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The evolution of Mace’s relationship with Anakin Skywalker pivoted on, of all events, Mace learning the extent to which Skywalker treasured compliments.
An evening had found him ensconced in a discussion between the Chancellor and Skywalker. Initially, the conversation had included Mace, but as so often occurred when Palpatine was in a room with Skywalker, the former only appeared to have eyes for the latter. It was one of the various aspects of their relationship that garnered widespread speculation among the Jedi, from Padawans to Masters, to speculate they were involved in a clandestine affair. The possibility was a regular topic of gossip even in the Council chambers—provided Obi-Wan wasn’t present.
Though Mace had never placed much stock in the idea, he considered the likelihood as Skywalker tried to sway Palpatine to his perspective.
“I know it’s not my place to question your wisdom, Chancellor, and I don’t wish to do so, but I earnestly believe I would be best suited for the Felucia campaign,” Anakin told Palpatine. Mace couldn’t help but observe that his tone was significantly more genteel and courteous than it was when he spoke to any Councilor. “I’ve studied the pattern of Separatist attacks, and I’ve developed a plan of counterstrikes. But it requires a pilot of a certain caliber, and . . . well, sir, I’m a talented pilot. I’m capable, and I’m willing.”
The sheer affection in Palpatine’s eyes as he gazed at Skywalker discomfited Mace—regardless of his opinion concerning their sexual relationship, the evident emotion causes him to feel like he was intruding on a private moment intended only to be shared between the two of them.
“My dear boy,” Palpatine said, his voice wrought with emotion. “You are more than capable. You are more than talented. You are extraordinary .”
Though Skywalker had opened his mouth to respond, at the Chancellor’s words, his jaw snapped shut, and he looked away. A faint pink tinge flared in his cheeks as he remained silent, apparently at a loss to respond to the compliment.
As Mace looked on, Palpatine placed a kindly hand on Skywalker’s shoulder, a gesture that was both gentle and familiar.
“But you are too valuable to be sent out to a planet as remote as Felucia,” Palpatine continued. “You are kind and courageous, and the Republic admires you tremendously for it. As do I, Anakin. And while I don’t wish to be expedient, wartime requires a leader who can shoulder difficult decisions, just as a populace needs its heroes. You inspire our people, Anakin—just as you inspire me. So it is my wish that you remain on Coruscant while General Secura takes the Felucia assignment. You are a symbol to our people, a young man who was just a boy when war arrived on our doorstep, but nonetheless answered the call and have never flagged in your relentless pursuit of the Separatists, nor in your determination to protect Republic citizens. Please don’t forget that. I never have.”
For several heartbeats, Skywalker was silent, the blush that stained his cheeks crawling down neck. The display of modesty was unexpected, and Mace couldn’t suppress a rare rush of fondness for the younger man.
But then Skywalker gave a brief nod, his eyes flicking up to glance at Palpatine for only an instant, as if unable to believe the Chancellor of the Republic held him in such high esteem.
“Of course, Your Eminence,” he said quietly, and raised no further protest.
Intriguing. Mace observed the interaction between Palpatine and Skywalker with mingled curiosity and foreboding, fascinated to witness the deft alacrity with which Palpatine smoothed over the younger man’s protests, but simultaneously unsettled by it. Though the nature of their relationship was a constant source of gossip, Mace had rarely witnessed the two of them together, and now that he had glimpsed into their dynamic, he couldn’t help but be uneasy.
Still, he filed Skywalker’s reaction into the back of his mind, resolving to test it for himself the next time they argued.
The wait for that particular occasion wasn’t long, springing up at their next strategy meeting.
“We need to investigate the reports of Grievous in the Outer Rim,” Skywalker insisted. “Our intelligence is sound—if we act now, we could defeat him, and the war would be over in a matter of weeks.”
“We can’t spare any generals in the present circumstances. And withdrawing any of our forces from their current posts could be disastrous. If the reports are a Separatist plot, our pursuit of Grievous would leave some of our most vulnerable planets open to attack,” Mace pointed out. “Millions could die.”
“Millions will die if we refuse to act and only react,” Skywalker snapped, his gloved mech hand balling up into a fist.
It was Skywalker’s classic signal of frustration morphing into anger, betraying him even when he was silent, even when his mental shields refused to allow even a whisper of dissatisfaction to slip by.
Observing the set of Skywalker’s jaw, Mace decided the time had arrived to test the Chancellor’s technique.
“Anakin,” he said, opting to use Skywalker’s first name as a more personal touch. “You are a strong and reliable Knight. I trust your judgement, and I know you would spare no effort in your hunt for Grievous. But it’s not a matter of ability, but availability. We simply cannot spare the troops.”
The response from Skywalker was nothing short of astounding. Though he’d wrenched his mouth open to retort (no doubt on reflex), as Mace’s words registered, his mouth slackened, and then closed. Then, with a look of amazement on his face and blue eyes wide, his mouth opened again, his lips parting just slightly. In the spirit of absolute honesty, Mace would admit that the image was not unappealing.
Then Skywalker’s cheeks tinted a delicate pink, and he dropped his gaze and looked away, just as he’d done with the Chancellor. No further argument, just utter compliance.
Finally. Though the feeling of genuine shock rippling from Skywalker through the Force sparked glances of askance from Kit and Adi beside him, Mace simply relished in his newfound ability to defuse Skywalker’s seemingly innate belligerence. No further fraught disagreements that Skywalker latched onto and brooded over far more than man or nature had ever intended. No more battling out differences in perspective in front of the entire Council.
