Chapter Text
When Anakin wakes, it’s with a great deal of pain. It’s with a gasp, a wheeze, a retch, a burning whiteness that obscures his vision, and then even more darkness. Eventually he comes to, only to be made distinctly aware of the heat beating down on his skin and the sensation of sand underneath him.
There’s a buzzing that he can’t quite place, a pressure that brings with it colors, smells, feelings. Limbs refusing to move and eyes insisting on staying shut, Anakin has little choice but to lay in the fucking sand and lean into the sensation. It isn’t unpleasant at first; it’s fairly similar to the miasma of darkness that Anakin has mastered during his time as Vader, but instead of thick and tight, he finds that it feels loose and…Free. The sensation is just on the cusp of overstimulating, a tickle amassing in his chest and working its way up to his throat. Amongst it all is what Anakin can only compare to a thread, a string of emerald leading so far away from him that the idea of finding the end fills him with unfamiliar dismay.
He realizes abruptly that it’s the Force. A side of the Force that he hasn’t known in years, but it’s unmistakably familiar. The other side of the same coin he’s learned so intimately and dutifully, recognizable regardless of how long he’s been away from it.
Anakin reaches further into the Force, past the Light. It feels like wading through a swamp but eventually he feels the weightiness of Dark respond to him, tentative at first, until it collides into him with intensity. It settles on him heavily and, curiously, ensconces itself with the Light that’s taken its claim both inside and around him. He sighs, contented, and realizes all at once that he cannot hear his respirator. The last thing he remembers is…
Sad but bright blue eyes on the second Death Star at the mouth of a starship, watching as he fades.
Eyes peeling open, Anakin recoils from the blazing sunlight, tears burning his eyes. He is certainly not on a starship with dull ambient lighting, and he doesn’t have his visor. Strange. He tests the rest of his body, finding that all his limbs respond even if he does struggle to move them, meaning they are all present and accounted for. It feels as if they want to move on their own, but the operator has forgotten his training. That makes sense, Anakin decides, considering he did not have them last time he was aware. He blinks the salt and sand from his eyes as he finally manages the strength to lift his arms, fingers splaying over his face to block out some of the sun. The tattered clothes he’s wearing aren’t familiar, but the cybernetic arm definitely is. Squinting, he experimentally moves the mechanical fingers. If he weren’t so goddamn irritated about being stuck in the sand and burning heat, Anakin thinks he might feel fondness for it.
It takes time, but Anakin is able to bring himself to his feet. As he takes in his surroundings, he realizes with abject horror that he is on fucking Tatooine.
He stands, feet sinking slightly into the sand as he settles, and waits for the rage to take. The misery. The hatred of this wretched planet and everything that has and ever will inhabit it. The desire for a revenge he’s already taken.
It doesn’t come.
Anakin finds himself in an oasis before he finds proper civilization. It is deeply frustrating because he’s acquired something of a sunburn thanks to the unidentifiable rags he’s forced to treat as clothes. He’s never been one for creature comforts, finding that little has helped over the last two decades to quell his constant physical pain. That’s in the past, though. He’s found himself in the body of the spry twenty-two year old that he once was, dehydrated and starving as he may be. Now he finds himself distinctly craving clean clothes, hot food, cold drink, a soft bed, and a quiet room. Not that he has the money to acquire those things, but that’s not the point. He is meant to be Darth Vader, an inhuman Sith Lord known only for his desire of power, and his willingness to do what is required to achieve it—power, not comfort.
So when he finds himself sinking to his knees at the watering hole as the suns dip down below the horizon, the sigh of relief that comes out after he has properly re-hydrated is a bit alien. He’ll think about it later. He does, when the temperatures have dropped and the oasis is flooded with darkness, when he’s leaned up the most comfortable hunk of stone he can find with a lap full of foraged fruit to sate his raging stomach.
He can’t remember the last time he ate, and especially not to enjoy it. He’d grown accustomed to his suit caring for most of his needs. The sensation of teeth ripping through the flesh of fruit is simultaneously unfamiliar and nostalgic. Relieving himself is another story.
So here Anakin is, stranded in Tatooine in a body that was once his but no longer feels as though it belongs to him. The Force thrums around him almost aggressively, distracting and noisy, making meditation nearly impossible. He first attempts to meditate the way he has for the last twenty-four years—grasping the Force directly, funneling it into himself through imposition alone, guiding it where he wants it to be. Each time he feels he's finally wrapping his fingers around it, though, it skitters away as if playing a game with him. It leaves him shaking with fury, body wound tightly as he glares down at the clenched fists resting atop his knees. Swearing, Anakin grapples with his thoughts. His body cannot simply be rejecting the Dark practices, can it? He had felt it so clearly when he was young, after the seeds had been planted and he had begun to feed into his desires instead of release them. It had been what he needed then, had it not? Which means, here and now, perhaps he does not need it.
The idea makes him laugh, and the sound is jarring. It’s mirthless and dry, grating out of him like he has sand caught in his throat (and he might), but it is very distinctly his own.
Scrubbing his flesh hand over his face and through his tangled, dirty hair, Anakin sighs and leans back against the boulder. He discards the uneaten fruit and readjusts to cross his legs rather than kneeling, hands pressing into the sand below him for grounding.
Fine, he thinks. Fine. We will do it your way.
He’s never wanted to strangle a conceptual energy so much in his miserably over-complicated life.
Anakin relaxes, though. He breathes slowly, in through his nose and out through his mouth—an odd luxury that fills his lungs completely in a way he hasn’t known for so long. And then…He releases. Rather, he tries very hard to.
As it turns out, letting yourself go to the Force after half a lifetime of manipulating it to your wishes is quite difficult. It grates on his nerves as he feels the tension, the abundant emotion, slip from his grasp only to come crashing back into him like a wave of salty, hot water. Over and over again. Anakin’s stubbornness only takes him so far and rage prods at the edges of his consciousness with clear threat.
