Work Text:
It's an indulgence.
Padmé says to herself in different ways, depending on her mood. It's an indulgence, accompanied by a head shake, unsuitable for a respected senator and the wife of a man at war. It's an indulgence, accompanied by a shrug--it's just an indulgence, a way to take the edge off as the time grinds on and the stress builds.
She can't really believe that Anakin isn't enjoying a few indulgences of his own, out there among the heat and tension of the war front. Padmé sees the way he and Obi-Wan dance around each other, the endless layers to their little games. She holds no grudges, and most days, she can convince herself that Anakin won't, either.
After all, the Commander and the Chancellor are both the peak of professionalism in the light of daytime, looking at her with nothing more than courteous respect. Perhaps that's part of the appeal; not having to wait to see how she'll rescue Anakin from spilling the beans this time, not being tempted into one longing look after another. Things are almost relaxing, a very strange thing to say when you're sleeping with two men behind your husband's back.
Fox and Palpatine both know about Anakin, of course. Neither has said as much, but Padmé wouldn't be where she is today if she couldn't read subtext and hidden meanings. Palpatine is all-knowing, as all wise men strive to be, and the Coruscant are privy to every secret and shadow in the Senate.
"You probably know more about politics than both of us put together," she'd teased Fox once. He'd just glanced at his feet, caught off guard by the praise, she thinks. He's a very restrained man, one of the things Padmé most likes about him. Passion is all well and good, wonderful even, but politicians like her learn to appreciate a bit of self-control.
He's quiet now as he follows her to Palpatine's office, booted feet silent on the thick carpet, a careful step behind her. Ani has been gone for two days now, and when Palpatine messaged to ask if she had time for a chat in his office, she hadn't hesitated before saying yes. Fox had been waiting outside her office at the end of the day.
It's quiet now, most of the Senators having gone home or, if Padmé knows some of her colleagues, partying at exclusive clubs. The Senate is being taken over by the cleaning crew and the night watch, and Padmé takes a moment to let herself appreciate a rare moment of peace in what she privately considers one of the hectic places in the galaxy.
Fox salutes at a passing Guardsman, their gauntlets glinting in the low hallway light. Padmé gives the trooper a friendly smile, and she thinks he stiffens ever so slightly. The Guard aren't too used to praise, poor things.
At the elevator she's about to pause when she notices that the Guardsman is still standing in the hallway, staring at them--at her. Even if it weren't for the helmet, something tells her his face would be unreadable.
"Senator?" Fox asks behind her and she shakes it off, steps inside.
The Chancellor greets them both warmly, lets Fox sweep the office for bugs and stand obediently behind his chair, silent and immovable as one of the decorative statues. Technically this is a business meeting between Palpatine and Padmé, one of his strongest supporters.
And technically they do talk about politics, at least at first. Padmé has been talking politics and so many other things with the chancellor since she was a girl, even if their relationship has...shifted, in the past few years of the war. She and Ani would visit him together sometimes, when they had the time, confident that even if they (Ani) did slip up Palpatine would never use it against them.
Palpatine. She finds it hard to call him Sheev these days, even after the time she's spent in his bed. It's a level of intimacy that she's not going to risk, not when her heart does and always will belong firmly to Anakin Skywalker. If she keeps from going that far, it means she can tuck the safe little veneer of respectability back over everything when it's all said and done.
The talk shifts to Naboo, to old times. They start to include Fox in the conversation a little, tell him about delicacies from home that he must try, share stories that they both already know. Fox doesn't comment much, just says, "That's nice, Senator," or "I'm glad to hear it, Chancellor."
Not a very eloquent bunch, Palpatine had confided to her once, a knowing quirk to his lips. But brave, of course, he'd added quickly. And loyal. And safe, he didn’t need to add. Fox is steady, reliable, like the Chancellor, even if he hasn't been in her life nearly as long.
They're both ports in the storm while Anakin, Anakin is the hurricane. They ask for so little, compared to him, break no boundaries and push no limits of heart and mind. How could Padmé not have been tempted, in the beginning? How could she not be tempted still?