In fact, much to Mace’s satisfaction, he used his method of soothing Skywalker to dismantle a potential argument brewing between Skywalker and Obi-Wan during the latest Council meeting. The technique of flattering Skywalker into submission was not only limited to tensions between Skywalker and himself, evidently.
“Your behavior was reckless,” Obi-Wan informed Skywalker tersely, that long-practiced chastising note in his voice still emerging, even though Skywalker was no longer his Padawan to scold. “It’s a pattern with your missions, and it’s intolerable, especially now that you have your own student. You need to be more mindful of your actions, Pada—Anakin.”
None of the rest of Council were inclined to join Obi-Wan in his reprimands; Kit shifted uncomfortably in his seat, Mundi frowned at Obi-Wan, and Agen frowned at both of them. It was widely understood by all who knew him that Obi-Wan could be his own harshest critic—but also that Obi-Wan had never quite grasped the perspective that Anakin was an autonomous individual rather than a reflection of his own abilities as a teacher.
Short on time and patience, Mace decided to intercede. “I must disagree. I think that both Anakin and Ahsoka have demonstrated invaluable bravery. I don’t believe I’m speaking solely for myself when I say that I’m grateful for not only their latest victory, but for a Knight and Padawan team who embody the spirit and determination so needed in these turbulent times.”
In this instance, Mace found himself the recipient of Skywalker’s assessing glance of disbelief. But then Skywalker included a gesture that he’d neglected to extend to the Chancellor, and he offered Mace a shy, tentative smile that matched well with the blush emerging in his cheeks.
It was only befitting that Mace smiled back.
The peace of mind one could gain simply by distributing a few compliments to Skywalker was truly inspiring. Perhaps, Mace mused idly, if Obi-Wan had spared some praise between his constant criticisms, Skywalker’s Padawan years would have been far easier for the both of them.
Pulsar skates under the bridge at this point. At least Mace himself had perfected the method and now had one less headache to cope with.
The effect on Skywalker was incredible. A line of praise here and there transformed him from a young and defiant Knight who was convinced the entire Council was against him ( really ) to a helpful, accommodating soul brimmed with thoughtful suggestions. He’d offered to teach a class on moving meditation to younglings struggling with the silent variety and had similarly volunteered as a beginner’s lightsaber instructor to the newly-minted Padawans.
Quickly catching onto Mace’s tactics, Depa took advantage of Skywalker’s weakness for flattery and swiftly charmed him into attending the regular luncheon with Alderaanian nobles. It had recently become an unwelcome addition to her regular duties, but now no longer.
“And all it took was telling Skywalker that I thought his modifications to his starfighter were truly inspired,” she commented to Mace. “You’d think no one had ever had a kind word to speak to that boy before in his life. Anyway, since I’m now free tomorrow afternoon, I think I’ll offer to speak to Caleb’s galactic cultures class about Jedi reconnecting with their birth cultures. He’s been asking me for weeks now.”
Other Councilors as well had become aware of Mace’s ability to soothe troubled waters with Skywalker.
“Of all your accomplishments, Mace, your taming of Anakin Skywalker must be the most remarkable,” Eeth commented as they convened for a status update on current campaigns. “If you’d have asked me, I would have said he was a lost cause.”
For all of their clashes since the start of the war, Mace was loath to speak poorly of Skywalker. Something related to the almost desperate hope that flared in Skywalker’s eyes when someone complimented him, perhaps. “I don’t know if I’d go as far as that,” he replied neutrally. “When you’ve spent some time in his presence, Skywalker is easy enough to manage.”
Given the rumors surrounding Skywalker, it was a poor choice of words, and the phrasing didn’t escape Eeth’s notice. “Skywalker? Easy? Who could’ve guessed?”
“Eeth, that’s your fellow Jedi you’re speaking of,” Mundi said sharply, his gaze snapping up from the datapad he’d been skimming. His holographic form seemed to flicker with indignation as he spoke.
“Just because he was your Padawan for five minutes when Obi-Wan was missing in action doesn’t mean you have to rush in and defend his reputation at every turn,” Eeth told Mundi impatiently. “We all know what Skywalker has a reputation for, after all."
At that point, Mace removed himself from the conversation, but continued to be pleasantly surprised by Skywalker’s continued cordial manner toward him.
And then, much to Mace’s astonishment, Skywalker invited him to accompany him to the theater.
“I have two tickets to Celly Organa’s latest,” Skywalker explained during a free moment between lightsaber instruction of the younger Padawans. “She’s been at those weekly lunches I’ve been attending for Master Billaba, and so she saved a few seats for me. Ahsoka doesn’t have much interest in the theater, but I know you enjoy it, so I was thinking . . .”
Mace blinked, surprised that he was the recipient of the incitation rather than Obi-Wan. Then again, given the recent tension between the two, perhaps he shouldn’t have been as taken aback as he was.
“I’d welcome the opportunity to attend alongside you,” he told Skywalker. “Thank you, Skywalker.”
A genuine grin flashed across Anakin’s face. “You can call me Anakin. I mean, if we’re going to be spending the night together, you might as well.”
Again, Mace returned the smile, pleased to have this level of camaraderie with his fellow Jedi. “Then thank you, Anakin.”
