Work Text:
Tarkin lingered in the meeting room of the Ruling Council, looking out upon the dying lights of Coruscant. His internal sense of time was still quite off from Palace time, feeling it was midday rather than dawn. He did not consider it petty to call a meeting of the Ruling Council before daybreak to suit his needs rather than their own, however. He was unlikely to stay long on Coruscant before heading back to Sentinel Base and thus cared not for the complaints of the upper echelon of the Imperial ranks – they would do well to suffer more often, to forget the comforts they hoarded to themselves within the Palace.
But he did appreciate the view.
He turned marginally at a subtle sound behind him, fabric brushing tile.
"Lord Vader," he said, slight bemusement coloring his tone.
Since their experience tracking the Carrion Spike and destroying Rancit's dissident cell, what had once been a chilly relationship between them had – not warmed, perhaps, but steadied into a professional partnership. He admired Vader's abilities and felt, though Vader did not confirm it, that Vader accorded him the same respect.
"ISB is displeased with you," Vader said.
Tarkin raised his eyebrows at that. Vader strode across the room to stand by his side and looked down at Tarkin, his expression shadowed by his hood.
"Well done."
Tarkin chuckled. ISB was nothing less than the pettiest, most intrusive branch of the New Order, obsessed with gaining power over others through recording the scandalous minutiae of theirs lives. Hardly any sort of boon to actually maintaining the Empire. Tarkin was unsurprised that Vader agreed.
They had always agreed on a great many things, even when Vader had gone by his true name.
"The Emperor commands that you remain on Coruscant for the duration of the Senate session."
Tarkin frowned.
"I hardly see the purpose of that."
Vader drew himself to his full height as he glared at Tarkin.
"There is unrest. Senators who are spreading scurrilous rumors and unashamed to do so in the full light of day. The Emperor believes we must present a show of strength."
"And then execute these traitors."
There was a hint of a smile beneath Vader's hood, the glint of yellow eyes.
"Indeed."
Rumors abounded in the Empire. Distasteful as Tarkin found them, he was surprised that the Emperor found them threatening enough to bother dispelling. Although, he supposed, in the aftermath of Rancit's treason and Teller's attacks, it was somewhat more understandable.
"What rumors are these?" he asked idly. "Perhaps we can simply prove them unfounded."
There was a great shudder that shimmered through the air; Vader's rage made visible. Tarkin bit back his reaction. He did not fear Vader's anger, though he knew its power. It was almost exhilarating to be near.
"That the Emperor has taken me as his lover," Vader spat eventually. He began to pace, hands clenched as his sides.
"Ah."
Those rumors. They were hardly new. When the Jedi were deemed traitors, when the only man who stood by Chancellor Palpatine's side was the once vaunted Hero With No Fear, those rumors had already been so old than many people accepted them as self-evident fact. That Skywalker had been in close contact with the Emperor since his childhood, favored above rich lobbyists and powerful Senators, was known to everyone. But fear of Vader's wrath had quieted the whispers for quite a long time.
Vader's turn of phrase understated the rumor, as Tarkin had initially heard it. He was not thought to be the Emperor's lover – but instead his 'psychotic fucktoy'.
Vader suddenly tensed, swinging around to glare at Tarkin, his jaw clenched and face ashen under his hood. Tarkin knew his abilities could hardly be underestimated; yet he also knew that Jedi were rarely true telepaths.
"The Emperor has proposed a solution," Vader said.
Tarkin relaxed marginally. He had not heard that thought after all.
He clasped his hands behind his back and turned his attention back to the encroaching dawn, watching the lights of the city wink out one by one.
"That you take a lover publicly?" he asked.
The conclusion was obvious, but the calculus was more complex. Vader's image was twofold – the noble Jedi, never fallen from his loyalty to order and justice, and the volatile, vicious Sith Lord who punished all who opposed his Emperor. For him to expose the human side of himself as a public relations deflection would certainly rankle.
"I will never betray my wife," Vader snarled.
Tarkin gave him a surprised look. Jedi did not have wives. It seemed that, for all that he thought he knew of Vader, there was yet more he did not. He reconsidered the depth of anger Vader was showing at the Emperor's plan. These rumors struck at more than Vader's reputation or the Emperor's. They cut at the one secret he had preserved in both his personas.
