When You Come Home

-55-

Quarter to infinity.

Half-past infinity.

Quarter past infinity.

Time had no meaning. It was tracked through heartbeats and calculated from an uncertain starting point. It was checkposted by pain and flagged with worry. It was a fleeting wind, an untamable force of nature.

Anakin had no concept of time, except for his lifeline, that sliver of light stolidly pushing through the concrete barrier. But for how long it had been beaming, with neither change nor wobble, he was starting to believe that it was artificial. Perhaps a final miracle of the Senate building's lighting rig to allow some semblance of normalcy and sight, or a cruel joke left by the stubborn backup generator to ensure a persistent now and never that coveted then. It could be the dead of night, and Anakin would have had no idea.

He was starting to get thirsty. Padmé had neither stirred nor flinched. Save for her slow breathing and rhythmic heartbeat, there was no sound. He was beginning to imagine things. That shadow lurking in the corner ... wasn't it a tiny creature, poised to strike? And that collection of rocks ... could it spell out a code, ready to be interpreted on some mystery mission? Or maybe those cracks, spread like black constellations across the sky, created the canvas for some new art form. Because wasn't that all that they were? Just an art display to be examined and judged and exploited for monetary gain. Wasn't that all art was? Wasn't that all it had come to: just a wild venture to make money and to keep it? Wasn't he just a pawn in a much larger game, played by much smarter people and won by much more devious players?

He was a little hungry, too. He hadn't had breakfast. He would have missed lunch and dinner, if it was even that time. It could barely be lunchtime for all he knew.

Padmé's breathing was getting heavier. Anakin barely noticed at first, until he was sure that her breaths took longer than they had earlier. He had started counting. He would watch the rise and fall of her chest, counting off each cycle on his fingers. He tried to keep the rhythm of his fingers constant, but his results were inclusive. He had nothing to anchor the before and the after on. He was sure it was heavier, though. He just was.

To be fair, his own breathing seemed harder — not heavier, harder. He wasn't sure if that was the same thing.

One of the shadows leapt at him and he flinched. It broke over him with the harmlessness of a vivid imagination. He still brushed off the shadow residue, just in case.

His sudden movement had upset the concrete tent. It was so easy to offend. He sighed and reached out to apologize, then stopped, staring at his hand in confusion. Why was he being so weird? Maybe it wasn't weird, but it was just something Obi-Wan would have done.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry, Mister Flower!" He was distraught. He scooped up the crushed flower, holding it simultaneously as loosely and tightly as he could. He looked around frantically for help. "Anakin, please go get Dad! This poor flower needs desperate attention."

Anakin nodded seriously, running back inside to find "Dad." He saw Momma's new friend at the kitchen sink, washing dishes. He hesitated. He still wasn't sure about New Dad. But thankfully Momma came out from the hallway and smiled immediately when she saw him. "Hello, darling, is everything alright?"

Anakin watched suspiciously as New Dad also turned, looking concerned. He reached for a towel to dry his hands. "Can I help with something?"

Anakin continued eying him as he crept over to Momma, grabbing her trouser leg and pointing a finger at New Dad. "'B-Wan needs his help. It's despespert."

Momma frowned in acknowledgment, looking to New Dad. "Is it okay if you check it out?" She crouched next to Anakin, placing her hands on his cheeks. "Your new dad will help. You can trust him; I'm sure he can fix the problem. Can you show him where Obi-Wan is?"