The final time that his emotions splash back into his face like toilet water after a particularly violent spew, Anakin is ready to drop it. He’s ready to roll over and sleep and not think about any of this shit until the sun starts to beat down on him and he must start moving again. A glint of green in the Force catches his attention, though, and he stills. When his attention is on it, it’s almost as if the Force breaks open for him, energy dividing like a sea split by a forcefield. Resting in the middle of all of the buzzing, the loudness of the Force around it, is the emerald thread. It’s effulgent, warmth and light emanating from it in deep pulses that radiate through Anakin’s chest, rattling his ribs.
It nearly knocks the wind out of him. Desperately, though for what he’s unsure, he reaches for it.
What Anakin receives in kind is not what he’s expecting. He’s slammed with feelings of exhaustion, of satisfaction, of regret, of relief, of grief—overwhelming in an instant despite how distant they feel. He catches a glimpse of blue eyes in a scratchy mirror, hands—one gloved—splashing water onto the dark circles that rest underneath them, sandy hair dripping into a sink. The eyes flicker to him, and he’s cut off.
Anakin crumples forward, wheezing as his eyes snap open and his vision swims, unseeing. His mind fills with memories of his son on the second Death Star with heartache etched into his features as he removed Anakin’s helmet, wanting so badly to save his life, though it was too late.
Luke.
As is only the natural course of action, Anakin steals a ship when he makes it to Mos Espa.
He waits for the two-man crew to finish re-fueling, watching as they wander off to likely gamble or drink the rest of their money away before their departure. Inside, Anakin is lucky enough to find clothes that fit him, and though the boots are a little big he doesn’t complain. There are enough rations and fuel stored away to last him a week or two. After some tinkering with the weapon safe, he secures a blaster to his hip, makes himself comfortable in the pilot’s seat, and takes off.
He has only the vaguest idea of where he is going. Something in his gut prevents him from tapping into the thread again to such an extent, something that he certainly won’t identify as fear. Instead, he reaches for it just enough to tug, to see where it leads. He maps out a route and expects it to take maybe a day or two to figure out where Luke is.
Except it’s like the little shit is moving around on purpose.
If Anakin were less of a coward and were more willing to tap into the Force, to grab ahold of the thread and not let go, he’s sure he wouldn’t be bouncing from planet to planet like a madman on a hopeless treasure hunt. But that’s exactly what he’s doing, going on this wild goose chase instead of facing his fears—No. He’s not afraid.
He is not afraid.
Which is exactly why, when he does manage to catch Luke’s trail, Anakin simply tails him from a safe distance for exactly one week and three and a half days. The Force trills rudely at him every time he is close enough to see Luke with his own eyes and he spends his time waving it off like a persistent fly. He follows Luke from the Western Reaches down to the Outer Rim, and then from one shitty Rim planet to the next. Along the way, he’s lucky enough to acquire a pile of credits from a gambling hall, and as a result makes his first legal purchase since his alleged “death”: a pair of well-fitted armored boots, a simple durasteel blade, and another round of rations to be safe.
Luke sticks to a pretty strict schedule, it seems. He leaves his lodgings just after sunrise for breakfast before he starts what Anakin can only assume is information hunting. He’s ricocheted from so-called reputable source to reputable source, concealing his frustration with the dead-ends until he is out of sight and can heave a ragged sigh. Sometimes he catches a lead and takes off running, to pack his things and jump back into his ship and head off for another city, some ancient ruin, or a different planet entirely. Artoo follows him dutifully despite struggling to keep up with his endless reserves of energy, and Anakin thinks the astromech might like Luke more than he'd ever liked Anakin.
It’s nostalgic. It reminds him of his Padawan days. He thinks perhaps it would be nice if he and Luke could experience that together.
Of course, instead he sticks to the shadows and corners, dodging Luke’s gaze and concealing his presence through the Force as much as possible. His current relationship with the Force is something of a mystery to him, though, and he’s not too certain if it works at all. He feels like he’s appeasing an ex-wife, trying to settle on alimony that will keep her satisfied with him despite his glaring flaws. It screams into his very bones each time he is near Luke, demanding that he follow its lead to the Jedi, and it’s certainly not very kind about it. Anakin doesn’t recall it being so gods damned loud before. If it were not for the thread connecting him to Luke, he might tell it to fuck off entirely and start a new life as a…Mechanic or something. Podracing is always an option.
Anakin is perfectly comfortable continuing this shameless pattern until Luke returns to his hotel room early one evening. He doesn’t think much of it at first, watching from his own window as night falls, expecting the lights to flick off around the same time they always do. When Luke emerges an hour later and makes a quick bee-line for the nearest bar, sans Artoo, Anakin’s stomach twists.
Something compels him to slip on his boots and follow Luke. The boy had been raised on Tatooine for crying out loud, he would certainly know how to drink. It’d be no surprise to Anakin if the stress from all of the planet-hopping and dead-end-chasing has finally gotten to him.
Still.
Feeling wound up and on edge, Anakin stalks in after him and slinks his way into the darkest corner of the bar he can find. He waves off the Twi’lek waitress when she approaches, far more interested in sinking back into his seat and watching the black-clad Jedi who seats himself directly at the bar and quickly strikes up friendly conversation with the bartender.
He’s uneasy. His skin feels like it’s vibrating, or that could be his blood. Thinking logically, he feels like he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be so close to Luke like this, shouldn’t be sharing the same air.
Funny how he hadn’t felt this way while practically stalking Luke for days. Something to think on later.
The Force hums in Anakin’s ear, soft for once but still insistent, raising goosebumps along his arms. It doesn’t stop when Luke orders his first drink and knocks it back easily, or when a tall man saddles up beside him to chat him up. Anakin feels a prickle of annoyance when the man leans far too close to Luke, swiveling in the barstool with his drunkenness. But Luke simply waves his hand at him and, after stilling, the man wanders away almost aimlessly.