But for all Vader's fervency, Tarkin suspected his declaration was quite beside the point. Had he a wife now, this matter would be simpler to resolve -- much though Tarkin himself would ill enjoy bandying about a spouse of his own in public.
"Perhaps not a lover," Tarkin suggested. "The mere implication of one. Those prone to gossip will create their own rumors at the slightest provocation. It need not be real."
Vader stopped his pacing and crossed his arms over his chest.
"That is acceptable. I will see you at dinner."
And then he turned on heel and stalked out. Tarkin blinked after him.
He had not actually meant himself.
Tarkin's official residence on Coruscant was well away from the Palace as well as the Senate. The Emperor afforded him that courtesy, not to be at the beck and call of the High Council. If they wished his presence, they could arrange transport and wait for his arrival. To have the court at his convenience was a favor granted only to one other – Vader – though he was aware that Vader did indeed live within the Palace walls.
He wondered, at times, if Vader lived in the very same quarters he had as a Jedi, either the ones shared with his traitorous Master, Kenobi, or his unfortunate Padawan, Tano. That could affect his temperament and sour their date considerably.
Tarkin straightened his jacket and plucked at the fabric of his cravat, tightening it while he attempted to plump it some. He had a dour and severe look, he was aware, made even moreso by this outfit. Though he did not favor Coruscanti fashions, for their ruse to succeed he could not be seen stepping out in anything less than formal attire. He would endure this foppish costume.
"Your guest has arrived," buzzed Elgee-Five.
The droid rolled over to him, unpleasantly noisy in its movement as ever. It tilted its receptors to the side as it inspected his clothing. It was not programmed for commentary, however.
Tarkin jerked again on his clothing and squared his shoulders.
"Let him in."
"Yes. Yes, that is what I will do," Elgee said.
It swiveled its body and its treads carried it back out the door without turning. Tarkin's watched it go through narrowed eyes. He did not suppose that Vader would indulge in a drink before they went out, though it would likely make the evening infinitely easier. Steps clipped, he followed the droid down to the main entrance.
Tarkin had not chosen one of the many penthouses bequeathed by the Emperor. He tired so easily and quickly of Coruscant that he rarely wished to see its cities once he left the Palace. Though he obviously lived on the surface of the planet rather than one of the subterranean levels, he had been given permission to demolish many of the nearby domiciles, creating a small estate house with gardens. It was no replacement for the wilds of Eriadu, but it was a welcome respite from the mechanized hum of life on Coruscant.
He found Vader in the courtyard, chatting amicably with Elgee next to the bush of Myrkyr midnight blooms he'd had imported.
"Oh yes, my servos could use a calibration," Elgee said. "Thank you for the offer."
Vader pulled a tool off his belt and knelt down, popping a panel off of Elgee to give the droid a quick tune up. Tarkin raised his eyebrows at the spectacle. He'd hardly agreed to this so Vader could give his droid a service call.
"That is quite unnecessary. Elgee, you shall not harangue guests in this house to do your bidding."
Elgee turned his head around, lighted visual receptors dimming in what Tarkin supposed was a droid's approximation of shame. He did not appreciate the whimsy of programming, adding in such useless affectations for unthinking machines.
"He didn't," Vader said. He ducked his head, peering into Elgee's gears and blowing out some of the dust before twisting the tool in his hand one more time. Satisfied, he put the panel back on and rose to his feet, clapping Elgee on the shoulder. The droid rolled forward and back experimentally. The irritating whine present in his movement for as long as Tarkin could recall was gone; he'd thought that was merely a design flaw of the model. "I could hear something was wrong. I would have expected a man of your fastidious nature to take better care of his staff."
Tarkin met Vader's chilly blue gaze.
"He is not staff. He is a droid."
Vader's lips twisted with nasty humor.
"This will be a very long evening," he said, "If you cannot keep your poorly informed opinions to yourself."
Vader's rapport with his underlings was one of his more admirable traits – carryover of the loyalty Skywalker had earned from his troops during the Clone Wars. To see it extended even to droids was interesting, another nuance of a man he had already learned was unexpectedly complex. Were they other men, it could be described as cute.
"My apologies, My Lord," Tarkin said.
He looked over Vader, appraising him. He had forgone what passed for his uniform, replacing his cloak with a long synthleather overcoat and his tunics for a high collared white shirt, tucked into black breeches.
