Home Fiction Adult Fiction Art Mail List Staff Links

Title: Finally Woken
Author: Vikki R (vgreen@swmina.freeserve.co.uk)
Rating: R
Characters: Vader, Luke
Category: AU, Angst, vignette.

Disclaimer: I am not making any money from this, and they doesn’t belong to me.

Summary: Anakin hesitated. Luke paid the price. It's kiss-and-make-up time.

Warning: Luke/Vader content

It's hard to sleep when your heart is breaking. My mind is too full - bloated with memories that cut at me like my head is full broken glass. My limbs are too restless; I want to walk, I want to run, I want to tear myself apart - but I'm too tired. My body, weary and exhausted, sits slumped in a chair, my mind railing at the injustices of Destiny.

Hard to sleep - but easy to find numb penance in my memories. To rewind time, and step back into that vital moment when I waited too long - waited a second, a lifetime too long.

-- Father! --

Even now I can still hear him calling for me.

-- Father! Please! --

I can still see the pain and fear on his face, hear the words lash through me. The lighting twists around his body, racing across his skin, and that smell - that smell of burning - cuts through me. And he's screaming my name, and I'm waiting - waiting for Palpatine to become so obsessed with killing my son that he doesn't notice me betraying him.

And then the moment comes, the second I must move, the instant I should grab Palpatine, and stop him. And I - stand still. I do nothing. I continue to stare as my son burns before my prosthetic-enhanced eyes. Because it is that smell - burning flesh, acrid and violent - screaming through my senses, urging me to escape, at all costs. And I feel myself burning - feel the fires of Mustafar around my legs, hear the terrifying whoosh as the flames catch at my hair and it ignites in a crackling blaze.

And, in the grip of those memories, and the terror of that smell, I hesitate.

It might have been seconds, it might have been longer, but when I snap back to my senses, Luke is no longer moving, and Palpatine... - Palpatine is laughing. He's watching me, his eyes ablaze with... is that amusement? He is amused by my failure, by my son's death. And then I do move - then I don't hesitate, as righteous fury consumes me - and I reach out, I grasp Palpatine, I heft him above my head, I carry him to the gangway, I throw him over -

- I turn back to my son. My unmoving son.

When I first touched him, rolled him onto his back and searched frantically for a pulse, static electricity arched up my arm, and I remember my breath hitching at the pain - I remember thinking how slight that pain must have been compared to what Luke had just suffered. And yet, despite Palpatine's fire, Luke didn't look so different then, lying in a foetal position on the deck of the throne room, to what he looks like now, as he lays still and unmoving in the Med. Bay.

His face was peaceful. He was relaxed, as if he were pleased it was over. And I... I wanted to howl in rage.

I got him out of there. I lifted him with my good arm, staggered to a shuttle, and got him out of there. Too late - far too little, seconds too late. I attached the med sensors to him, attached a fluid drip, attached myself to a permanent post at his bedside. He never woke.

I took us to a Rebel medical frigate. They put me in custody, of course - but they treated Luke. After the Rebel's torturous debriefing, I was allowed to visit him, but I am not allowed outside his room and my own 'quarters'. Not that this matters - where would I go, when the core of my world is here, sleeping our lives away?

In over two days, he has not woken. He has not moved. His burns have been treated, but he remains unconscious. The Rebels don't know why - but I do.

He has given up, because I waited too long.

He has surrendered his soul to failure. And for all my efforts, and my strength, and my determination - I cannot call him back.

"Vader?"

Only long years of self-control prevent me from starting in shock. Consumed by my memories, I had not noticed a Rebel doctor standing over me, peering down at me. Her eyes are hard and cold - she hates me. I can feel the revulsion driving off her like squalling rain in a thunderstorm.

"What is it?" I ask, tired beyond civility.

She looks at me with distaste. "We need you to return to your quarters now."

I pinch my fingers into my palm to prevent the automatic reply - no. "Why?" I demand instead.

