#arlapadme

Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Arla Fett Characters: Arla Fett, Padmé Amidala, Sabé (Star Wars) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arla Fett Lives Summary:

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Arla Fett Characters: Padmé Amidala, Arla Fett Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Mand'alor Arla Fett, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Anakin Skywalker-critical, it's barely there but like. just in case Summary:

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Arla Fett Characters: Padmé Amidala, Arla Fett, Gar Saxon Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Abusive Relationships, Past Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Past Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Flirting, New Mandalorian critical, Anakin Skywalker critical, Febuwhump 2023 Summary:

When Arla wakes up, she’s somewhere very different from the battlefield she last remembers. Her wounds are wrapped, her armor is off, and she’s sprawled out on an obscenely soft bed, the whisper of windchimes in the distance. A warm breeze is carrying through the wide balcony doors overlooking a lake she doesn’t remember ever seeing before, and the sun is high.

There's also an incredibly lovely woman leaning against the balcony railing, watching her thoughtfully.

Just about the last thing Arla expected was to wake up in queen’s bed.

“I’ll have you know my armor is beskar and I’d like it back,” she says, sitting up carefully. The blanket pools around her waist, but—if Queen Amidala objects to seeing her almost naked, she can give Arla back her clothes, and then they’ll both be happier.

“I sent it for cleaning,” Padmé says, and she pushes away from the railing, crossing the wide balcony and stepping into the room. Arla can't see any handmaidens or security, and that seems like an oversight. Or maybe like Padmé wants something.

Cocking a brow, Arla leans forward, drawing a knee up and bracing a forearm against it. “Does that mean I’ll get it back?” she asks, and smirks when Padmé’s eyes very definitely flicker across the fall of her hair, the curve of her breasts in her bra. She really wants something, then.

“Eventually,” Padmé says, and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, smoothing her skirts like that will cover the flash of a thin knife, the shape of a dainty little blaster in an able holster. “I must admit, I'm rather interested in how the Mand'alor came to intervene in an attempt on my life, Lady Arla.”

Arla gives her a cocky smirk through a tangle of blonde hair, not moving. “Personal interest,” she says, and when Padmé just raises a brow, Arla lets her smile go lazy and predatory. “I'm a Mando, little queen. Nothing’s free. Pay me for the info and it’s yours.”

 For an instant she thinks Padmé is going to scowl at her, show frustration, give in. Instead, Padmé tips her head, considers—

Lunges.

It’s the very last thing Arla is expecting, and she can't dodge in time, can't do anything. Padmé pins her to the bed, and there's no weapon in her hand but there could be, and they both know it. When she leans in, the heavy coils of her hair sliding over her shoulders, it’s a dare, and Arla can see the dark sort of certainty in her eyes, the weight.

She’s been a queen for years. For as many terms as her planet allows, and her people even tried to change that, to give her more time in office. The whole galaxy has been lawless for far too long, but—Naboo is one of the planets that’s still standing. Naboo and its queen, and even the Sith Empire hasn’t gained a foothold here.

“That was your brother,” Padmé says, and one delicate, steel-strong hand is on Arla's chest, pinning her to the soft bed. “In the blue armor. That was Jango Fett. I thought you deposed him.”

“I did,” Arla says, and bares her teeth. “And he’s not my brother anymore.”

Padmé considers that, then tips her head, allowing the correction. “Why would Jango want me dead?” she asks.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Arla says grimly, because they're Mandalorian. Even if Jango is all tangled up with the Sith, he should know better than to actually work for them. They're the reason Jaster vanished, after all. She dragged him off his throne for listening to the wrong people, for trying to get them involved in Sith infighting, and she’d have thought that Jango would have learned by now, but—

“And what,” Arla asks, “are you going to pay me for that information, my queen?”

Padmé smiles, perfect and lovely and far too intriguing. “You fainted,” she say. “Right into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention, Mand'alor, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

Arla laughs, tilting her head back, and she slides her hands up, curls them around Padmé’s waist. “So now I'm just returning the favor?” she asks. “Paying you back for your gentle care? I got that wound saving your shebs, you know.”

“You got it picking a fight with your brother,” Padmé corrects, and she leans down, close enough to kiss. The weight of her astride Arla's hips is almost enough to steal Arla's breath entirely. “If we’re trading favors, Mand'alor, I think the advantage is mine.”

Arla hums, tips her head. Padmé is watching her, careful dark eyes and red lips, and she’s the last bastion of an ancient Republic holding firm against the Sith. The Mandalorians could do worse, as far as allies go. “And what do you want in return, Padmé?” she asks, deliberately familiar, a dare of her own.

Padmé smiles, quick and bright, and leans down, veiling them in brown hair and the smell of Naboo’s roses. “Guess, Arla,” she returns, and then she’s gone, a bright whirl of cloth vanishing through the wide doors in a sweep of silk and hidden weapons.

“My brother’s trying to kill you,” Arla says.

From everything she’s seen and read about Naboo’s former queen, the fact that there's a blaster out and aimed at her head before she’s even finished speaking isn't a surprise at all. Arla's in no mood to get shot today, so she doesn’t move, just waits, leaning back against the window in the senator’s room, helmet tucked under her arm and all of her weapons in clear view.

After a long, long moment, Padmé takes two careful steps forward, one to the side, and brings the lights up with a touch, her eyes never leaving Arla. “Your brother,” she repeats, her blaster still leveled at Arla's head. “I don’t suppose your brother is Count Dooku.”