The clothes were plain, yet striking, made moreso by the dramatic angles of Vader's uncovered face. The past five years had hardened his boyish features, chiseling his jaw as his cheekbones sharpened. His eyes were cold and shadowed, the harshness of his expression softened some by the way his tousled blond hair curled at the nape of his neck – yet again too long, as Tarkin recalled it had often been at the end of the war.
There would be many young men and women swooning tonight, Tarkin thought. He could easily see why Vader was so rarely in public as anything other than a malevolent shadow wielding a blood red blade. This boy, as fierce and dangerous as he was, hardly intimidated.
Vader tilted his head back and reached out to flick imaginary dust from Tarkin's shoulder.
"You look appropriate, Wilhuff," he said, tasting his name carefully as if he was going to need to get used to something his disliked. With any luck, however, the media would soon be convinced and they would not need to further this charade. Tarkin did not relish navigating the asteroid field of choosing a less formal name for Vader.
The Tano girl had a nickname for him. Tarkin suspected that was entirely off limits, in addition to being quite beneath him.
Tarkin stepped away from Vader, to the midnight bloom bush and, with care to avoid the razor thorns, plucked off a flower. He turned and tucked it into the lapel of Vader's coat.
"And now you do as well. I assume you shall drive us?"
Vader did not answer that. He simply turned on one heel and strode out the garden entrance to his waiting speeder – still primed for flight. He did, Tarkin noticed, surreptitiously remove the flower to sniff it before replacing it on his coat.
"I have alerted the media to our dinner arrangement," Vader said once Tarkin had settled into the passenger seat. He did not bother with kindnesses toward those with acceleration sickness, throttling the speeder into high gear as soon as he could and pulling back on the controls for a steep climb. "They will be present."
Tarkin waited for him to level them out.
"Excellent, that was the point of this endeavor."
Vader clenched his jaw, glaring at the traffic ahead of him as he wove through it at gratuitously high speed. It was possible he intended to end their night in a fiery crash before it began.
He piloted the speeder deep onto the nightside of the planet, so far that Tarkin almost thought he was chasing the dawn. But with sunlight still well beyond the horizon, Vader began to dive back into the layers of one of Coruscant's many entertainment districts. It was not one of the glitzier areas. In fact, Tarkin recognized it as one of the many areas rife with officers' clubs – most of them holdovers from the war.
"Do you visit these venues often?" Tarkin asked.
He turned to watch the bright holos of uniformed officers clutching drinks and beautiful members of the other sex whiz past. He lifted his eyebrows at the display. It was quite undignified, of course, but he also knew Vader to be man who prefer to eat in the commissary with his men instead of in the officers' reserved dining room. For all he knew, that extended to pursuing the same pleasures as their men.
"Hardly. That I chose this restaurant should be indicative of nothing but its convenience," Vader said. He drew the speeder into one of the parking bays and turned off the engine, leveling a look at Tarkin meant to convey that his words applied equally to his choice of date.
Tarkin shrugged off the slight. The Emperor demanded his presence on Coruscant to solve a problem he was facing regarding his reputation. That both Vader and the Emperor owed him for this was no small consideration. And, on a less conniving note, he felt he and Vader had a great deal in common. If they could use this as an opportunity to forge a more productive alliance and consolidate their power bases, then it was of benefit both to them and the Empire.
Vader did not bother with his door, planting his hands on it instead to vault over the side. The stiff winds of Coruscant's mid-levels snapped at his longcoat and ruffled his hair. He cut an imposing, intriguing figure.
More sedately, Tarkin exited the speeder and Vader gave him a curt nod, leading him off to the entrance of the restaurant.
If Tarkin had expected a torrent of flashing lights or a swarm of floating holocams, he was quite disappointed. The walkway outside the restaurant had a mere three reporters – representatives of each major media conglomerate, Tarkin surmised. He met their eyes and gaze each a courteous nod before quickening his pace to match Vader's.
"I would suggest," he began in an undertone, "that you affect at least a minor change in your demeanor."
Vader turned a vicious glare on him, but Tarkin met it with stern reproach.
"For the sake of verisimilitude."
Vader made an aggravated sound, but slowed down. Tarkin supposed that something better approximating a romantic gesture could come later; for the moment, they indeed looked like nothing more than colleagues on a rare, but hardly noteworthy, business dinner.
When the press said as much, Tarkin mused, they were likely to find themselves down three reporters after Vader vented his displeasure.