Anakin huffs out a laugh and some of the tension bleeds out of him. He feels relieved that Luke is capable of easily rebutting unwanted attention. That's why.
An hour passes. Anakin waits. Eventually, he finds himself with a drink to dissuade suspicious eyes. Luke is on his fourth by now, though he’s still impressively upright and lucid. Something quivers in the Force, almost like it’s prodding at Anakin, but he shrugs it off. He’s pretty sure it’s just throwing a tantrum.
Luke slams the rest of his drink like a fucking professional and pushes away from the bar. As if by fate, he turns on his heel and bright blue eyes meet Anakin’s from across the room.
He freezes. There is nothing else for him to do. Luke’s gaze only lingers on him a brief moment before he starts towards the refresher, but Anakin is left tense and burning with…Yes. It’s fear. Gods, it is definitely fear. An infinite number of possibilities spring to his mind as his heart slams in his ears. He considers bolting, considers causing a scene on his way out that would keep Luke distracted while he slips back to his ship and disappears to some random planet on the other side of the galaxy to start his new life. With every second that ticks by, it sounds more and more attractive. He tosses back his drink, resolved to his fate at last—
The glass has hardly touch the table when Luke slips down into the chair across from him, an aptly dramatic wave of the black fabric from his cloak following him down. Anakin can only gawk as Luke settles into the chair and makes himself comfortable, crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands over his knee before fixing Anakin with a curious gaze. The Force pulsates around them, the warmth oozing from Luke—as if he is unable to contain it or simply isn’t bothering to try—reaching out to Anakin tentatively.
“You know,” Luke says, voice casual and even. Playful, almost. He looks so bright, no circles under his eyes or persistent exhaustion like Anakin had seen in the vision on Tatooine. “Normally when a man follows me around for more than a week, he either tries to kill me or have sex with me eventually. I’m starting to think you don’t plan on either of those things.”
Anakin stares.
No words come to his aide. Either he’s been particularly bad at concealing his Force signature as he feared, or he’s been even worse at staying out of sight. Both options are humiliating. He doesn’t know which he’d rather it be. The vibrant sunset of colors and heat that Luke’s releases into the Force is extremely distracting now that he can really feel it. He only has the capacity for so much. When he merely stares wide-eyed in lieu of a response, Luke sighs.
“Right, let’s get this over with, then.” Luke leans forward now, eyebrows knitting together underneath his bangs. Anakin would lean away if he could. “Who are you? You’re not a Jedi, but…”
A dozen lies spring to Anakin’s tongue on instinct. A large part of him had expected Luke to recognize him immediately despite the absurdity of it all, but that part is quickly shoved away by his sense of self-preservation. He should lie, should save his ass by giving Luke a quick apology and getting the hell out of there. There is also the question of which answer to give. He feels about as much Vader as he does Anakin, but he’s confident that introducing himself as Vader in any context is a great way to take a blaster shot to the neck.
“Anakin,” he says instead, surprising himself with the certainty in his voice. Luke’s eyebrows quirk upward. “And no, I’m not a Jedi.”
Colors and emotion surge from Luke before he reins it back in expertly, but he’s not quick enough. Anakin can feel them clearly—disbelief, hope, confusion, anger. He can see the splotches of blue and gray around the edges of him, then red as the sharpness pushes into Anakin like needles.
Ah. Luke is pissed.
“Don’t tell me you followed me around to play a stupid prank on me,” Luke mutters. “I don’t want to know how you found me. A bit of friendly advice, you’re gonna get yourself killed doing this kind of stuff. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Luke doesn’t wait for a response. He shoves himself up from the chair and steps fluidly around the table to leave. Anakin, of course, doesn’t stop to think. He snatches Luke’s wrist with his cybernetic hand and holds on for dear life.
“Luke.”
Anakin can’t think about the way the contact sends a jolt through synthetic arm, straight into his shoulder and down his spine. He can’t think about the way that hope spikes in the Force when Luke’s head whips around, the way his eyes are wide and bright and he just seems to know then and there. Because then it’s muddled with uncertainty, ugly and blue-gray in a miserable muggy day sort of way that doesn’t suit him. Desperation creeps up into Anakin’s lungs as Luke’s eyes bear into him with a myriad of emotions. Though he doesn’t try to pull away, Anakin can feel the way he starts to close off his emotions and withdraw.
Just moments ago Anakin was ready to run. Now he wants nothing more than for Luke to believe him.
“You…” Luke trails off.
His eyes lower to the mechanical fingers wrapped around his wrist and his lips part like he’s going to ask Anakin to let go.
“I can’t explain how,” Anakin says far too quickly, and he finds that he’s leaning towards Luke now, swiveled in his seat and close to jumping up to block the Jedi’s exit. What’s gotten into him? What does he even want out of this? He hasn’t stopped to wonder. “I…I woke up on Tatooine two weeks ago with nothing. Just—Back in this body, in the middle of the desert. The only thing I’ve had to work with is a thread in the Force that led me here. It led me to… To you.”
Luke stares at him, expression impossible to discern.
“I have no motivation to deceive you, Luke,” Anakin continues, feeling almost frantic. “The last thing I remember is you. Your face. That is all I wanted before I—”
“Enough.”
Luke tugs out of his grasp and Anakin’s stomach drops. He doesn’t turn to leave. Instead, he sighs hard and scrubs his hand over his face and through his hair, face reddening a touch as a result, before he practically collapses back into the seat across from Anakin and fixes his attention to the table between them.
“Two weeks.” He says it with a huff of mirthless laughter. “So that was you. In the mirror.”
Anakin pauses, then says, “You saw me?”
“Mmh. Hard not to when I’m supposed to be in a locked bunker alone. I'd just had a nightmare, to boot. When I turned around, you were gone. Spooked the shit out of me, to be honest.”
