Day 7 ahsokatanos - Star Wars

Hey everyone! It's Grace, and I'm so, so thrilled to be sharing my contribution to Twelve Days of Fanfic with all of you. Now, as my category was Star Wars, and there isn't exactly Christmas in space, this oneshot, unfortunately, is not holiday themed. Rather, it's a twist on how Anakin and Artie (the OC from my fanfic Fools) could have met back on Tatooine. Thank you so much for reading! I hope you all enjoy. Merry Christmas!
— ahsokatanos

[An AU wherein Qui-Gon never comes to Tatooine, the Chosen One is never found, and Artemis Adhara's luck has long since run out.]

🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄

Anakin knew he would die in chains. He had long-since made peace with it.

His calloused hands fiddled with a rusted coupling, the bindings of which had come irreparably undone.

Well, irreparable to anyone but Anakin Skywalker.

Anakin dropped the scrap metal and rubbed his eyes roughly, pushing his copper-colored curls out of his grease-stained face. The suns were almost ready to set, thrusting crimson and gold light across the sandy valley; travelers and residents alike milled through the dusty streets, exhausted and bleary-eyed, enervated from the day's troubles; run-down shops began to close for the evening. Mos Espa was preparing for the moons and the stars to raise themselves into the opal sky, and relieve the inhabitants of Tatooine from the twin suns' scorching gazes. All of this Anakin watched from just outside Watto's junk shop, where he had spent his entire life as a slave. It used to be all right—awful, yes, but bearable, when his mother was alive. But Shmi Skywalker had died just before Anakin turned twenty, and though two years had gone by since her passing, grief still ate at him like a starving dragon.

He wanted rest. Anakin yawned, stretched out his long legs, and rubbed his eyes once again. His eyelashes fluttered against a sudden breeze that drove up small clouds of sand, and Anakin rose to his feet, and, stifling another yawn, strode back inside.

The shop was dingy, and smelled of mildew and burning oil. The scrappy interior immediately depressed Anakin, who ducked beneath a cluster of hanging wires as he ventured deeper into the workshop.

"Watto?" called Anakin. "I've got the coupling. The fusing was deteriorated, but I think—"

"Fah!" snarled a throaty voice. "Just leave it on the counter there. We got visitors coming, little Ani, an' they coming to sell me a new slave."

Out of a back room clambered the squat Toydarian shopkeeper, his gray-blue skin shrouded in a layer of grime. Watto's trunk-like nose swayed as his rapidly flapping wings carried him behind a tarp and out of sight. A second later, Watto reappeared, small arms laden with heaps of rusted junk. His beady eyes narrowed when they fell on Anakin.

"What're you doin', just standing there?" jeered the shopkeeper. "You better start lookin' busy, boy. Can't have no one thinking I treat my property nice."

Watto turned away, mumbling to himself. Anakin glared at the back of his Master's head, fists curling by his sides as familiar anger bloomed inside him.

Property, was he?

Yes, said a voice in Anakin's head, you are. Now do something useful with yourself before you get beaten.

Biting back a flurry of curses, Anakin snatched up an old toolkit and plopped down at a rickety durasteel table, before a speeder engine he had been struggling to repair for months. No sooner had he set to work than a burly man with large, hairy arms and what looked to be a rusty pipe in-hand strode through the entrance, dragging behind him the most breathtaking girl Anakin had ever seen.

Hair that seemed made in the image of the sun fell over eyes more startlingly blue than the desert sky; a gag was slipped between her teeth; around her neck was a fraying rope—the thuggish brute gripped its end in his other hand, and tugged her forward so forcefully she tripped and fell to her knees.

"Aha!" chortled Watto, emerging again from the back. "This the little brat you promised? This is it? She's as big around as my little finger, ain't she?"

The brute shook his head. "You shoulda seen the fight she put up. I almost decided she wasn't worth it."

"So she's a hothead, huh?" mused Watto, touching a hand to his nonexistent chin. "What am I supposed to do if she starts trouble?"