The establishment Vader had chosen was not the sort where one made reservations and the host's eyes scanned over them with disinterest as they entered. It was not a bad sort of place, as far as this district went. There was, indeed, a host, making it a step up from many of the places Tarkin had visited as a youth at the Judicial Academy. The lights were dim, but only to give the illusion of privacy, and quiet conversation created a hum of liveliness no jarring, fast paced music could quite replace. It was hardly what Tarkin would have chosen – the décor was certainly lacking, a mélange of what appeared to be nostalgic space trash – but it was adequate.
A Twi'Lek waitress guided them into the restaurant, to a table in the center of the floor, the better that the other customers could see them. Heads turned as they walked through the restaurant, conversations quietening. There was a cold shiver of fear that Tarkin almost believed he could feel. Certainly Vader could and his eyes shaded briefly to yellow as he reveled in it.
"Allow me," Tarkin said, giving Vader a brief bow and pulling out his chair. The man directed a puzzled look at him. "If you would, my lord."
Vader was still frowning as he sat, movements made halting by his confusion.
"Verisimilitude," Tarkin reminded him. Vader's expression cleared, which was rather fortunate. His perturbation had been very rapidly sliding toward anger.
Vader nodded incrementally, although, Tarkin noted with a frisson of interest that it did not quell his anger.
The Twi'Lek looked between them and leaned down, her considerable cleavage all but in Vader's face as she activated the holo menu for him.
"I am aware of how to operate it," he told her dismissively.
She shrugged one shoulder, but did not offer similar service to Tarkin.
"Is there anything I can get you?" she asked. Her accent was pure Coruscanti – industrial district, but more educated than usual. Perhaps this was a job to fund her schooling.
"A moment," Tarkin told her, "while we decide."
She flicked her lekku over her shoulder, hips swaying as she walked away. Tarkin saw more than one patron, many still in their uniforms, watch her as she went. Vader was not among them, though he seemed equally disinterested in the menu.
Tarkin frowned to himself, considering the sudden difficulties of this evening. He had thought this would be a simple matter, but Vader barely seemed adequate to the task of socializing, let alone a feigned relationship. He suspected he knew why.
He brought up the menu for himself, briefly surveying the offerings. Pedestrian.
"Your wife is dead, is she not?"
Vader's wrath made the air shudder, sudden and electric as a storm on the Carrion.
"Or else you would not need to bother with me," he added. He flicked his finger at the holo control to meet Vader's yellow gaze. "So I suggest you put aside ideas of dishonor and betrayal."
"Do not ever speak of her."
Tarkin pursed his lips.
"I am not. I speak of the realities in front of us, Lord Vader."
Vader clenched his mechanical hand on the table, glove creaking. He said nothing, instead entering an order into the table console for what was, as it turned out, quite strong alcohol.
The Twi'Lek returned with the drink far quicker than Tarkin expected was average in this sort of establishment. It was almost amusing. Vader was plainly an attractive man, though obviously many found his temperament off putting. But there were many more among the Ruling Council and Imperial Court who represented poorer choices as romantic partners than Vader and none of them lacked for attention when they wished for it. Vader could easily have this Twi'Lek, or any other, at his side to allay these pernicious rumors.
And despite his assertion, mere convenience did not adequately explain this evening. An interesting puzzle lay before Tarkin in this matter.
"I shall have the braised nerf," Tarkin told the waitress.
She nodded, polite and professional, and looked to Vader.
"The same," he told her. After a beat, he added, "He and I share many tastes."
The waitress's eyes went wide and she looked between them, seemingly reevaluating. Attempted flirtation with Vader seemed to have even more obviously diminishing returns. The conclusion settled on her face and she swept away briskly.
Vader sipped at his drink, expression flat as he looked to Tarkin.
"Is that enough verisimilitude for you?"
"It is a beginning. I applaud the effort."
"Your insincerity," Vader snapped, "is not appreciated."
Tarkin had, in fact, been quite sincere and he expected a man of Vader's abilities to understand that. He did not flinch from Vader's sudden anger, but waited for it to pass. There were many times Vader's temper served him – it was an excellent disciplinary tool within the fleet and among the many driving forces that led to Vader's efficacy in the field. But at the moment, it ill served him.
It seemed, however, he would be waiting a long time. Vader fumed silently, continuing to drink in silence and tapping his fingers on the table impatiently.