One of her eyebrows arches. "We need to bathe Commander Skywalker," she responds, and she says it so clinically that an image enters my mind - emotionless medical aides roughly and immodestly stripping Luke and bathing him; treating his body like an object, manipulating him like a child playing bath-time with a rag doll.

And I cannot stand it - cannot allow it. I bring myself to my feet, feeling every muscle pulling. "No, that will not be necessary," I say.

She looks shocked - then she looks affronted. "His bacta treatments must be changed - he needs-"

"I am aware of that," I say, and I try and sound both gentle and forceful. There is still much of the Dark Side in me: still that urge to make people do what I want - but I hold it in check. "You need not bathe him - I will do it."

She looks shocked, again - then she looks aghast. "You... you..." she stutters. "You can't."

My hand grips the rail on Luke's bedside - half to help keep me upright, half to be closer to him. His eyes are still closed, and I grieve for the blue light that used to shine there.

"Why not?"

She is agitated. She looks behind her, to her droid aide, and her human aides, but finds no answers there. "You don't have permission-"

I can't help snorting in amusement at that. "I do not need permission to bathe my own son," I tell her, tartly.

That reminder - that he is my son - seems to focus her. She stares at me, still full of hate, before nodding. "Alright - fine. If you think you can manage." That last remark was aimed at my pride. I let it glance off me, merely satisfied to have been allowed to do this.

"Leave me your supplies and lock the door behind you," I say, and this time I push the Force through my voice. I am not supposed to be left alone with the boy - my mind urges her to ignore this.

And she does. They leave, the door locks behind them, and I am alone with my son.

My son.

I reach out my remaining hand, my left hand, and place my palm against his cheek. He feels... cold. The warmth I had expected is not there. The sensors in my palm are crude and outdated, but still - he should feel warm.

Frowning, I brush my fingers across his face - trace the line of his jaw, brush a hand over his forehead. There is no warmth there. His pulse beats slowly against my fingertips.

"I am so sorry, my son," I murmur, and there is no response.

And what had I expected? For him to wake upon my touch, like a mythic hero, rising when I call for him?

Slowly, I pull back the covers of the functional bed they have laid him in. He's been dressed in the thin whites of a medical ward, and I can see the shape of his body through the airy material. The job of divesting him of his top is difficult - my right hand has not been replaced, and so I pull the boy against my chest and hold him in place with the stump that is left, whilst using my left hand to pry his hands out the sleeves and pull the top from him.

Even with him pressed against my chest, I cannot feel any warmth in him. In a peak of guilt, I pull him closer against me, wrap my arms around him, and feel the emotion bursting in my chest. It hurts - it hurts like nothing has ever hurt before, to know that I caused this - I caused the bright light to snuff out. I did this.

My hand runs through his hair. Ridiculously soft hair, and thicker than it looks. I stare down at Luke blankly. The otherworldly beauty of his face closes my throat.

"I am so sorry," I say again, but the words seem to bounce back at me, mocking me with their mediocrity. I cradle the back of his head in my hand, and again study his slack face.

-- Father! --

Memories - nothing but memories. I close my eyes.

-- Father! Please! --

Nothing but my own mind, punishing me.

Or so I think. But then - I feel something, something different, like an itch in the back of my mind, begging to be scratched. And I open my eyes - and Luke's face is flushed with colour.

Desperate hope hurts almost as much as despair. As my hand goes back to his cheek, touches it, and I feel warmth spreading through my palm, I can't move for a moment. Then, I lay him back on the bed, and call for him,

"Luke? Luke - can you hear me?"

His breathing has deepened, but there's no other response. I touch his face again, this time my fingers brush his lips, and he sucks in a sudden breath. I freeze where I stand, afraid that if I move, I might shatter the moment. My thumb traces his lips again - again, his breath deepens, and this time a shudder works through him. And his lips feel warm under my fingers.

"Luke?" Still no reply. "My son, I-" and I stop, because my hand has moved from his lips to his chest, and he shudders in response.