The next evening found Mace and Skywalker in high spirits and enthusiastically applauding the production as it concluded its latest showing at the Grand Coruscant Theatre. Though Celly Organa’s comedies would perhaps never be considered the apex of Alderaanian literature, they were rife with clever wordplay and absurdist humor. The plots always revolved around well-intentioned but witless aristocrats constantly on vacation at country estates and falling in and out of love and engagements with both the person they wanted to marry and people they didn’t. The banter was intelligent, the situations hilarious in their sheer ridiculousness, and the characters none too bright but ultimately sympathetic. The plays were the perfect temporary escape for a galaxy rife with conflict, and the critics seemed to agree: each of Celly’s works were accompanied by rave reviews.
At the performance’s ending, instead of following the crowd to the exit, Anakin led Mace to the backstage area, entering the access passcode without missing a beat.
“I have an in with one of the actors,” he said confidentially to Mace. “I thought you might like to meet him and talk theater again—relive simpler times.”
“It would be welcomed,” Mace confirmed, both impressed and pleased by Anakin’s consideration of him.
Anakin’s friend in the cast turned out to be the lead actor, an exceptionally handsome Pantoran by the name Ambriel Antares.
“So, I meet one of Anakin’s Jedi friends at last,” he said, greeting Mace with an eager handshake and winning smile. “And here I thought once he became a war hero, he wouldn’t have any time leftover for friends from his misspent youth.”
“Oh?” Mace arched an eyebrow even as he tossed Anakin a smile. “Was it misspent?”
Though Anakin crossed his arms over his chest, he didn’t look unhappy, his lips tugging up in a hesitant smile. “Depends on what you would call ‘misspent’, I guess.”
Ambriel laughed. “I first found him a couple of years back, when he was just a kid. My latest role was a roguish swoops racer who loses his heart to pacifist-turned-freedom-fighter,” he confided in Mace. “I decided the best way to learn my part was to meet some real swoops racers. And who did I find but Anakin, who was the best racer in CoCo Town’s underground circuit at the time. I pumped him for information, he expressed no interest whatsoever in seeing my performance, but eventually I lured him into attending. We’ve been friends ever since—though I thought I might have to make another bribe to get him here tonight. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, Ani.”
Genuine regret crossed Anakin’s face. “I am sorry about that, Ambriel. I’ve been meaning to get to one of your shows for months, it’s just that—”
But Ambriel waved a hand. “No need to apologize. You’re the Hero With No Fear, and everyone needs a hero these days. I wouldn’t hold it against you. Instead, how about I introduce you and your friend to the rest of the cast? No one ever believes me when I say that I know you.”
“Lead the way,” Anakin replied, smiling once more. “I’m happy to put those doubts to rest.”
They followed Ambriel further backstage, and Mace turned into Anakin, letting warmth and amusement radiate from him.
“Best swoops racer in CoCo Town?” he asked him with a raised eyebrow.
“That was years ago,” Anakin said loftily. “Before I had an apprentice of my own to look after.” He paused and then added, “Anyway, these days I bet I would be the best racer in at least the Uscru and Jarde Districts. Might not rank in the Correllian Quarter yet, but I could practice.”
“Keep talking like that, and I just might assign you another saber class to teach,” Mace warned him, but he smiled when he spoke.
Without a second of hesitation, Anakin returned the smile, warmth and humor radiating from him, and Mace couldn’t help but reflect on how good it felt to share a joke with him.
After their evening at the theater together, Mace thought it was only fair that he reciprocate and invite Anakin to an outing with him. Coruscant’s annual speeder showcase was on the horizon, to which Mace always received complimentary passes. Given that Anakin had a fascination with fast-moving transports that could easily kill him, he decided that perhaps they could attend the event together.
Anakin accepted the invitation with gusto. “Snips has had a hard run of it lately, and I’ve been wanting to give her a day off to recover. Plus, it’s nice to know you wouldn’t mind a repeat of our night out together.”
“Then I look forward to you joining me,” Mace commented, and was slightly taken aback by the warm glow that suffused through him when Anakin gave him a wholehearted grin in return.
Their passes granted them early entry to the showroom floor before the regular event commenced. Only the other passholders, most of them Coruscant’s elite, and a few company representatives were present.
Mace had expected Anakin to take advantage of the lack of crowds to drink in the sight of the latest Skybreeze model. Skybreeze was an expensive but popular brand of speeder, and the debut of their most recent offering was the main attraction of the showcase featuring heavily in all advertising. From the excited conversations he’d overheard amongst the students, many “speed-heads” were eagerly awaiting the first glimpse of the new model.
But Anakin strode past the Skybreeze display without a second glance.
“The ‘Breezes are nice to look at, but they can’t provide a lot in terms of raw power,” he explained to Mace. “Plus they’ve sacrificed some of the aerodynamics to make room for all of their amenities and accessories. No, if you want a speeder that will really kickstart your adrenaline, you’re better off with a custom.”
Sure enough, their first stop was at a line of speeders Mace had never seen before. Casting an appraising eye over the line-up, he could detect the basic bodies of Skybreezes, but outfitted with ports or thrusters that looked like they’d been scavenged from a Vectron or a Scarab. Others were entirely unfamiliar to him.
Meanwhile, Anakin had spotted an old friend.
“Hey, Karvi!” he called to a hulking Shistavanen woman in a mechanic’s jumpsuit. “Long time no see!”
The Shistavanen, Karvi, glanced up from the datapad she’d been scowling at, her face transforming into a smile as she walked over to slap Anakin on the back. “Well, hell, if it isn’t my favorite former employee. Don’t suppose you’re back to take me up on my standing offer as chief mechanic, are you?”
