Chapter Text
Luke
Explosions rocked the T-4a but Luke could not have said how he piloted the Imperial shuttle out of the calamity that was the destruction of the second Death Star. His eyes did not see the unfamiliar controls at his fingertips; his ears did not hear his own voice announcing his identity on the Rebel channel lest they blast him out of space; he was not even fully conscious of the Force keeping the lingering lightning-induced tremors at bay.
His mind was reaching into the Force, seeking the continual reassurance that Darth Vader—that Anakin Skywalker was still alive.
And he was…for now. Strapped clumsily into a seat, modulated breaths weak and uneven, unconscious and possibly, probably, definitely dying.
Well, not if Luke had anything to say about it.
Once he’d determined that the Rebels knew the T-4a belonged to an ally and not an escaping imperial, he switched to Admiral Ackbar’s secure frequency. “Home One, this is Commander Skywalker. I’m in need of medical assistance.”
He could only hope the Mon Calamari cruiser had whatever it would take to keep his father alive.
Anakin Skywalker wheezed on a repulsor gurney, entombed in his black suit. The med droids claimed to have stabilized his vitals before they refastened his helmet, but they kept reminding Luke that Vader’s suit was too compromised to sustain life for long.
He didn’t need the reminders when his own skin still stank nauseatingly of ozone, but he did appreciate that at least the droids weren’t questioning why he was asking them to keep a Sith Lord alive.
Admittedly, maybe Luke should have told Ackbar who it was that actually needed the medical assistance prior to docking the stolen shuttle in the Mon Calamari cruiser…but he’d been too afraid Ackbar would never have let him land, and “Admiral” beat “Commander” any day. (Where “Jedi” ranked in the Rebel hierarchy, Luke had never been the least bit interested in discovering, an oversight he now regretted.) Ackbar had ultimately allowed the droids to accept Anakin into the med bay…but then he’d gone and done the next worse thing he could have done, and comm’d the rest of the Alliance High Command.
Luke had not been invited to participate in the ensuing conversation. He could only hope they’d hear him out before ordering Anakin’s execution.
For now, he sat curled in a chair in the med bay, his hair sticking to his forehead thanks to the Mon Calamari’s preference for humidity. The heat was not helping his nausea but he didn’t dare say anything about it. He’d already turned away the med droids when they tried to attend him. He wasn’t hurt, not really, and more importantly, they needed to keep all their attention on Anakin.
The chair was too big for him—designed for the larger aliens. He didn’t mind; the better to pull his knees up to his chest, and there was no one around except the med droids to observe Commander Skywalker huddled in a pathetic ball, flinching every time he sensed a lifeform in the hallway behind him.
He couldn’t shake the fear that he may have, sometime in the last hour, been officially branded a traitor.
He couldn’t stop shaking, period.
Maybe something to do with recent electrocution, or maybe these aftershocks were simply to be expected when you watched your father murder the Emperor and defect to the Light after spending the last twenty-plus years as a weapon of terror and now you had to convince the beings he had terrorized that you had made the right decision in sparing his life. Who knew?
There wasn’t exactly anyone he could ask.
When his comlink suddenly chimed, he jumped so hard he almost fell out of the chair.
“Luke?”
It was Leia’s voice. His sister’s voice. Softer than he could ever remember hearing it. But of course…it was her father, too, whose fate the rest of the Alliance High Command was currently deciding.
At least, if she was comming him like this, it probably meant he wasn’t about to be arrested. “Hey,” he answered quietly. “What’d they say?”
“They’re still talking. I slipped out. Had to make sure you’re all right.”
“Yeah, I’m…” What, fine? “I’m alive.”
“Sounds like you’re not the only one. You said he’s hurt?”
Luke glanced at the black machinery hiding his father from view. “Yeah, he’s—” The words stuck in his throat. He coughed. “It’s bad.”
Leia heaved a staticky sigh. “Well, at least he’s not going anywhere. You know, you could have given us a little notice before bringing a Sith Lord onto our flagship.”
Luke sat up straighter, a thrill running through him that chased away the shakiness, just for a moment. He’d been so distracted with worry, he hadn’t actually thought about what it would be like to tell her. “Leia, he’s not a Sith Lord anymore.”
“Excuse me?”
“He said I was right! About him! He said I was right!”
This was met with silence.
Well, it was only natural she’d be confused. Leia had no doubt been through a lot down on Endor, and he’d have to hear all about it, but first he had to help her understand. “There’s good in him. Like I told you. Remember?”
“Luke…” Leia’s voice was, if anything, even softer. “Let’s talk about it planetside, all right? When are you coming down?”
“Um, can you promise I won’t be slapped into binders as soon as I land?” He forced a faint laugh because he had to treat it like a joke to keep the anxiety from strangling him.
But her voice sharpened. “That’s not funny. When are you coming down?”
Luke’s eyes darted again to Anakin’s motionless form. “I can’t. I just, he’s barely holding on as it is, and Admiral Ackbar wasn’t too happy when I brought him here in the first place, and the High Command hasn’t made a decision yet, and I just…I can’t leave him.” He realized belatedly how bad that sounded. “It’s not like I think Ackbar would just let him die, but—”
“Well, maybe he should.”
Luke’s stomach dropped. “Wait, what? You don’t really think that, do you? Leia?” Nothing. “Leia?”
She’d disconnected.
Luke tried to comm back.
She didn’t answer.
Slowly, he lowered the comlink, feeling cold. He reached out in the Force, searching for her presence. He caught maybe a flicker of hurt and fury…but somehow he couldn’t hold onto it. His head spun like he’d been tossed into a centrifuge.
Possibly something to do with riding the shockwaves of an exploding Death Star, or maybe this was just to be expected when you realized the one person you loved more than anyone in the galaxy wished you’d left your father to die.
Vader
The Force was a tempest, roiling like the collision of two opposing weather systems.
The Dark Side was cold. He was used to the cold.
But there, against the far wall in this narrow room, was burning heat and blinding light. A small sun curled up in a Mon Calamari chair.
His son.
The light pulled Vader inexorably to consciousness even as the heat made him want to cringe away. It was too much. Too appealing, too overwhelming, too painful, too threatening.
Vader had seen it before: a ship venturing too close to a sun. Once caught in the pull of the sun’s gravity, the end was inevitable. More than once, he’d watched a ship pulled mercilessly towards the star, thrusters flaring but unable to escape. If it was a particularly large vessel, it might burn for a few seconds before nothing was left. But the end was always the same.
Total and complete destruction.
Vader’s lungs spasmed, though his respirator maintained breaths of perfect evenness. He could not gasp, could not even quicken his breathing. His prison did not allow panic.
But he wanted it.
He had not panicked when Luke struck him down. He had not panicked when Sidious urged Luke to kill him. He had not panicked as Luke screamed, and he had not panicked when he made the decision to kill Sidious instead.
He certainly had not panicked when he thought he was going to die on the second Death Star like he should have died on the first.
But now that he was alive? Now that he awoke and found himself in a med bay?
Now that Luke Skywalker had saved his life?
Now Darth Vader was terrified.