“You pushed me away,” Anakin insists, eyebrows furrowing. When Luke shakes his head, he frowns. “You did.”
“No,” Luke says slowly, almost carefully, but then there’s a glint in his eyes and his lips quirk up into something that looks a lot like a smirk. “You panicked, I felt it. You’re incredibly transparent. Your signature would give any force-sensitive sucker a migraine.”
Heat springs to Anakin’s face. So that answers that question. He has not been doing well to conceal himself.
Luke imparts mercy on him, mouth dropping into a practiced line of neutrality as he leans back into his chair and regards Anakin fully for the first time. His gears seem to be turning but he says nothing, only studies, considers. His flesh hand rests on the table and taps rhythmically.
“I understand now why I haven’t been able to reach you through the Force like I can with Master Yoda or Ben,” Luke says. “But… It’s been months since then. Almost a year, so why now?”
Anakin’s head swims. A year…And Luke had tried to contact him after his death. He shouldn’t be so happy, but Luke seems to believe him.
“I don’t know,” Anakin says finally. “It felt like an instant to me, like I had fallen asleep and woken up somewhere else. But I feel…Different. I have my memory, but I cannot use the Force the way I am familiar with. The Dark seems to resist me, and the Light is difficult to connect to.”
“Makes sense.” Luke nods. “Chosen one and all of that.”
Anakin blinks, and Luke laughs. He grins wide, all teeth, before seeming to catch himself and settle into a milder smile. A wave shudders through the force, laps at Anakin’s legs, and he clenches his jaw to ignore it.
“The Masters have told me bits and pieces. From what I gather, you’re meant to master both. Have you tried?”
“…No. Can’t say I have had the time.”
He expects Luke to laugh at him again but he only nods, gaze drifting up to the ceiling. With an abrupt “ah!”, he suddenly springs from his seat, gesturing for Anakin to join him.
“Let’s go back to my room,” he says, casting a glance over his shoulder. A couple sets of eyes have found them by now. “We can talk more there.”
Dumbly, Anakin follows. The Force sings in their wake.
Being in a smaller enclosed space with Luke is not how Anakin had expected his night to go. He hesitates before entering the room and feels Luke’s signature stretch out like a cat lazing in the sun the moment the door has shut behind them. Artoo whirrs to life from the corner only to practically scream at Anakin in confusion the moment he turns to see him, compartment opening to extend a lit mini-flamethrower directed right at him.
“Hey, hey, Artoo. Hey, it’s okay.” Luke pats the space droid on the dome as he would a small animal. “He’s not going to hurt you. Or me.” He shoots a look over to Anakin, eyes squinted. Again, it could mistaken as playful. “Right?”
Anakin has to resist a laugh. In his state? He’d have to be delusional. A blaster and a little durasteel blade wouldn’t carry him very far with Luke, much less the Force and its temperamental attitude towards him.
“Right.”
Luke nods, satisfied, and Artoo whistles quietly in resignation, sheathing his little weapon and closing his compartment. The droid still seems to have some qualms about the situation, analyzing him critically, but he seems to let it go and wanders off while Luke takes a seat on the cheap couch. He waves towards the plush chair next to the window for Anakin to sit, so he does. It’s certainly more comfortable than the couch appears to be. It looks like it could be made of fiberplast. Regardless, Luke sinks back into the cushions as if they are soft and comfortable rather than firm and inflexible. He considers Anakin, eyes sweeping over him to take in his appearance.
What he finally says is, “Ridiculous.”
Anakin bristles. “Excuse me?”
“I think it’s ridiculous,” Luke says with a dramatic wave of his ungloved hand, “that you are so tall. And yet, here I am—As average as can be.”
That’s not what Anakin had been expecting. It shocks a laugh out of him, a genuine laugh, and it’s another moment when he cannot remember the last time he experienced this. Luke’s eyes shine from where he sits, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.
“I’m sorry,” Anakin says. “I’m afraid I had little control over the distribution of my genetics. You can blame your mother.”
When Luke chuckles and turns to look out the window, Anakin finds himself staring. He’s not had a chance to really look at Luke, to see the subtle line of a scar on his cheek, the laugh lines around his mouth, the subtle moles on his cheeks and at the corner of his mouth. He looks so peaceful, an arm draping over the back of the couch and one leg crossing over the other. It’s a stark comparison to the sheer will and strength Anakin has seen the man exert. For the sake of what he believes in, for those he loves.
It’s difficult to stomach the envy that bubbles up in the back of Anakin’s throat where there should be pride instead. While his passion had been his downfall, Luke’s has been his power from the very start. That should have been Anakin’s fate, right? It could have been.
Luke seems to notice his wandering thoughts, or maybe he picks up on something in the Force. Concern flickers around them when he faces Anakin again—though his expression is mild—before it’s gone again. At this point, Anakin isn’t sure if Luke is suppressing his emotions or if his own unstable connection to the Force is making it difficult to grasp them.
“Did you love her?” Luke asks. “My mother.”
Anakin swallows hard.
“Yes.”
They talk for well into the night. Hour by hour, Anakin finds himself feeling lighter and lighter. Luke asks about his mother, about Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan’s Master. They talk about Anakin’s childhood on Tatooine, about his experience as a Padawan and what his Trials were like. Luke expertly avoids touchy topics, picking and choosing things he seems to think Anakin will enjoy talking about instead. When Anakin struggles to articulate, Luke effortlessly pivots to a different subject with a new question. If Anakin didn’t know better, he’d think Luke had been sitting on these questions for quite some time. Perhaps that’s why he’d tried to reach him.
When Anakin finishes the mug of caf that he’d been given a couple hours prior, Luke finally checks the time and sighs.
“I have to leave in the morning,” he says, and then he throws back the rest of his lukewarm caf like the drink back in the bar. He grimaces after, though, unlike with the drink back in the bar. He levels Anakin with an even look. “What are your plans?”