“Just here for the show,” Anakin replied easily, leaning in to give her a brief hug. “Oh, and this is another Jedi from the Order, Master Windu. Mace, this is Karvi, a friend and one-time boss of mine.”
“And what I wouldn’t give to have you still working for me now,” Karvi groused, her scowl returning with a vengeance, though her voice was still fond as she looked at Anakin. “You were dependable and you knew more about flying than the historians know to put in the data files. Not like some of these other idiots on my payroll.”
“That’s right,” Anakin recalled. “Showcases always bring out the sleemos, don’t they?”
“Truer words couldn’t be spoken. I’ve got a group of clients on the test track waiting to see my latest modifications to the Basilisk,” Karvi said, pointing to a low-slung black and poison green speeder. “And I just got a comm telling me that the scheduled pilot is being detained for a cantina brawl last night. None of the others will be here for another few hours. Any chance you’d be able to take it for a spin? I’d pay you for the trouble, of course.”
Excitement billowed from Anakin in the Force, and a chaotic kind of gleam manifested in his eyes. “No need to pay me. Anything to help you out,” he told Karvi. “All I need is a place where I can suit up.” He indicated his flowing black robes.
Karvi pulled out a security card and handed it to him. “The dressing rooms are down the hall to the right. The one we’re using has our company logo on it.”
“Got it.” Anakin tucked the card into his robes and flashed a grin at Mace. “Don’t worry, I won’t keep you waiting long. And once I’m ready, you’re in for a show.”
With that, he rushed off, leaving Karvi to watch him go with a wistful expression.
“You Jedi sure got lucky when you scooped him up from whatever Outer Rim hellhole he came from,” Karvi told Mace mournfully. “He only worked for me for one summer to repay me for a speeder of mine he damaged in a race. But I’ve never had a more successful season. Never had a better-looking mechanic who could charm clients into upgrades like he did, or a male model who knew as much as he did about the merchandise. We still get requests to bring back that holo-calendar he posed for.”
Uncertain how to respond to this new information and vowing to keep it from Obi-Wan at all costs, Mace settled for a diplomatic response. “Anakin holds a wide variety of talents,” he replied as neutrally as he could, and then swiftly changed the subject. “Would you mind if I joined you for the demonstration?”
A few minutes later, Mace was with Karvi and her clients as they stood on a hoverskiff, waiting for Anakin to reemerge.
And when Anakin did, striding toward the speeder in a skintight black synthleather flightsuit that caught the gleam of the orbital mirrors and highlighted his long legs, an unexpected jolt in his stomach brought Mace to understand precisely why Anakin’s holo-calendar was still in demand.
Socializing with the Senate was an unfortunate reality of Council membership, and one Mace only wished he could defer. However, he was the only Councilor both willing and able to take up the task. While Adi had numerous contacts in the Senate, she’d demurred, claiming she spent far too much time socializing with politicians as it was. Meanwhile, Agen had the tact of a rampaging wampa, and unleashing him upon a horde of wealthy lawmakers was a disaster in the making. Yaddle had been imprisoned underground for over a century, and she’d kindly informed Mace that she was prepared to be exiled to a cave for another hundred years if it meant avoiding the Chancellor’s parties.
At first glance, Obi-Wan seemed like a suitable choice, but during reconsideration, Mace was forcibility reminded of the previous occasions when Obi-Wan had attended, only to happen upon Anakin there as the Chancellor's “personal guest”. Obi-Wan would then spend the remainder of the week wringing his hands and worrying out loud to everyone who would listen (and some who didn’t) about the Chancellor’s influence on Anakin, all without taking the time to actually speak to his former Padawan regarding his concerns and ignoring any pointed advice to do so. The continued angst without action never failed to annoy Depa. However, her proposition to assign party participation duty to Obi-Wan in the hope it would help him finally find the gumption to speak to Anakin seemed as if it would only exacerbate the issue.
Of the remaining options, Kit and Saesee had a running bet about if Anakin was sleeping with Palpatine (Kit was betting yes, while Saesee was betting no), and the existence of the bet deeply offended both Ki-Adi-Mundi and Oppo. For Mundi, Anakin had been his Padawan, however temporarily, and he was deeply affronted that his colleagues thought a former student of his would be tangled up in a political scandal. For Oppo, he was appalled that his fellow Jedi were betting on such a salacious topic and was apt to compare them to HoloNet gossip mongers if he had the chance. The friction had caused tensions to erupt on more than one occasion. Mace could not send any one of them without seeming to endorse their position.
Yoda had politely declined the invitation with the reasoning that he wanted to spend evenings training with the nocturnal younglings. Though Mace didn’t doubt the Grandmaster’s devotion to the Order’s children, it was his suspicion that said devotion doubled when it could serve as an excuse to avoid spending extra time with Senators.
When the options had narrowed to himself and Shaak, she had offered him a deal: if he attended the Chancellor’s party, she would cover his share of the Padawan mission reports for the next month.
Mace had not hesitated. The problem with Padawans was that they tended to treat mission logs as personal diaries, complete with private musings and information, and he wasn’t sure how much more of it he could suffer through. Glad as he was that Zule Xiss had discovered her Zeltron heritage, he didn’t require any of the details of her exploring her newfound sexuality, and yet her reports were rife with them (though it had helped when she’d begun adding “Reader Discretion Advised” headings over those specific sections at Depa’s delicately-phrased suggestion). In contrast, Kass Tod and Mak Lotor’s reports were brimming with uncommunicated longing for one another, but never contained any attempt to resolve the issue, forcing him to serve as an unwilling audience to their endless pining. Enduring it was the embodiment of torment.