So, when Palpatine casually suggests that they both "retire" for the night, she sees the hidden meaning in his smile and smiles back, with a smile of her own. They stand up and make their way towards his spare apartments at the back of the office, talking as casually as a guest and host who can't quite split apart for the night. Still playing at respectability, even when they both know full well no cameras are watching--force of habit, she thinks.
The Commander follows, of course. Security is of the utmost importance in troubled times like these.
Palpatine rests a fatherly hand on the back as he guides her into the bedroom. It's small, but richly appointed, with art painted by one or another of Palpatine's less illustrious ancestors: a pair of naked lovers intertwined in a field of flowers, tangled so completely she can hardly tell where one ends and the other begins.
Call me sentimental, he'd said, the first time he'd led Padmé inside, when she'd gone to visit him for advice after a bad fight with Anakin, and he and the Commander had offered her something entirely different. I like to keep connected with my roots.
"Commander," Palpatine calls, keying in the lock code. "Why don't you take your armor off?" He steps behind Padmé and plants a soft kiss on her shoulder, reaching up to undo her braid.
"Yes, sir," Fox replies, always so formal. Padmé watches as he pulls off his helmet, the seal coming undone with a soft hiss. He's young, physically around Anakin's age, but his thick black curls are already graying at the temples.
So young, Anakin said once, drunk senseless on her expensive wine after a bad campaign, the one time they'd really talked about the role the clones played in the Republic. They're so young, Padmé, all of them.
So are you, she'd pointed out, because it was hard, yes, but they had to face facts. So was I.
That's not the same, Padmé. They didn't choose-- He'd cut himself off, blinking.
She'd raised an eyebrow. You think I chose for my planet to get attacked?
That's not what I... He'd shaken his head, taken another sip, and was unconscious soon after. They'd never spoken of it again.
Fox's face is calm and composed, almost blank. Even now, in the heat of the moment, he has the kind of sabacc face Padmé needed years of training to truly master, the kind that Ani never even bothered to master at all. It's impressive, really.
She and Palpatine help one another out of their clothes while Fox sheds the rest of his armor, movements quick and efficient from years of practice. Padmé and Palpatine take more time with, touching each other a little as the layers of heavy cloth fall away.
They're scarred, all of them, silvery shapes tracing pale or brown skin. Padmé earned hers at the battle of Theed, Fox on Geonosis and Kamino. Palpatine says the marks dotted across his body are souvenirs from his old days of speeder racing, and Padmé traces them with her fingers as her dress pools around her ankles.
Fox is waiting for Padmé and Palpatine when they're ready, hands behind his back, and Padmé has to giggle at the sight of his nude parade rest. Palpatine just hums patiently, amused by their stiff little Commander, and moves to his side. He traces a finger down Fox's chest and leans forward to whisper in his ear.
The transformation is immediate. Fox's eyes go hooded and hungry, the tension seeping out to his frame to be replaced by oozing lust. Palpatine gives him a little nudge and Fox gives Padmé a roguish smile, crossing the room in three steps to pull her close and kiss her, lips warm with need.
Palpatine is the only one who can really stir Fox like this. Padmé has called the Commander to her own office a few times for a private ‘chat,’ the way she knows the Chancellor does, but it's never quite the same. He doesn't complain, but he's so stiff, and it's like he forgets parts of her body that he manipulates expertly when it's the three of them.
She's a little jealous, she supposes. Not so much on Fox's behalf, but of Palpatine and his ability to use his words so well, better than Padmé despite all her years of training. It's why he's the Chancellor and she's merely a Senator, she supposes (for now, anyway).
But none of that matters right now, because Fox is kissing her and Palpatine is wrapping his arms around Fox's waist and Padmé can close her eyes and just forget. She doesn't have to be a Senator, she doesn't have to be swept up in a relentless and doomed love affair with the Chosen One, she just has to think and feel and breathe for as long as she needs.
Palpatine directs the night's activities, as he always does, and Fox and Padmé obey eagerly. Padmé enjoys turning her brain off every once in a while, (although it's difficult considering that Ani has less experience than her) and she suspects that Fox feels the same.