“No plans. Without a stable connection to the Force, I have little going for me.” He pauses, then cracks a tepid grin. “Except for maybe podracing.”
Luke snorts. “Well, that’s profitable enough as long as you stay alive. Not sure you’ll get a round three after dying for a few thousand credits, though.”
He shifts back against the cushions of the couch, though, and watches Anakin as he crosses his arms. He seems almost…Wary. Like Anakin is a skittish beast he’s trying to trap. Those perceptive eyes track his every breath, every tiny movement.
“I am working on gathering lost artifacts and old texts,” Luke says. Carefully. “I’m headed to Bakura for a lead in Salis D’aar.”
Anakin only nods. He can only assume that he’s being kept in the loop from the kindness in Luke’s heart alone, because why else would he tell him this? He hasn’t exactly earned this information, much less Luke’s trust, by simply talking about his life for a little while.
Luke seems to have decided something as he leans forward, crossed arms resting on his knee. The Force hums with his resolve. He smiles, and Anakin’s chest aches for some reason.
“Come with me,” he says. “To Salis D’aar.”
The next morning finds Luke in Anakin’s ship with Artoo and his things. He’s already squared away his X-Wing for a while, picked up a quick resupply for the ship, and paid for fuel himself. He seems disgustingly chipper despite the lack of sleep, greeting Anakin with a wave and a wide smile, tossing his bag into one of the storage compartments, and immediately making himself comfortable in the co-pilot seat. Anakin follows behind at a much slower pace, body exhausted but energy buzzing through it regardless from Luke’s presence. He feels simultaneously ready for anything and totally off-kilter as he drops heavily into the pilot seat. Caf would be nice right now, but Luke doesn’t appear to need it. He’s rattling off something about the ship’s specs that, if he were in the right mind, Anakin would surely appreciate the normalcy and familiarity of.
He does wish he’d been listening when he catches Luke watching him expectantly.
“It’s a nice ship.” He says it like punctuating the end of his rambling with a period.
“Thank you,” Anakin says. “I stole it.”
Luke throws his head back and laughs like he really means it, lines crinkling flatteringly around his mouth and eyes. He’s beautiful in a way that is so markedly his own, and Anakin’s chest responds with a harsh tug. He wants to reach out, wants to brush his fingers through that light hair and see what it feels like now that it’s finally within reach, now that he finally can. As always, Luke seems to notice something. He catches Anakin’s eye before glancing down to his flesh hand as it clenches on his knee. Then he promptly looks away, busying himself with inputting the coordinates for their destination.
Anakin exhales slowly. Maybe the trip would be a good time to revisit that whole releasing-his-feelings-to-the-Force thing.
So, when they engage the hyperdrive, that’s exactly what he does. Anakin excuses himself from the cockpit and finds himself a clear space on the floor somewhere between the galley and the escape pod, a quiet little corner. The ship is not a large one by far, everything from the galley counters to the bunks foldable against the wall to conserve space, so this will have to do. Crossing his legs as he sits, he rests his palms on his thighs, straightens his back, and allows his eyes to slip shut.
It takes too long to relax. The Force is slippery in his grasp, slick and jittery. Each time that he feels as though he’s finally gotten a hold of it, it slides between his fingers and drops to the ground below him like ash. It resists him when he attempts to grab it directly, and slinks around him condescendingly when he stops to wait for it to approach him of its own volition. Instead, it seems more keen on urging him back to the other end of the ship, to the cockpit where Luke waits.
Naturally, Anakin is left furious. He feels his nerves tightening by the second, jaw clenched and hands instinctively forming into fists atop his thighs. How is he meant to use both sides, both methods, when the Force rejects him either way?
Worthless prophecy, he thinks, scowling. The Force spikes aggressively. This is pointle—
“Hey.”
Anakin wrenches his eyes open. Luke sits before him in a mirrored position, a tentative smile on his lips and an unfamiliar softness in his eyes.
“From what I gather, you’re not supposed to get angrier when you meditate,” Luke says, and his lips quirk into something a bit more mischievous. His words are gentle, though. “Do you want help?”
“Help,” Anakin echoes, incredulous. “How?”
Luke straightens, rolls his shoulders, and closes his eyes. He seems to take that as a yes.
“Just focus on me,” he says like it’s the easiest and most obvious thing in the world. “I’ll guide you into it.”
This seems like an especially bad idea to Anakin. He recalls the cacophony of feelings he’d felt from Luke before, the biting anxiety that had followed, the fear of the thread that seemed to connect them through the Force. To begin with, he’d wanted to meditate to release the strange tension building up in him from being around Luke so that he can appreciate the peace that comes with him. He’s not sure he can do that with Luke in front of him, reaching out to him.
He decides to try anyway. Returning back to form, his eyes shut and he cautiously seeks out Luke’s signature. A few moments pass while the Force slithers around him, teasing, and then it crashes into him all at once.
The heat—no, rather, it’s soft warmth—wraps itself around him with a comfort he’s never known, a subtle vibration settling just beneath his skin that tingles in the tips of his fingers and toes. Luke fills his senses with a savory sweetness, like thick syrup on toast, fills his mind with vivid colors. Golden yellows and blush pink spiral together like liquid sunlight, dripping into molten orange pits with accents of deep, regal purple. The hues remain individual yet bleed together altogether.
A tendril of energy reaches out to him from the center of the signature, offering itself to Anakin despite his hesitation. And… He accepts it. He reaches out and grasps it tightly, afraid it will withdraw if he’s not quick enough. Energy washes through him like floodwaters when he does, filling every nook and cranny as if it were seeking to cleanse each secluded corner of his soul. A large piece of him fights against it, lashes out against the amity that attempts to cradle him sweetly. The moment that piece folds to the onslaught feels like a chain breaking.