And if Mace never had to read any more of Ahsoka’s musings and speculations about what Anakin’s apprenticeship under Obi-Wan had been like, it would be too soon. Mace had barely interacted with Anakin during the latter’s time as a Padawan, and yet somehow it was as though he had lived it a thousand times over via secondhand information and the ongoing struggle between them now.
Thus, Mace found himself attending the Chancellor’s gala at the Presidential Palace. With his limited patience for ostentatious ritual or meaningless pleasantries, little time passed before his energy reserves for mingling with politicians and their retinue plummeted below any polite standard. Resentment was not befitting of a Jedi, but he would confess to feeling cheated at having so little time for a cup of tea with Depa or Caleb, but plenty for engaging some self-absorbed monarch or governor.
Initially, Mace embarked on a good-faith attempt at socializing with other guests, but his spirit was significantly dampened when he spotted Anakin, clad in what could barely qualify as clothing, playing his typical role as dazzling accessory on the Chancellor’s arm as the two of them made their entrance by descending the grand staircase together.
And then his mood was soured entirely when the baron he was speaking to followed his gaze and let out a chuckle.
“Quite the gem, isn't he?” the baron asked knowingly. “When I look at him, I can understand why you Jedi keep your young locked up in the Temple. I don’t think he’d be safe to walk the Coruscant streets even now.”
After barely managing to grit his teeth and swallow his ideal response to that remark, Mace resigned himself to weathering away the remainder of the evening as close to the exit as possible.
“Thought you looked like you could use a drink,” came a familiar voice from behind him, and Mace turned to find Anakin sauntering toward him, a crystal goblet in each hand. The sight of a friendly face alone was enough to entice Mace, but it was Anakin’s evening dress that caused his gaze to linger.
Scraps of crimson shimmersilk were fashioned into something resembling a vest, covering Anakin’s upper torso but ending well before his midriff, revealing the toned muscles of his abdomen. The fabric didn’t extend to his back, instead held in place with delicate gold chains criss-crossing over his shoulder blades and circling in layers around his waist. Likewise, wavering lines of gold had been painted along his sun-kissed skin, swirling up his biceps, thighs, and ankles, and around the red gem winking at his navel. Pale gold shimmered across his cheekbones to contrast with his startlingly blue eyes, while liquid gold had been smeared across his lips. The streaks of gold in his honey-colored hair seemed brighter and more luminous than ever before, catching the light and gleaming as it just barely brushed against his toned shoulders. The effect was as if Anakin were being consumed by gold itself.
But the costume didn’t end there. Slung low across his slim hips and drawing attention to his well-defined pelvis were a pair of clingsilk pants, their liquid drape emphasizing every muscle and curve his legs had to offer. There were no seams across the outer sides of his legs, only more fine gold chains weaving from Anakin’s svelte waist to his thick upper thighs to ensure the fabric didn’t drop off of him entirely. The cut of the garment allowed a generous glimpse of Anakin’s bare flesh, and the light, airy fabric fluttered and swayed with every one of his movements, constantly drawing attention to his long legs and natural, confident grace.
“What are you wearing?” Mace asked bluntly. “And why aren’t you wearing more of it?”
Instead of taking offense at the brusque question, Anakin just laughed, tilting his head to indicate the senator several paces away. One who, Mace noticed, was looking Anakin up and down like he was evaluating a flashy speeder for purchase.
Instinctively, Mace shifted to block Anakin from the senator’s gaze, ignoring the impulsive to put an arm around Anakin’s shoulders and draw him in protectively.
“You see, Rush and I had a bet,” Anakin said. His tone was offhanded and amused, but Mace detected something odd about his voice all the same. “If our Coruscant smashball team lost to Scipio’s, then he would name the night, and I’d dress as a courtesan for him. Well, he chose tonight—very deliberately, no doubt. He has the morals of a slavering gundark. Still, I make a point to keep my promises.”
This new information had Mace’s eyebrows rising, but not as much as the other aspect he’d observed. When Anakin spoke, Mace was able to pinpoint the strange quality of his voice: he was consciously attempting to modify his voice and replace his Outer Rim accent with the standard Coruscanti posh inflection with which most of the Jedi spoke with.
But before Mace could fully ponder the reason for it, Anakin held out one of the drinks to him.
“Here, take this. You look like you could use it. Dantooinian sunrise.”
The offered drink was a concoction of layered yellow, orange, and pink liquors, but Mace wasted no time in taking a sip, if only to focus on something other than Anakin’s attire (or lack thereof). The taste was unexpectedly bitter, with none of the anticipated sweetness, but Mace swallowed it gratefully nonetheless.
“Looks like your daring rescues aren’t just limited to the battlefield,” Mace commented. “Thank you.”
Waving a hand, Anakin chuckled at him and then surveyed the crowd, idly sipping his drink as he did. His eyes roamed across the glittering assemblage of Coruscant’s elite, strayed briefly to the priceless works of art bordering the room, and for an instant, rested on Palpatine courteously greeting an entourage of Falleen nobles.
Then he turned back to Mace. “You want to get out of here?”
Nonplussed, Mace considered him. “Will your public be able to cope without you?”
Anakin snorted. “Are you kidding? His Eminence has me practically as a fixture at his parties. These people are probably sick of the sight of me.”
