying look the man fixes him with over the rim of his glass raises the hair at the nape of his neck. Sets him on edge, omegan fangs imperceptibly bared when the Chancellor's gaze flickers once more to patch on his neck. “You were assaulted. Jedi or not, an attack of this nature should not go unpunished.”
He only just manages to stop himself from reaching for the bandage again, but Anakin is sure the Chancellor catches the twitch of aborted movement. There’s a nearly imperceptible furrow of his brow, a downward slant to his lips. If Anakin hadn't known the man for as long as he has, he might not have noticed it, nor the astringent note that swells in the space between them and sits heavy in his lungs. “Obi-Wan didn’t know what he was doing,” he defends, letting his gaze wander away from the old alpha and out the transparisteel panes behind him, to the traffic pouring past the Senate even at this hour of night. He cannot bring himself to meet the man’s eye, afraid of what he might find there.