Over the rush in his ears, he thinks he can hear himself gasp, but maybe it’s Luke. Despite the way the Force shakes, the tendril wraps itself around him in full, tender in its own way, soothing. He feels so full yet so light, and Anakin doesn’t pull away. Rather, he cannot fathom breaking away from this sensation.
By chance, Anakin manages to remember why they had started this to begin with. Slowly, he begins the process of picking up his feelings, sorting through them, and then releasing them. It’s almost painstaking, and he has half a mind to be cautious about what he’s willing to unpack in front of Luke, but that seems pointless. Luke only projects compassion and patience through their connection. It works like a charm, coaxing everything out of Anakin until he’s at a loss. Luke does the same even though he has much less to work with, and the solidarity is reassuring.
When muffled beeping sounds from the cockpit to alert them that they will be coming out of hyperspace soon, Anakin feels as Luke begins to untangle from him. He nearly asks for a few more minutes, disappointment radiating through him, but Luke’s quiet chuckle in response is surprisingly grounding. It helps him wade his way back to the surface.
Anakin peels his eyes open at last to find Luke leaning towards him with glittering eyes and a bright smile. He’s extremely close.
“How was that?”
“Incredible,” Anakin breathes. “How did you…?”
Luke shrugs, but he looks terribly pleased. “It just felt right. Right?”
Anakin nods. He’s not sure anything has ever felt quite so ‘right’ to him, much less intimate.
The ship lurches when they leave hyperspace at last, and they bring themselves to their feet. Luke doesn’t wait to turn on his heel and start back towards the cockpit, but Anakin practically lunges to grab his wrist—this time with his flesh hand.
“Luke,” he says, sounding fervent. He catches himself. “I, uh.”
Luke doesn’t yank his arm away like he probably should, and instead only blinks back at Anakin and turns to face him again. He just tilts his head and waits, lips parted.
“…I would like to do that again. If you would be alright with that.” It feels like an admission of guilt, but his crime is unclear. Anakin holds himself upright. “Please.”
The smile that Luke gives him is nearly blinding. Coupled with the way the Force hums with fresh clarity through everything around him, Anakin’s not sure how he’s going to survive this.
Salis D’aar is actually rather nice. The weather is sunny and mild when they land, and Luke treats Anakin to a late breakfast instead of immediately jumping to work. Anakin, still pinching what few credits he still has from gambling, doesn’t dare argue. Nobody seems to think twice about Luke’s black cloak or the hood he keeps drawn when they’re out in the open. It does give Anakin a sense of being underdressed, though. He considers asking Luke to loan him a few credits to pick up a cloak of his own.
The first stop is straightforward enough—they meet an old Lannik librarian named Ezark who freely supplies them with as much information as she can, visibly delighted that someone would seek out such an old tome. Anakin manages a polite smile with her, finding that interacting with others is still something of a nuisance, but Luke captures her attention easily with his smile and his charm, so he handles the talking.
The second and third stops don’t require leaving Bakura, luckily enough. They stay on the planet for four days, starting each morning together the same way: meditation followed by a late breakfast, and then they head out to follow their current lead. They meet with a Twi’lek man in a park while feeding the ducks, and then a Coruscanti informant in a seedy nightclub. The informant tries very hard to get Luke to dance and he thanks her very politely, but dodges her like it’s something he does every day.
Anakin finds quickly that he enjoys watching Luke interact with other people. It gives him time to get a good look at the parts of Luke’s face he normally might miss, a break from the non-negotiable gravitational pull of Luke’s eyes when his attention is on Anakin. Perhaps it’s the decades of acute aggression, but something about Luke’s unabashed friendliness to every person he approaches is jarring but refreshing. It quickly makes Anakin aware of how he treats others in front of him.
(When Anakin snaps at a store clerk over something menial, Luke fixes him with a mild but chiding look of disappointment. He finds himself meditating for two hours after, this time without Luke.)
Luke’s search leads them to Raxus Prime—on the opposite end of the galaxy. Though he isn’t happy about their next destination, Luke maps out their trajectory and tends to refueling and restocking the ship for travel. Anakin can’t say he’s terribly happy about it either, but he could just be anxious about spending the better part of two days cooped up in the ship with Luke.
Turns out, it’s not so bad. Luke procures a deck of cards, some cheap-looking betting chips, and a bottle of liquor, forms a makeshift table in the little open space of the hull, and sits down with his spoils laid out before him like a dragon with his hoard. He’s dressed down to a white tank and black trousers, boots stuffed off underneath the bottom bunk where Anakin has been sleeping but thick socks protecting his feet from the ship’s metal floor. Grinning tauntingly up at Anakin, he sits cross-legged while shuffling the cards like a professional, and Anakin thinks all that he’s missing is a cigar hanging out of his mouth to complete the image of mischief. Like a cherry on top.
“Play a round or two with me?” Luke offers, gesturing for Anakin to sit across from him. “I’m a bit rusty, but…”
“Rusty,” he repeats, unconvinced. Anakin kneels at the table, eyeing the way that the cards glide through Luke’s fingers. His connection with the Force is still on the rocks, but he knows Luke isn’t using it right now. “Alcohol and gambling. You’re sure you’re a Jedi?”
Luke laughs, and gods damn it all if it isn’t the happiest sound in the world to Anakin. Warmth spreads through his chest, up to his face a little, and he considers the liquor despite his preferences.
“Listen, there wasn’t much else to do during the rebellion. Play cards, train, get sloshed, pass out. Wait for a call to arms. Avoid death. Repeat.”
Luke deals the cards between them while Anakin divides up the chips.
“Besides,” Luke says, smiling easily as the round begins and he pushes his chips forward. “I think that there is a common misconception there. Jedi have never been told to not have fun, you know.”
Anakin scoffs. He places his own bet and Luke considers his cards, flipping another over on the table.
“Could’ve fooled me with the way Obi-Wan behaved.”