A very brief glimpse into the emotions of the partygoers standing nearest to them proved Anakin’s speculation false; most of them could barely keep their gazes off Anakin, and it was the dearest wish of several for him to sashay within an arm’s reach of them, just as he was within an arm’s reach of Mace. The sheer lust and desperation emitting from the crowd around them was enough to send Mace recoiling, and more than sufficient for him to support Anakin’s suggestion of a hasty exit.
“I’m not at all opposed to an early departure. In fact, I appreciate you for suggesting it,” Mace replied warmly, the praise for Anakin emerging effortlessly now that he’d consciously decided to create a habit of it. Still, he couldn’t help but search out Palpatine among the crowd, spotting him deep in conversation with a opulently dressed, gem-encrusted Falleen male. “But the Chancellor . . .?”
Anakin shrugged. “He’ll be preoccupied with Prince Xizor all night now that they’re talking together. His Eminence likes me, but I can’t compare with actual royalty, I’m afraid.”
Mace nodded, but then grimaced as a group of Devaronians strolled by, males and females alike sending Anakin looks of unabated desire, a primal type of hunger rolling off of them in waves. Either Anakin didn’t notice or wasn’t bothered, but Mace was. “Do you, er, have other clothes you can wear?”
The request appeared to surprise Anakin, who shot him a questioning glance, and Mace did his best to provide a casual explanation. “It can be cooler this time of night, without any sun for the orbital mirrors to magnify.”
Though the lie and the reason for it had heat flaring beneath Mace’s skin, the concern in the remark charmed Anakin.
“So thoughtful to worry about me,” he said with a grin, momentarily slinging an arm around Mace’s shoulder for a brief partial hug. When he did, Mace could breathe in the scent that clung to his neck, and his mind was flooded with the image of mist hovering over a lake beneath the cool, pale light of the full moon just at the cusp of the autumn harvest.
Then Anakin pulled away, hips swaying with every motion as he sauntered off in the direction of the grand marble staircase. The light bounced off of the wavering lines of gold woven throughout the steps, lending Anakin an almost dream-like haze about his figure.
“Get your speeder ready,” he called to Mace. “I keep clothes here, and I won’t be long—I’ll meet you at the valet station in five minutes. I know just the place we can go from here.”
True to his word, Anakin joined Mace at his speeder with record speed, with his face freshly cleaned and now dressed in a sharply-cut midnight blue flight suit and matching jacket. The garments were stylish and the fabric obviously expensive, and Mace couldn’t help but wonder which particular politician had gifted Anakin the outfit.
Still, the flightsuit suited Anakin much more than the courtesan costume had, Mace decided as he relinquished the pilot seat to Anakin. And it also went nicely with his eyes. In fact, after a second glance at Anakin in his new clothing, Mace was struck by the desire to put an arm around Anakin’s shoulders and pull him in close, to embrace him and see for himself if the jacket kept him warmer than his earlier excuses for clothes. A similar urge had overtaken him at the gala, but that had been in a purely protective sense, his instincts on high alert due to the surrounding politicians eyeing Anakin like a piece of meat. But now, he couldn’t say this craving was born from the same generosity—and nor was the temptation to lay his hand atop Anakin’s gloved one and let it rest there throughout the flight.
Something to meditate on later, he decided firmly. For now, he would concentrate on enjoying his night—a night that would now be infinitely more satisfying now that he could spend it with Anakin.
The ideal refuge of Anakin Skywalker turned out to be a hole-in-the-wall Corellian tavern tucked away between the Uscru Entertainment district and the brewery district. Judging by the route to reach the establishment, which required a long, winding journey through a labyrinth of dim, narrow alleys, the tavern’s low profile was part of the appeal to owner and clientele alike rather than any kind of detriment. The interior only strengthened Mace’s belief: the lightning was low, the walls and floor were dark, and the music, while upbeat, was only a dim background hum sufficient to cover private discussion rather than anything to entice dancers or merrymakers.
“Welcome to the Smuggler’s Salvation,” Anakin told Mace as he led him inside. “We’re proud to add you to the select list of customers.”
Despite the evident desire for privacy on behalf of its staff and patrons alike, Anakin was greeted with enthusiasm the moment he walked through the door. The first to call out to him were a pride of Zeltrons, the lot of them sprawled gracefully around a table in a rare repose from revelry. However, their night of relaxation did not prevent several mesmerized spacers, men and women alike, from surrounding them in hope of gleaning the barest shred of acknowledgement from the species known both for their intense beauty and wanton sexuality. But even the spacers stirred from their single-minded focus to offer Anakin vague nods or dazed greetings. And over by the bar, though a trio of Selonian females pored over their cards in the ubiquitous game of sabacc, each of them lifted a hand in acknowledgement as Anakin crossed the threshold.
But the most lively of the bunch was a burly, brindle-furred Togorian woman who rushed up to meet them.
“Anakin!” she said joyously, seizing him in a heartfelt hug that he returned without hesitation. “I thought you might be stopping in soon! I’ve been stowing away our last barrel of spiced homebrew of the season, just to be sure you had a chance to taste it.”
“Lassannah, you spoil me,” Anakin told her, smiling. “But I haven’t forgotten you.” Reaching into the pocket of his flight jacket, he withdrew a vial of vibrant petals and handed it to her. “Rylothian moon blooms, just like you’ve been wishing for.”
Genuine astonishment crossed Lassanah’s face, and then she smiled widely at Anakin, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “I shouldn’t be so surprised by your kindness, but here I am. I’ve got no way to repay you—these blossoms haven’t been in any market since the start of the war, and they’re likely more than worth their weight in gold now.”