Arla pulls the face that question deserves. “I'm no sorry to say he isn't,” she says. “But Count Dooku is the one who hired him to kill you, if that makes you feel better.”

Some faint hint of amusement pulls at Padmé’s mouth, though she doesn’t relent. “And are you working with him to kill me?”

Rolling her eyes, Arla bends down to set her helmet on the floor, then straightens, raising her hands. “If I wanted to kill you,” she says, and gives Padmé a lazy smile, “I wouldn’t have announced myself, Senator. I'm just here to keep my idiot brother from managing it.”

Padmé takes a breath, finally lowering her blaster. “I already have Jedi keeping me safe,” she points out. “Whoever your brother is, he can't get past them.”

Arla can't help the way her smile goes crooked, just a little. “Believe me, Senator, Jango Fett can get past whoever he wants.” When Padmé freezes, she tips her head in confirmation. “I'm Arla Fett. Former of the Death Watch, formerly of a Republic prison, formerly a brainwashed assassin. Jango might be able to get past Jedi, but he won't get past me.”

Brown eyes locked on her, Padmé takes a few steps closer. “I haven’t heard of you,” she says. “Why not approach the Jedi directly, if you know who’s after me? And who hired him?”

Arla grins at her, all teeth. And—she could go to the Jedi. She could tell them about the Sith, and about how he’s going to take over the galaxy, and how Arla saw it firsthand, with an ex-Jedi survivor who stripped her memories away and then married her despite that. Maybe some part of the skin-crawling revulsion she feels at the idea is attached to the fact that she could meet Bardan in the halls of the Temple, but—

She came back. She woke up in the Valorum Center, all her memories her own, with a cold, sinking certainty that she knew precisely what was about to happen. But knowing means she can fix it, and this time she won't spend ten years locked in a cell, babbling Mando’a to herself. This time, she’s going to use what the Death Watch made her and change the galaxy.

“It’s a family matter,” she says. “I'm morally obligated to find my brother and beat the snot out of him for what he’s done to my nephews. And after that, I'm going to find Dooku and shake a confession out of him, because he’s about to use an army of droids to try and take over the Republic.”

The flare of grim victory lights Padmé’s face, sharpens the planes of it and makes her expression into one that tangles Arla's breath in her throat. “I knew it was him,” she says, fists curling. “His talk of seceding from the galaxy—that’s part of it, isn't it?”

Arla nods. “There's a Sith Lord pulling the strings beyond just Dooku,” she says. “But Dooku's trying to start a war for him. I'm going to stop him.”

Padmé’s gaze flickers from Arla to her blaster, and she deftly slides it back into its holster, then straightens, smoothing her dress down, and says, “I'm going to help.”

Arla blinks, then tips her head. “Help,” she repeats, bemused. “I just told you I'm going after two Sith Lords. And my brother, who was hired to murder you.”

“You also just told me a Sith Lord was trying to take over the Republic,” Padmé says, and passes Arla to pick up a hooded cloak and travel-worn bag from their place by the window. Emergency supplies, Arla thinks, eyeing them and then eyeing the senator herself. She’s packed to be able to run if she needs to. Not stupid, certainly. And not so brave that she’s going to get herself killed.

Looking up, Padmé meets her eyes, and that smile is quick and graceful and full of steel. “Your brother killed one of my handmaidens. Cordé was a dear friend, and I'm not about to let him put any more of my people at risk. If you can find him, I'm going with you.”

Well. Arla wasn’t expecting this, but it’s not like she has a solid plan here anyway. She’s flying on instinct and reaction and sheer rage, and adding Padmé to that can probably only help.

“He’s on Kamino,” she says, and when Padmé raises a brow, she shrugs. “Or, really, he will be. Once he fails to kill you, he’ll bolt back there. Jango's an idiot, but he’s a predictable one. And I need to go to Kamino anyways, to punch a few people. And hug my nephews.”

Padmé smiles. “Then how about we get there before him?” she suggests, straightening. “Will he recognize you, if we leave together?”

Arla snorts, rapping the knuckles of her gauntlets against the black of her armor. “Jango thinks I'm dead,” she says succinctly. “And he won't know my armor, either. Hope you don’t mind dodging those Jedi watching you, Senator. I'm not in the mood to be talked down right now.”

Padmé’s smile is a little crooked, but she steps forward. “The window opens,” she says, like a challenge. “Does that jetpack actually work?”

“It’ll carry two, even,” Arla retorts, and crosses the remaining space between them, pulling her helmet on and then wrapping an arm around Padmé’s waist, pulling her in tight. “Ready, milady?”

Padmé’s fingers curl into her armor. “Beskar,” she says, and it’s breathless enough to be gratifying. “You're wearing pure beskar, but you painted it black.”

Arla grins behind her helmet, unlatching the window and shoving it open. “Black for justice,” she says. “Jango will know what it means when he sees it. And when I punch him in the mouth.”

Padmé laughs, getting an arm around Arla's neck and holding on tight. She’s so close that Arla could kiss her, and Arla can feel she’s got a lot more weapons on her than just the blaster. “I get the leftovers?” she asks, and Arla takes two steps back, right to the edge of the drop.

“Senator, you can have whatever pieces of my idiot brother you want,” she promises, and hits the thrusters.