“Ah, well, yeah,” Luke agrees, and Anakin gets the sense he understands. Whether it’s from what Obi-Wan has told him or what Luke has seen him process through meditation, it doesn’t really matter. He’s not sure how much Luke can pick up on during their sessions, but he’d rather not think about it. It’s easier not to think about it. “The Code is…Flawed, to say the least.”
“To say the least.”
Luke finally tosses forward a few more chips, and Anakin folds. With a triumphant “whoop”, Luke gathers the chips from the center of the table and adds them to his pile before he starts with shuffling the deck again. As he does, though, his smile fades and his gaze fixes into place in the center of the table. Something melancholic—not quite sad, but close—shifts through the room.
“Hey,” he says softly, eyes snapping up to meet Anakin’s with an intensity that betrays his tone. “You know that there is more to life than just…This, you know? Jedi and Sith. Light and Dark.”
When Anakin huffs out an offended noise and his irritation undoubtedly flashes into the Force, Luke simply laughs. He doesn’t scramble or stammer to correct himself, doesn’t slink back away from him. He never has, has he? Luke has cracked a joke about nearly pissing his pants when he’d seen a manifestation of him on Dagobah, but Anakin has never seen proof of that fear when they’ve been face to face. Not before, and certainly not now. He's only seen justified anger, determination, will.
“You know what I’m trying to say. I mean, think of how many people live their lives—their entire lives completely unaware of what’s going on in the Force. Some never even know the Force exists, or they hear of it but don’t believe in it. Some write it off as senseless magic, or as inherently evil.”
Anakin stares at him. “What—”
“There is more to you than your ability to use the Force,” Luke continues with an air of finality, placing the deck down instead of dealing another round. He turns his full attention to Anakin, and it makes his skin itch. “Before you are Jedi or Sith, you are a person. A human being. A man with a potential for good, should you choose it.”
Memories of his comment in Luke’s hotel room resurface and Anakin feels himself flush. It had been meant as a self-deprecating joke to be brushed off, to be ignored, but Luke had clearly sniffed out the sincerity in his words.
“We’ll do something about that self-esteem of yours,” Luke says with a grin. It feels like a promise. A tendril of energy reaches out to Anakin and brushes against him, and it feels different somehow. Anakin can’t place it. “But I can’t let you get too big of a head. So, I’m going to beat you at cards so bad you’ll cry yourself to sleep tonight. That’ll keep your head on straight.”
Anakin laughs and his eyes sting. Smiling starts to feel easier.
“…You do not realize your importance...You have…Discover your power…”
The voice sounds familiar. It’s modulated and grainy, but so very much its own, a voice that Anakin could pick out from a crowd. It is his, after all. Not the voice he has now, he recognizes immediately, but still his voice. The words come out of his mouth as he glares down at Luke as the Jedi clings to the gantry for his life. His entire body hums with barely contained rage, anguish, despondency.
It hurts. It hurts. Fuck, it hurts.
Luke shouts back at him, a picture wrath and vindication and pain.
Anakin can feel nothing from him. Nothing. He’s speaking again, his body is moving on its own, and his words sound so sure but he feels so terribly lost. He cannot focus on his words nor the ones that Luke screams back at him. Only the disbelief on Luke’s face as Anakin’s lips curl around the word ‘father’. Then the turmoil.
Something truly ugly twists inside of Anakin—Vader—seeing his son wounded and hanging by a thread. Impulses flash to his mind, of taking the rest of Luke’s limbs to keep him here, of wrenching him away from the gantry to lock him up somewhere, and though it’s the briefest, of stealing a ship and running away together. What should feel like love for Luke instead is overpowered by the obsessive desire to have him. To keep him by his side, to mold him into something perfect, to remind himself that he has done one thing right in all his miserable life.
“It is your destiny.”
Anakin jerks awake and his arms swing up and forward to grab himself before he can slam his head into the underside of Luke’s bunk. Wide-eyed and heaving hard breaths, he stares into the subtle darkness of the ship's cabin while his heart beats too quickly. The only light in the hull comes from the dull yellow utility lights installed into the walls, which hardly lend any real light to the space but are comforting to look at anyway. The soft rumble of hyperspeed is soothing, too, Anakin thinks. Unfortunately, it’s not enough right now. He sort of feels like he’s been electrocuted while his body is sweltering and sweat-damp, so he rips off his shirt like it’s the source of all of his problems and pushes up off the bunk.
A socked foot sticking out from the top bunk catches Anakin’s eye as he stands, and he turns to the mess that is Luke in dreamland. He’s tossed his blanket to the side, the white sheet wrapping around his body like a snake, with one leg hooked over it and the other sticking straight out. His hair is a disaster, and that white tank rides up his stomach.
Anakin has to fight back a laugh at the scene before him while his heart gives a squeeze. Perhaps his sleeping habits had fallen down to Luke, too, though he hasn’t slept so comfortably since his fall.
It strikes him at once that Luke must be accustomed to sleeping without the comfort of safety. Much of that had been Anakin’s fault; his seething greed propelled him towards Luke at every moment, led him to hunt Luke like an animal. An animal that he thought he could capture and domesticate for himself. The impulse is gone now, it had left him the moment he’d laid his life down for Luke, but the space it left is not empty. Something else rests there now. He cannot allow himself to look at it.
Does Luke feel safe with him? Should he? Does Anakin even want him to?
Yes, Anakin thinks as he steps closer to the bunks and rests his elbows on the very edge of Luke’s thin mattress. Luke doesn’t stir, not even when Anakin’s fingers brush against the sandy hair resting on his pillow. It’s softer than anticipated. With everything in me.
Raxus Prime absolutely sucks.