“No need to repay me,” Anakin said firmly. Mace noticed the rough edges of his Outer Rim accent were back in his voice. “The solace your tavern offers me is more than enough. But I would like you to meet someone.” He indicated Mace. “This is Mace Windu, a friend of mine and a fellow Jedi. We escaped from a gala together and were hoping to find a spot that’s a tad more hospitable.”
“You’ve come to the right place then,” Lassanah said brightly, offering Mace a smile no less sincere for the mouth of sharp teeth it exposed. “We’ve just set a fresh batch of endwa over the grill—I’ll send the best pieces out to you the moment it’s finished.”
Mace inclined his head to her. “I am honored to be welcomed to your business. You have done me a great service by offering me refuge, and I can only extend my thanks in return.”
“Oh, a gentleman, eh?” Lassanah gave Anakin an unsubtle nudge and a mischievous grin. “I like this one. You should keep him.”
And with that, she bustled off to refill the tankards of the spacers surrounding the Zeltrons, who were no doubt too distracted to refuse the further additions to their tab.
While it could have been the dim lighting, Mace thought Anakin’s cheeks darkened at the remark, but he sounded unfazed when he spoke to Mace.
“C’mon,” he said. “My favorite spot is by the fire.”
Following Anakin’s lead, Mace zigzagged throughout the rough-hewn jebwa wood tables scattered throughout the tavern. He passed by a cluster of Dralls, all of them chittering away at one another in spirited philosophical debate, every few moments flipping through one of the ancient tomes spread open before them to emphatically point at a well-worn page. Nearby, a group of Kubaz emitted guttural clicks at each other in rapid conversation impossible for any outsider to understand. Still, they halted and huddled closer as the two Jedi passed by, spurring Mace to muse on the name of the tavern and conclude that when considered in conjunction with the Kubazian love of art and intellectualism, the group might be planning to obtain one such work through less than legal means.
But Mace desired only an evening of relaxation and thus devoted himself to soaking in his surroundings. The aroma of spices and fried food wafted through the room; he could detect the tang of smoked nerf and the sugary lightness of Corellian ryshcate, all punctuated by the scent of polish lingering on the wooden carvings etched into the walls. Closer inspection revealed they portrayed the ancient Corellian gods and other heroes and were interspersed with richly threaded tapestries that showed scenes of the same. Mace was surprised but pleased to realize the one hanging over the fireplace depicted the Corellian Jedi Knight Keiran Halcyon in his legendary stand against the Sith Purebloods, and he pointed it out to Anakin with genuine delight.
The look Anakin tossed the tapestry was familiar and fond, the type of glance one might give an old friend. “I first came here when I was twelve and just beginning to explore the city,” he admitted to Mace. “Sneaking out, you know, I was nervous. But I came in here, just by chance, after I heard some other swoops racers mention it a few times. And I saw Keiran there, and I suddenly just had this feeling that I was safe. Since then, it’s been my favorite spot to go to when . . .” For a moment, he hesitated, and then offered an embarrassed half-shrug. “When I needed to feel that way.”
Tales of Anakin’s illicit adventures as a Padawan traversing the Coruscant nights were unsurprising; Mace had long suspected it was a regular occurrence, and meeting Ambriel, Karvi, and now Lassannah had sealed it as fact in his mind. Officially, however, Anakin had only been caught twice. Both times, Obi-Wan had wrung his hands, while Anakin had been unable to recognize the issue (“I used to race all the time on Tatooine! That’s how Master Qui-Gon won me!”), and Mace had already had a headache, so he’d pawned the issue off on Plo to deal with.
Now, he only sent Anakin a smile. “I imagine that explains your friendship with Lassannah?”
Tension visibly eased from Anakin’s shoulders when Mace didn’t respond with a condemnation, and vague guilt twinged within Mace that Anakin had transparently expected it.
“She practically raised me,” he replied with a faint smile. “She was always there to talk to me or clean my scrapes out after a crash, even when I told her she didn’t have to. Almost like a mo—sister. In a way.”
They settled in front of the fire, slightly apart from the other tables, sinking into a welcoming pair of high-backed armchairs that smelled strongly of soap and Vweilu nut tea. The fire blazed merrily in its vast hearth of unfinished stone, no doubt fueled by a hidden pipe behind its protective transparisteel barrier, but throwing warmth and light all of the same. The flicker of flames brought shadows to flit up and down the woven rug beneath their feet. The combination of the various elements of fabrics and textures against the wood walls resulted in a distinctly cozy and pleasant atmosphere, and Mace could immediately understand why the bar had appealed to Anakin during his delinquent wanderings of Coruscant’s assorted lower districts.
A Twi’lek girl slipped up to the small table between their two armchairs, depositing a flagon of ale, two tankards, and a platter of endwa from her tray onto the table with a practiced swiftness. She paused only to accept the credit chip Anakin slid across the table to her and offer him a smile in return, and then departed as quickly as she’d arrived.
Curious about this previously unseen side to Anakin, Mace decided to challenge him. “You’re a favorite at the Senate, and not a week goes by without you getting an invitation to dinner at whatever luxury restaurant is considered the most on trend,” he remarked. “And you don’t prefer any of them?”
“None of them even compare,” Anakin said, and the sheer earnestness in his voice spurred Mace to smile and take an approving swallow of his ale.