The brute shrugged, an oafish smile on his face. "Hit 'er, I guess."

Anakin's gaze leaped to the girl's handler, and his pale eyes narrowed; a new kind of anger lifted its head within him.

"Good point," muttered Watto. "She healthy? Any problems?"

"None I ever heard of," said the ugly seller. "She oughta do 'er job all right."

Watto considered the girl for a few long moments, mumbling inaudible thing to himself as he thought.

"How much do you want for her, huh?" he asked after a while.

"Twenty-five hundred credits," replied the man.

"Fah!" chortled Watto, genuine amusement in his soulless eyes. "I ain't stupid; twenty-five hundred is worth two of her."

"Fine," the brute huffed. "Fifteen hundred. No less."

"I'll buy her," agreed Watto almost immediately. "Skywalker, show her where she'll sleep."

"NO!" the girl shouted, somehow having managed to slip the gag from her mouth. "No, you will not buy me! And you—" she rounded on Anakin, who's chest began to thump suddenly, "—you won't show me anything! I won't be sold! I won't—"

The girl never finished. The rusted pipe came soaring through the air in a great arc, striking her across the face. She yelped, and grabbed her cheek, keeping her head ducked and mouth shut tightly as her captor laughed coldly and began to walk out alongside Watto. Anakin jumped to his feet.

"Are you all right?" he implored, kneeling down beside the girl. "Move your hand—let me see."

She eyed him warily, but conformed, lowering her fingers and revealing a bloody gash. Anakin scowled.

"It's not deep," he said, subconsciously pushing away a piece of her hair and feeling electricity pulse through his fingertips as he did. "It needs cleaning, though. Follow me."

He straightened, and beckoned for the girl to as well. She rose to her feet and let him guide her through the clutter of Watto's shop.

Her new home.

They made their way to a small back room, where a run-down sink stood amid various second-hand items. Anakin produced a semi-clean rag and ran it beneath the water, then gingerly brought it to the girl's cheek.

"You have a name?" he asked softly.

"Artemis Adhara," she replied, just as quietly. "You can call me Artie."

Anakin pressed the rag firmly against Artie's cheek to stunt the wound's heavy blood flow. "How long have you been on the run?"

"Ten years," she said. "I never thought . . . well, I thought I was more clever. What about you?"

"Oh, um," began Anakin, feeling suddenly flustered, "I was born a slave. I've been at this my whole life."

"Sounds awful . . ."

"It has been, yeah."

Artie was quiet for a very long while, letting Anakin nurse her cut in silence. He tried to be as gentle as possible, mindful of the many times Artemis flinched at the slightest pressure. Anakin waited for her to speak, to engage him, desperate for more of her conversation. Artie remained pale and wordless, however, as if the reality of her situation was dawning on her for the first time; her freedom had been stolen. She was no longer a person, but a piece of machinery. Soon, the soft skin of her hands would crack and bleed, and her icy eyes would lose their soul. Just as his had.

(Anakin thought her more angelic than anything, but did not think that a remark like that would sit well with her.)

He was about to give up on speaking to her again, but suddenly her gaze met his, and the world stood still.

"Your name is Skywalker?" she asked.

His lips quirked at the corners. "Anakin Skywalker, actually."

"Mm."

She fell silent again. Anakin pressed his lips together, desperately trying to think of something more to say to her, when—

"Skywalker!" hollered Watto from the front of the shop. "Get back in here. You got work to do!"

Anakin grimaced, annoyance surging through him. "I'm sorry, Artemis. Stay back here if you can. If you need anything, please . . . let me know."

Artie nodded. "Okay."

Anakin's gaze lingered on her fair face for longer than was appropriate; he tore his eyes from Artie, and turned to go.

"Thank you . . . Anakin," Artemis said lowly. "Really."

His chest fluttered again. It made Anakin feel a fool, being so suddenly infatuated with a frightened girl whose entire life had just been destroyed.

But those eyes . . .

He smiled to himself.

Those eyes were something else.