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Haruun-Kei Station was never on their agenda, though the unofficial stop en route to Kelath Prime — a neutral world sitting close to Separatist supply lines — had become necessary as soon as a sputtering thruster coil left them in search for new parts on the nearest moon they could land. More specifically, a frontier waystation hosting at least a dozen different accents from across the Outer Rim.
Every time, the cantina’s hatch lets in a slice of cold desert dusk before sealing shut again. Heat bleeds unevenly from overworked generators tucked behind warped durasteel grates inside, carrying with it the oily tang of machinery that hasn’t been serviced in too long.
Padmé pauses by the threshold to draw her hood back, taking in their surroundings with polite but wary curiosity.
Anakin isn’t as forgiving. His posture shifts the moment they enter — shoulders tight, chin angling to analyse the space in one sweep. A gloved hand remains near his belt, not touching the lightsaber, but close enough that anyone looking at him will understand without question.
Patrons nurse their drinks in the corners nevertheless. A Rodian trader with dust embedded into every seam of his clothing. Two smugglers arguing under their breath. A cloaked figure whose boots still appear crusty with dried mud from some other moon. Though tense, the atmosphere isn’t exactly what Anakin would call hostile yet. He reaches into his belt pouch before any such tension can settle with their not-so-friendly bartender, however, thus placing a few credit chips on the counter.
“What are you having?” The Taanti grumbles.
“Two roasted meska brews.”
Padmé turns toward him at that, eyebrows lifting, and he can already sense her unspoken question. “It’s good for nights like this,” he answers quietly “Outer Rim staple.”
In any case, the bartender starts scooping dark purple meska grounds into a battered percolator; machine hissing as water passes through the thick powder. Anakin nods toward an open table with a decent view of the door “Come on. Let’s grab that spot before someone else does.”
Settling into seats opposite one another, his posture remains alert though eased now that they’ve claimed a defensible vantage point. Blue eyes track the bartender preparing their drinks and Padmé follows his gaze for a moment until a small line forms between her brows. “What’s meska?” She asks “I’ve never heard of it.”
Anakin’s fingers drum once against the table and he looks back over at her. “You’ve…” his mouth twitches into a wry smile “probably just never been somewhere that serves the poor man’s cocoa. It’s a much cheaper alternative.”
The words land and she absorbs them slowly. Her chin dips. Padmé doesn’t argue because they both know that she indeed comes from an upbringing where comfort is rarely, if ever, improvised. “Did you drink it often as a child?” Her voice gentles, not with guilt, but rather the subtle realisation that there are pieces of him she still hasn’t touched. Pockets of memory he keeps tucked away.
Anakin doesn’t say anything at first, but his smile softens under her tone and blunts whatever sharp edges the Outer Rim usually stirs within him. Her privilege isn’t something he resents. It’s just different. A different sky. A different childhood. A different warmth altogether. “Only on cold nights, when the sandstorms rattled our walls something fierce. My mom would make it if we had enough — and if I got really lucky?” His gaze is warmed by the thought alone “She’d sweeten it with real sugar.”
… and just as he says it, the server thuds two heavy ceramic mugs onto their table. The warmth is what hits first when Padmé leans forward to inhale ribbons of steam that waft up in dense and fragrant clouds. A nuttiness which reminds her of campfire coals and toasted grain.
“This smells…” she searches for the right word.
“Strong?”
The young woman shakes her head “Wonderful.”
Despite his best efforts in a space as open as this one, Anakin earnestly watches her the way a navigator studies constellations — seeking a touchstone in the vastness of everything he doesn’t say. Witnessing Padmé hold a piece of his long abandoned childhood in her beautiful hands almost makes him giddy. “Go on,” he urges “Try it.”
Immediately then does the first sip send a warmth blossoming across her tongue with sweetness that comes late. It’s nothing like Naboo’s delicate confections or the airy, perfumed treats in Coruscant. This is heavier. Earthier. A drink meant for people who work with their hands and brace themselves against particularly cold nights. “I feel like there’s this… blazing hearth inside me right now,” Padmé smiles in pleasant surprise “I love it.”
Anakin returns her smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and so the silence shifts when she finally notices him look away — and Padmé understands on some level that the meska brew isn’t just nostalgia. It is the shape of a childhood he rarely allows himself to touch.
She imagines him as a frightened child who eventually learned to depend on the reassuring sound of his mother preparing this simple, humble drink and her heart aches. Meska brew hadn’t even existed to her an hour ago and now it suddenly feels like a sacred relic from his past. “I know you must miss her very much,” the words are soft and for a moment Anakin seems suspended; caught between the instinct to pull away or remain present with her because they never talk about Shmi anymore.
Not since the day that cast a long shadow over them. One shaped by rage, grief, shame and the part of him he fears she’ll never accept. So much of Shmi’s image is tangled in that violence — swallowed by what he became in the desert. Padmé knows this. She feels the weight now as clearly as if it were a third person at their table.
Anakin doesn’t move for several seconds. He runs a thumb along his mug instead, back and forth, grounding himself in tactile memory because the real one hurts too much. “Every day,” his voice is roughened by the truth of it. Not an admission he often gives shape to and thus she feels something inside her soften even further; struck by parts of her husband the galaxy has never seen for in this moment? He is neither Jedi nor symbol. Just a boy from the desert who loved his mother more than anything.
She reaches out, not to take his hand — it is far too public for that — but Padmé lets her fingers rest on the table, close enough that he can feel their proximity. Memories of when he first told her the truth and condemned himself on Tatooine come to mind. The darkness of that moment has kept him from speaking Shmi’s name ever since.
One of his fingertips brushes the back of her hand.
“You can talk about her with me, Ani.”
He frowns. “What would be the point?”
“The point is you cherish your mother,” her eyes search for his “… and it’s alright to miss her.”
While to remember Shmi has always meant remembering the worst moment of his life — it seems like there is something else that now comes to mind with the taste of meska brew. Something pure. Something worth honouring. A mother scraping together what little sweetness she could find to comfort her frightened child.
Around them, the cantina continues to hum with life. Boots scraping, cups clinking, a trader swearing at their malfunctioning datapad. Yet those sounds become a distant murmur as they sit, united in their quiet tribute to Shmi. A moment that belongs only to she who shaped him long before the Jedi ever did. The boy she raised. The man he is, in many ways, still desperately trying to be.
When the comlink clipped to Anakin’s belt buzzes sharply, however, it slices through any such softness. His entire body then shifts and their shared moment retreats behind the practiced lines of a Jedi on assignment — duty sliding like a cloak he doesn’t have the luxury to remove.
“Skywalker,” he answers and Captain Rex’s voice filters through the channel. “Got the parts you asked for, General. Took some haggling… but they’re ours. We can lift off in under an hour if the hyperdrive cooperates.”
“Copy. We’ll be there shortly.” He cuts the comm.
Regardless. The scent of roasted meska pods and smoky sweetness lingers, prompting Padmé to reach for her warm mug again. “I’m sure we have time to finish these first. Right?” To hold onto a little tenderness for one more breath before reality snatches it away, perhaps.
Anakin thus settles back into the chair and lets his shoulders unspool; posture giving way to something unmistakably human when a nod follows. He takes a sip himself and the corner of his mouth lifts when they meet each other’s gaze again. A wordless thank you for the ‘permission’ she has given them to stay another moment.
When Padmé and he later rise to leave, the empty mugs will remain — but each and every memory attached shall linger like the last traces of comfort on their tongues.