For several minutes, they simply enjoyed their drinks in comfortable silence; the brew held a smoky taste with just the slightest hint of sweetness that paired well with the hearty spice of the endwa.
“You know, you’re not the first Jedi I’ve brought here,” Anakin admitted eventually, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire. “But you know Obi-Wan. He’s not much of one for socializing with the working class.”
This frank assessment of the man he regarded as a friend and colleague piqued Mace’s interest, but by now he automatically quelled any rebuke, knowing it wouldn’t engender any constructive conversation.
“Or maybe he’s just not much for revisiting past haunts from your youthful misadventures,” he pointed out gently. “Obi-Wan is a good man, but if he has one flaw, he prides himself on serving a model Jedi to the point that sometimes he struggles to find value in the Jedi whose approaches are more . . . unorthodox.”
“Like me, you mean?” Anakin gave him a small, wan smile, and then leaned in, as if sharing a secret. “Well, whatever Obi-Wan thinks of me, he was right about you.”
“Was he?” Mace asked idly, noting Anakin’s deliberate shift in the conversation topic but curious in spite of himself. “What was he right about, if you’d allow?”
“That you don’t dislike me as much as I thought,” Anakin admitted, his eyes lowering bashfully. “I used to think you had some sort of grudge against me, or just disapproved of me in general and wouldn't give the time of day to me or my ideas. But now I can see that I was wrong and that you . . . you don’t mind being called my friend.”
“I never have disliked you,” Mace said bluntly. “In the past, sometimes I’ve looked at you and been reminded of myself, when I was younger and more foolish. I struggled for control back then, just as you have at times. But I can say in hindsight that I simply didn’t know you, and I’m pleased that I do now.” Mace paused, noting the tension in Anakin’s shoulders, the near desperation in his eyes and added, “You’re a good man.”
This time, Mace could clearly detect the flush that spread across Anakin’s cheeks at his words, and even more noticeable was the almost desperate edge in his voice.
“You really think so?” he asked, and his insecurity was so transparent it was nearly painful.
“Do I make a habit of lying to spare people’s feelings?” Mace replied in his typically forthright manner. “Youthful misadventures or not, I’m proud to call you my friend, and everyone you’ve met through races or otherwise—I’m glad you have them. I’m glad that you have those people.”
Very briefly, he considered adding an addendum regarding Clovis and the Chancellor, but decided not to sully the moment and save that discussion for later.
“Thank you.” Anakin hesitated for a moment, then asked, his voice very soft, “And . . . do I have you?”
“Yes,” Mace said firmly. While he perhaps should have worried that he didn’t pause in the slightest before replying, even as he searched, he couldn’t find it within himself to think his response was wrong.
Again Anakin ducked his head, color seeping further into his face, but this time, he raised his head again to hold Mace’s gaze, resolution flaring in his eyes.
Then, without breaking eye contact, Anakin rose from his chair, and, with unobtrusive, fluid movements, swung across Mace’s lap.
“Anakin,” Mace breathed, and he wasn’t sure if he spoke the name as a plea or a caution.
Undeterred, Anakin settled there, a warm weight on his thighs, comforting and solid even as electricity jolted through Mace. This time, when temptation seized him to draw Anakin close, he didn’t even think to suppress the urge, instead grasping Anakin’s slim hips and pulling him flush against him.
Lacing his gloved hands around Mace’s neck, Anakin leaned in. For a heady moment, he remained still, the both of them sharing the faint dizziness of breathing in each other’s air, but then Anakin dipped down for a kiss.
The kiss was surprising, sweet and shy and brief, barely a brush of their lips together. Nothing at all like the boldness or ferocity one might expect from the Republic’s Hero Without Fear. It seemed like Anakin would continue to surprise him.
Despite the gentle touch, Mace’s skin prickled, and he swallowed, his broad, battle-scarred hands gripping tighter on Anakin’s waist.
He was looking forward to more surprises.
Within seconds, Anakin started to pull back, as though believing the affection he’d offered was unwanted. Very possibly, he did believe that.
But Mace could correct him.
So Mace drew him in again, settling a palm on the back of Anakin’s neck to urge him closer, and ever so gently pressing his lips to Anakin’s in a series of soft, lingering kisses. Anakin all but melted beneath his touch, accepting with the same eagerness with which he’d welcome Mace’s other gestures, crowding in as close as he could.
The gala guests had gazed at Anakin with unabated lust. Rush Clovis had orchestrated a situation where Anakin wore almost nothing at his request, in a setting where he could not only tell everyone so, but revel in it.
And yet, Anakin had opted to leave the party and escaped into the night with Mace, and now Anakin was wrapped in his arms, the firelight flickering on his face as his soft lips caressed Mace’s own over and over.
He had chosen Mace over any of the others, and Mace would not forget it.
Warm contentedness suffused through Mace, settling comfortably in his stomach and extending to the tips of his fingers. While he would have been glad to kiss Anakin until the fire emptied of fuel, eventually Anakin withdrew, pulling back from the kiss, but remained firmly folded in Mace’s embrace. With a soft sigh, he dropped his head to rest it on Mace’s shoulder, still pressing into him, seemingly intent on remaining in his lap for now. Mace did nothing to discourage this decision, instead looping one arm around Anakin’s waist, and moving the one at his neck to tenderly stroke down his spine.
In the future, there would be discussions. There would be plans. But for now, Mace wanted nothing more than to remain as they were, where they were, safe from the war and its devastation, with nothing to do but enjoy this new chapter where Anakin was not just his ally, but something more.