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“You can’t stop me from passing the bill,” Skywalker says, spits. Too defiant for his own good, too defiant for his station. The look on his face makes something in Sidious curdle, furious.
The boy has been far too aggravating, ever since he found out the truth.
But he holds it. Controls it, tamping the volatile emotion down carefully for later, because he has not existed as a Sith in the Republic’s seat of power for decades by being reckless. Even Skywalker, fully aware of his true identity, is helpless to prove it, and oh if the feeling of his frustration and despair in the Force isn’t like nectar some days, the sweetness of the boy’s misery when he realises he is helpless to save the Jedi.
No proof. No way to save the Jedi, no way to save his friends. No way to save even Windu, or that irritating Obi-Wan Kenobi, because without proof, how could they listen to such an accusation against the Supreme Chancellor? So amusing, to watch them doublethink, to see the threads of friendship fray as neither can justify entertaining treasonous thoughts without proof, hiding their friend’s words from even themselves– and all the while, Skywalker only tries to save them from their fate.
After this conversation, he’ll comm Dooku, he thinks. Yes, and the price for Skywalker’s insolence will be planets, whole civilisations. Millions dead, because he cannot hold his tongue, and the sorrow that, shared, would be manageable will cripple him to carry it alone.
One of these days, he knows, the fragile bonds will snap– and when Skywalker is alone, floundering in the darkness, Sidious will come for him.
And he will break him. Permanently.
Darth Vader will be born, and Darth Vader will raze planets in his name, in the Empire’s name. And just in case he thinks to rebel, if doublethink can twist his mind–
Sidious will kill Kenobi slowly, and he will enjoy every second of it.
Skywalker knows this. He knows he’s crossed the line.
But he doesn’t know which line, and that’s the amusing thing. He’s still so clueless to it all, doesn’t understand the game that Sidious plays, and it makes him oh-so-fun to manipulate.
Looking at the way his face loses blood, goes white with fear– it’s so obvious to see what he fears.
And it’s so, so fun.
Sidious–
“Commander,” he murmurs into the microphone on his desk. It’s not turned on, but Skywalker is so afraid that he won’t notice. “Could you please bring General Kenobi up to my office? Thank you.”
Then he looks at Skywalker, and oh what a pleasant sight it is, the face of a man whose worst fear has just come true. The bloodlessness, the wild, glassy eyes are so gratifying, and Sidious sends him a grandfatherly smile. It will only take a little more to break him, and he intends to enjoy it.
“Now,” he says, “once our dear General Kenobi arrives, we can continue this conversation, my dear Ani.”
The boy flinches, chokes on fear.
Sidious sends him another grandfatherly smile, and it breaks him.
“No,” he cries out, desperate. Pleading, this boy from Tatooine with the temper of a Krayt, who would never lose the poise he wears like armour. “Please, don’t hurt him.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Sidious demurs. “I never said I would do anything of the sort.”
Skywalker’s chest heaves a sob, tears streaking down his cheeks and gumming up his eyes. He collapses to his knees in front of Sidious, hands clasping at his chin like he’s praying to anything, any merciful God that will listen.
A pity, then, that the only person that hears him is Sidious.
And he is anything but merciful.
“Please,” Skywalker cries. “Please, don’t hurt him.”
Sidious hums.
“Don’t hurt him,” he continues to beg. “Don’t hurt him. Hurt me If you have to, please, but don’t hurt Obi-Wan, please.”
And oh, those are the words Sidious has been waiting for.
“Hurt you?” He asks, raising a single questioning eyebrow. “Why, Senator, are you perhaps offering to take the punishment on our dear General Kenobi’s behalf?”
It’s almost pathetic, how Skywalker doesn’t even have to think about it.
“Yes,” he says, words steady and desperate even through the heaving of his chest, the sobs that still shake him. “Yes, anything, as long as you don’t hurt him.”
“Very well, then, Senator,” Sidious says. “No, don’t move– you’re fine where you are. Kneeling,” he lingers over it, watching intently for the minuscule flinch.
“You never did manage to raise yourself from the filth of your own planet,” he says, and lets the lightning jump from his fingertips, cackling all the while.
Skywalker screams, and screams, and screams.