He's so much more vocal in the dark, their Fox, spilling out gasps and moans and strangled pieces of Mando'a. It's more emotion than she's ever seen from a clone trooper, and eventually she can pretend that he isn't one, same as she sometimes pretends that Palpatine isn't old enough to be her grandfather when it's too dim to be otherwise (she never tries to pretend it's Ani, not with the way his presence always her feel, overwhelmed and endless and perhaps too much).
It helps that Palpatine certainly got the stamina of a much younger man. Padmé would never accuse her beloved Chancellor of using stimulants, but he certainly manages to keep things going for a while, gently arranging their bodies into one position after another.
When things finally come to a halt, Padmé's thighs are shaking a little, but she's warm and stained and feels so good she thinks she could drift away on it. She slumps contentedly into the arms of her not-lovers, all three of them taking an opportunity to catch their breath.
And then, of course, she gets up. She's not in the room for pillow talk, and neither are they. Besides, it's not like Fox and Padmé can stay the night.
The Chancellor helps her get dressed, sliding back into his own robe to see her out. They chat about an upcoming summit, a failed bill, casual as they ever were. Fox is quiet again, eyes on the ground as he puts his armor back on and follows them.
"Good night, Senator," Palpatine says as they leave.
"Good night, Chancellor," Padmé replies politely.
Palpatine's eyes flick to Fox and he smiles a strange little smile. "Good night, Commander."
It takes Fox a second to answer; he must be more tired than she thought. "Good night, Chancellor," he replies, voice expressionless through the vocoder. Palpatine smiles warmly as they go, his eyes resting gently on Padmé's back.
The elevator ride is probably one of the least awkward post-coital elevator rides she's ever taken. Fox is silent as usual, staring ahead as Padmé makes a few notes about the more official parts of her meeting with Palpatine.
She's still enjoying the pleasant tingle in her legs as she steps out into the hallway, when Fox bolts past her. Padmé yelps, unable to stop the Commander before he drops to his knees before a trash can, rips his helmet off, and engages in some rather spectacular vomiting.
"Commander!" Padmé rushes to his side and grabs his shoulders, keeping him from toppling into the can. He stiffens at her touch, although she doesn't that any passerby would excuse them of doing something improper when Fox is clearly occupied with spilling his guts into the trash.
When he's done, he lifts his head, blinking at her. "Senator!" He jerks to his feet, eyes wide. "I'm sorry, I--"
"It's all right," she says, gently rubbing his shoulders. "Easy, Commander." His eyes look different in the light of the hallway, more wild, younger and older all at once. It's--an interesting look on him, she thinks.
"It must have been something I ate," he mutters, moving unsteadily to his feet, hands quivering slightly at his sides.
"You should go to the medbay," she says. He opens his mouth, but she cuts him off, firm and assured like any proper Senator would be. "I'll be fine, Commander." She gives him a meaningful look. "I can have one of the soldiers in the hangar escort me home. You need to have a medic look at you, make sure it's not that bug that's been going around. Guard!"
The passing Guardsman she's summoned jerks to a halt; she can't tell if it's the one for earlier or something else. He sees the Commander's state and hurries to their side.
"Take this man back to the medbay," she orders.
"Yes, Senator," the Guardsman says. His voice is oddly strained--perhaps he's coming down with something, too. Do clones have a problem with illnesses? She'll have to ask. (Didn't the Republic pay for something better?)
"Goodnight, Commander," she says, voice calm and respectful. An employer wishing a subordinate well for the night.
"Goodnight, Senator," he says, and again, there's that slight hesitation. A side effect of the nausea, perhaps. She watches him follow the Guardsman down the hall, marching side by side as the shadows ripple over their armor.
Padmé's able to find an escort in the hangar, just as she expected, and they see her home without issue. She's tired when she gets there, worn out from work and playing both, mumbling a goodnight to C-Threepio as she makes her way to bed.
She doesn't remember much about her dreams, except for a vague memory of Fox's wild eyes. Her sleep is interrupted in the early morning when she's sent sprinting to the bathroom, barely managing to drop to her knees in front of the toilet in time.
That stomach bug has certainly been making its rounds, it seems. She hopes the Chancellor has gotten away unscathed.