Of course it sucks, it’s a junk planet for fuck’s sake, but Anakin hasn’t had to worry about wandering through piles of garbage with a little filtration mask being the only thing between him and death for many years. He feels it’s his Force-given right to complain about this as much as possible. Luke only laughs, unfortunately muffled by his own mask, and leads him underground. The tunnels underground are dank and a little wet, but it’s better than the brick red haze of misery permeating the atmosphere above them.
When they’ve made it far enough underground, a little device Luke has hooked to his belt beeps with a small blue light, and he pushes his gas mask down around his neck.
“Should be good now,” he says, before sharply turning a corner and starting down a set of stairs. He moves quickly, not bothering to wait for Anakin to follow. Luckily, as Luke has been so kind to point out, he’s taller. His strides easily match Luke’s without too much extra effort. “Pay attention, though. If your throat so much as starts to tickle, put your mask back on.”
Anakin nods and they head down a narrow passage that slants downward. A stream of (hopefully) water flows down the decline, and he finds himself praying that they won’t end up knee-deep in toxic wastewater today. The deeper they go, the sharper the passages become as the walls evolve into something more sturdy, more like ferrocrete than stone. Lamps hooked onto their belts guide their way down despite the lack of natural light, throwing dramatic shadows everywhere they wander.
They make it to what Anakin can only describe as an underground temple. An unsuspecting passageway that Luke had chosen by chance leads them into a hallway with several rooms attached, old mechanical doors broken or off their hinges entirely and leading into empty rooms.
Not even garbage remains. It’s strange, considering that’s what the entire fucking planet is covered in.
At the end of the hallway is the only door left intact—double doors, in fact. It isn’t mechanical like the rest had been. Instead, they’re made of massive slabs of stone, cut to fit the frame perfectly, with two large iron handles. Luke eyes the handle cautiously before casting Anakin a smile and a shrug. He pushes them open and steps forward.
The room is huge, bigger than strictly necessary, with a pitched ceiling that stands dozens of feet high. A giant stone pillar stands in the center, connecting to the ceiling in three points like a trident. Though the walls look to be ferrocrete as well, there are pew-like stones lined up in rows. Tattered drapery hangs on the walls and from the ceilings, some burned and some torn. An plain wooden altar stands at the other end of the room, turned towards the wall behind it as if the speaker is meant to face away from the crowd, where a large book sits on display.
Pretentious fucking Jedi, Anakin thinks. This is incredibly impractical.
Luke lets out a breath that sounds relieved. It takes him little time to collect the book and verify its authenticity before securing it in the pack resting on his back. Anakin smiles in response to his huge, victorious grin.
“I’m going to look around before we leave,” Luke tells him as he’s already on his way towards another doorway. He waves back at Anakin. “I’ll be back in a second. Won’t take long.”
Anakin settles onto one of the stone pews and waits. When Luke doesn’t return in just a few minutes, though, he finds himself distracted, thoughts wandering.
He is…Disappointed. Maybe he had been hoping that this would be another dead-end, and that they’d have to start from square one again with a new source. Maybe then he would have a good excuse to stay with Luke longer. He knows that simply asking to stick around would be received well, Luke isn’t cruel enough to turn him away. How long could he rely on that, though? The idea of prying himself away from Luke makes him feel queasy and unstable, like the ground is shaking and crumbling under his feet.
A spark in the Force grabs his attention and drags it to one side of the room. Anakin squints into the darkness, but from this distance all he can see is an old red drape with black embroidery hanging against the wall. He brushes it off and glances away, only to immediately feel drawn back to it.
Alright, then.
Anakin pulls himself up and wanders over to the drape, unhooking his lantern from his belt to raise it up to the embroidery for a better look. The symbols are some he’s never seen before, and the embroidery is so neat that it could have been done by a machine. They’re angular and sharp, rarely closing in whole shapes.
The drape moves and Anakin nearly swings. Body tensed, he watches carefully, and then promptly feels very silly when he realizes it’s just a draft.
Wait. A draft.
Anakin reaches out a hand, tentatively poking a finger at the heavy red fabric. It goes through the wall. Or, rather, Anakin realizes rather quickly it’s just an opening in the wall. Using his cybernetic hand, he hooks his fingers around the edge of the drape and pulls it to the side. The opening is shorter than he is by several inches, and also not very wide, but Anakin can see a soft red glow from coming inside and that immediately piques his curiosity. A path cobbled in river stones leads the way down a curving tunnel.
He ducks in and follows the path. The tunnel appears to have been dug directly into the soil here, with roots hanging out of the compacted earth and beams supporting the ceiling from caving in. Red light shines from little crystals embedded into the walls, clouded with splotches of black that resemble ink in water. It only takes Anakin a handful of paces to make it to the end of the stone path, leading to another opening that… Well.
It’s a stark comparison to the rest of the planet, that’s for sure. Grass sprouts out of the earth in thick patches, surrounding the bases of massive fat-leaved trees that grow without sunlight, reaching up to the cavernous ceiling with outstretched branches as though seeking it out. The glowing red crystals cluster amongst the stalactites, casting a red glow over the foliage. In the center of a circle of trees near the entrance is a small pond with a glassy black orb in the center. As Anakin approaches, he can see that it’s simply levitating about half an inch above the water, bobbing ever so slightly.
Stopping a few paces away, Anakin watches the orb suspiciously. When he feels around the room for energy, he finds…Nothing. A sense of dread tickles at the back of his skull, sending a wash of goosebumps across his skin, and he instinctively knows he needs to leave. He needs to step back, turn around, and go back to the altar room to wait for Luke. He never should have wandered in the first place.
Anakin’s legs don’t move on his command. His vision remains anchored to the orb.
“Approach.”
He does. He kneels at the edge of the pond despite his better judgment, discarding his lamp to the side, and he’s not sure why. What was he doing here, again? Where is he? Confusion emanates through his thoughts, obscuring his control. He is powerless to watch as his flesh arm reaches forward, hand phasing through a spherical field of energy, and plucks the orb out.
The Dark takes him before he can stand.