/Luke?/

My fingers move across his chest, and my sense of him blossoms in my mind. I can feel him - he's hurting, desperate for contact, desperate for solace, bereft of physical comfort. And my heart is decided - I pull the boy up again, against my chest, and lower myself to sit on his bed. He rests against me, his head lolling on my shoulder, and I run my hand through his hair.

A flair or arousal passes between us. Mine or his, I don't know, but it's not the sort of stimulation I am familiar with. I know of sexual pleasure, of pure lust, though it has been many years now. But that is not what this feels like. This is - more complicated. Deeper. His lust to know me as a father, and my lust to know him as a son. To know intimately, to be cared about and to care for - to love.

- /Father?/

- /I'm here,/ I send.

An image forms in my mind, brilliant white - so white that at first I flinch from it. Then, I begin to see the outline of Luke's features in the image, the brilliance subsiding as he steps towards me, a wondrous smile on his face, so innocent it feels like I've been kicked in the ribs.

- /Luke?/

He chuckles, briefly.

- Yes, it's me. This, I realise as I look at him, is Luke as he truly is, unbound by flesh. There are no scars on his body, no trouble in his eyes - he is brilliance, burning me, and my breath has left me.

/If you think that's amazing, you should look at yourself,/ he says, and I do. And this is not the body I inhabit now - this is me, from years ago.

/I am whole,/ is my first thought, and then, /This is me as I truly am - unbound by flesh./

But before I can contemplate that, Luke reaches out and mirrors my action from minutes earlier, his left palm against my cheek. /You came back for me. Thank you./

I put my right hand over his left, and press it to my face. That sensation - that feeling of skin on skin, sends my nerves into confused ecstasy.

/Did you think I would leave you there?/ I ask.

Luke shook his head. /No - that's not what I meant. You came back from the Dark Side. For me./ His eyes sparkle. /Thank you./

And for the life of me, I can't respond. All I can do is pull him closer - closer until I'm clutching him and he's clutching me, and my face is buried in his hair. Even that light contact feels scalding on skin that hasn't felt anything but the impersonal touch of droids for years. Luke's lips are pressed against my collarbone, and I feel him smiling.

The need to feel more, to touch, overtakes me, and I don't what I'm about to do before I'm doing it - and I'm pulling that luminescent boy towards me, and kissing him. I expected him to pull back in shock, maybe even in disgust, but he doesn't - if anything, he deepens the kiss, fingers curling around my shoulders, pushing himself against me as if he'd mould us together.

And from the first lick of hot satin, my mind is exploding. Every nerve is screaming at this strange, long-forgotten sensation. Screaming - and loving it. I run my palms through his hair, pull him in deeper to the kiss, and all sense of rational thought scatters.

Luke pulls back first, gasping for air. His lips look bruised. He looks abashed, but not ashamed.

/I never.../ he starts to say.

All I can think is - more - and before he can finish the words my hands are pushing him down to the ground, and then I'm leaning over him, and then I'm pressing my body against his, as if I, too, want to mould us together,

/Father... Anakin..../

And this close to him, it's as if our bond is a bridge between us, a stream of conscious thought and feeling. It's overwhelming - physically, emotionally, sexually. I'm tipping over the edge - my nerves are on fire.

And then it hits me - hits us. More than just an orgasm - more than physical relief. The feeling of connecting with Luke, of knowing him - of the fulfilment of the hunger that has possessed me since I first discovered his existence. It blinds me, momentarily. All I can see is white.

And then -

The laboured breathing of my respirator echoes in my ears, and I know the vision has ended. The leather and plastisteel of my suit seems to press in against me, crushing me. The mask smothers me. I gasp for breath, the respirator speeding to deliver more oxygen. But I feel-

"Father?"

- I feel foolishly content.

I look down at Luke, who is cradled against my chest - his eyelids are open, just a fraction. He's smiling.

"You came back for me," I manage to say. "Thank you."

And his eyes sparkled in understanding.

END

Home Fiction Adult Fiction Art Mail List Staff Links