Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars, Obi-Wan, or Padmé – no siree. It's all George's property – too much of a headache to handle anyway. I just splash about in my puddle of angst and Obi-oogling.

AN: In an interview with Star Wars Insider, Natalie Portman said in order for her to lend credence to her EpIII scenes with Ewan McGregor, it was necessary to create a backstory for Obi-Wan and Padmé and their friendship. They must be friends to a certain extent, she said, for Obi-Wan to feel comfortable coming to Padmé not once, but twice, during the course of ROTS. Also, in the novellization of the movie, it comes out that Obi-Wan is the only Jedi she really and truly trusts, even above Anakin. In movie context, I don't think they could have developed a romance persay, but a good friendship is more than likely. Perhaps this is how it began…

Also, the line 'and the chalice from the palace has the brew that is true' comes from the Danny Kaye movie, The Court Jester. It just seemed to fit here. In our world, it comes from an old movie – perhaps on Naboo it is a children's nursery rhyme. One never knows.

Diagnosis

The smell was becoming a severe annoyance. Recycled air was constantly pumped into the makeshift medical facility, but the automatic scrubbers could not entirely erase the odor. She had noticed it first upon entry into the execution arena – after all, its floor was entirely made up of dusty sand – and now it was weighing heavily on her nauseated stomach. Old blood, that's what the tang of Geonosis reminded her of. Old, dried, crusty blood. No wonder she had thought it appropriate for the arena. She had thought to die there, albeit fighting.

Padmé Amidala Naberrie, senator of the sovereign planet of Naboo, sat stiffly in the hard, synthplast folding chair beside Anakin Skywalker's cot, her small hand folded inside his larger one. The fierce scratches from the nexu burned across her back, the pain gnawing at her consciousness and making movement difficult. Her entire body felt as though she had been thoroughly beaten by Hutt gangsters. She had initially refused attention, insisting that Anakin and the other badly wounded be treated first. Now, seemingly forgotten in the chaos, she sat beside the unconscious body of her recently realized lover, lost in the aftershock of battle.

The monitors hooked to Anakin's heart rate, blood pressure, and various other vitals blinked and chimed steadily at their prescribed intervals. While Padmé was grateful for this mechanical reassurance, she disliked seeing the tubing and patches attached to his body. She tried to avoid looking at the shiny cap covering the severed end of Anakin's right arm, but her eyes seemed drawn to it. What would he do, she wondered, when he woke and had to cope with a new, artificial arm? The Jedi padawan she had come to know over the past several days would chafe at his injury, she was certain, until he gained mastery over it. Padmé smiled tiredly. He had pursued other …interests with the same intense, single-minded focus he would give his new arm.

"Do you find something amusing, senator?" The sudden voice seemed loud in the small room, its clipped, Coruscanti accent making it brusque. Startled, Padmé jumped and immediately regretted doing so as her injuries throbbed anew in protest.

She turned in her chair to see Anakin's master, Obi-Wan Kenobi, coming slowly through the doorway. He had been injured by Dooku also, she knew, but truth be told, she had not paid him much heed in the transport ride back from the count's hanger. Now, with Anakin safe for the present, she noticed Obi-Wan looked as bruised and exhausted as she felt. His bedraggled reddish-brown hair was damp and curled limply against his collar. His beard needed combing - and a good trim, some fastidious corner of Padmé's mind noted dimly. He had not yet changed into a fresh tunic, and the original was missing one whole arm, which the medics had cut away to treat a wound. The dark grey patch on his muscular upper bicep marked the spot, its tiny green indicator light showing the sub-dermal tissue knitters at work. Padmé winced, seeing this. She had been treated with one of those once, at school when she punctured her hand with a stylus. The healing process hurt worse than the actual accident. At least the medics had given the Jedi a new pair of pants.

"Senator Amidala, are you well?" Obi-Wan limped to Anakin's other side, where he leaned heavily against the flimsy wall of the room and waited expectantly for her to reply. The young woman tore her gaze away from the knitter patch and met his steely grey-blue eyes.

"I beg your pardon, Master Kenobi," she said, "A fond memory."

He nodded and looked down at his unconscious padawan. His face softened slightly and adopted an expression of affectionate annoyance. "He's entirely too reckless for his own good," he murmured. Padmé could not help but agreeing with this assessment. She squeezed Anakin's hand gently.

"Senator, forgive my intrusion, but have you been treated for your own injuries?" Obi-Wan asked, his attention fully focused on her once more. Padmé wondered if he had seen her intimate gesture. No matter, she thought ruefully, both he and Master Yoda had seen her fervently embrace the young man in Dooku's hanger, and her refusal to leave his side was hardly subtle behavior. Something odd gleamed in Obi-Wan's gaze, and Padmé felt her queasy stomach tighten further.

When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. "No," she said, "I am not badly injured, and there are others in far worse condition."

The Jedi Knight had already pushed himself away from the wall and was coming to her side of the cot when the young woman held up a hand and laughed. "I didn't realize you were a medic, Master Kenobi," she said as he reached her chair. For the first time since she had seen him in the arena, a smile split the usually stern visage. "Oh, I've become quite proficient at the basics," he responded. "That one," a nod toward the still figure on the bed, "keeps me in practice and then some."

"I'm sure he does," she said, smiling back at him, "but it isn't necessary to treat me, Master. I will see a medic before I retire."

Obi-Wan shook his head. "My dear senator," he said, "You are brave and beautiful, but you are only human. Please don't be stubborn, mi'lady, you have already gone too long without care." He must have recognized the abrupt set to Padmé's jaw, for his lips quirked beneath his beard. "Come, senator," he said soothingly, and then his aristocratic eyebrow rose just the tiniest bit. "My ever irrepressible padawan is resting comfortably, and I know he would insist you receive attention. The sooner you are taken care of, the sooner you can return to his side."

Padmé looked back at Anakin uncertainly, but she knew his master was right. Her back throbbed unmercifully, and the wounds were undoubtedly crusted with sand and dirt from her fall onto the dunes. With a sigh, she nodded. She placed Anakin's hand back upon the thin, white coverlet, resisted the urge to kiss him, and tried to rise.

"Oh, sweet Maker," she gasped, the pain and stiffness of her body rendering her immobile. "I'll thank you not to say 'I told you so'," she said, wincing.

"Never." he replied, but she could hear the quiet laughter in his cultured voice. "Allow me to assist you, mi'lady." The knight gently slid his hands beneath her elbows and provided gentle support. "That's it, take it slowly."

Padmé gradually straightened to her feet, biting her lip at one point to contain a whimper. "A tumble from a transport is no small feat," he continued as they both limped their way to the door. Padmé suddenly giggled. "A tumble from a transport," she said, "'And the chalice from the palace has the brew that is true'. A poet as well as a medic and a Jedi – Master Kenobi, you surprise me."

"A jack of all trades and master of none, some might say," Obi-Wan responded and palmed the door open.