A peace offering, Tarkin decided.
"The specs of Sienar's new fighters look quite promising."
Vader eyed him for a long moment.
"Raith has truly outdone himself, I believe," Tarkin continued. He gave Vader a shrewd look. "Although, perhaps, it is not his genius alone that I have seen in the new blueprints."
Vader did not take the bait – at least, not to brag about his own contributions. He was, as ever, susceptible to shop talk and soon leaned forward, drink forgotten.
"Sienar is overestimating the skills of those in our fleet. His TIEs are excellent ships, but without shields –" Vader cut himself off, as if the conclusion was obvious. "He should redesign the engine housing to allow for power to be redirected to aft shields, at minimum."
Tarkin raised his eyebrows. To even have shields on snubfighters was a new innovation and quite an expensive one. Battle had been done for centuries without such a nicety.
"To what purpose? The Emperor has personally approved the designs. You have less regard for your own pilots than he?"
Vader bared his teeth.
"I have no regard for dead bodies and that is all my pilots will be without shields!"
Tarkin stifled a smiled and eagerly engaged in the argument until their food arrived – once it did, Vader was happy to dominate the course of it, gesturing with his fork when he wasn't pounding his fist against the table or drawing up new specs in sauces on his napkin. Tarkin disagreed thoroughly, of course, both with Vader's ridiculous sentiment toward the rank and file and with the use of nerf-sauce as a legible ink, but despite that, he found himself quite enjoying the meal.
It was odd, he mused, how a man could both be unlike any he had known and entirely like himself at the same time. He'd known Vader for years and worked with Skywalker before the war. The man across from him – finishing his second drink as he glowered down at his new starfighter design with the obvious itch to modify it further yet no more room on the napkin – was not the man he'd fought beside, nor the man who had worked so stridently to save his Padawan from false accusations. And yet he was, he was exactly that man, stripped bare to only the essentials of who he was.
He no longer had his Padawan, or his wife, or the burden of the Jedi and their tenets.
Everything of Anakin Skywalker had burned away, it seemed, and Tarkin could hardly say he disliked the result.
Vader looked up from his work, features drawn taut as he met Tarkin's eyes.
"Like what you see, Wilhuff?" he asked, tone low. It was unclear if he was taken by anger or not, though Tarkin felt it was generally best to assume he was. His eyes remained blue, yet he all but bristled with hostility.
Tarkin smiled faintly.
"I do. Now, if you feel that we have sufficiently fulfilled the purpose of this endeavor, it is time for you to escort me home."
The reporters had not gone from their spot outside the restaurant doors. Tarkin suspected they'd been ordered to gather as much material as necessary to create a plausible story of a romantic evening out. Since they had almost nothing thus far, it was equally unsurprising to find them rise into the air behind their speeder, tailing the pair of them back to Tarkin's estate.
"I fear we were quite unconvincing," Tarkin said. "We may have to do this again."
Vader spared him an annoyed glance as he piloted the speeder, hands tightening on the steering yoke.
"Not if I have anything to say about it."
He slowed the speeder, making sure the reporters could not possibly lose them in the traffic and removed one of his hands from the yoke, throwing it over the back of Tarkin's seat. Tarkin looked at Vader's hand, still clenched into a fist, despite his casual gesture and had to bite back his amusement. He noted that the reporters did not draw close enough to see how they were sitting, unless they had extraordinary holocams.
After several long, silent moments of Vader attempting not to give in to the urge to drive above the speed limit, his control crumpled. They zoomed the rest of the way back to Tarkin's estate, temperate Coruscanti wind blowing through their hair.
He felt rather refreshed by it when they landed, though Vader seemed torn by it all. He paced restlessly back and forth outside the gate, casting looks to the sky as he waited for the reporters.
"We could retire to my den while we wait," Tarkin suggested. "And you could emerge looking flushed and disheveled."
Vader's glare was kindled with the dark burning fire of the Force itself. Tarkin felt a frisson of fear course up his spine – heartening and true. He caught his breath and decided he would press his point.
He did not think he had pursued more dangerous game, not even on the Carrion, but he could not even say with surety than any more dangerous than Vader existed.
"Or, as an alternative, I could make you look disheveled out here," Tarkin said.
"You asked why, earlier," Vader said. His breath was a harsh hiss, yellow eyes bright as the Coruscanti lights in the distance as he stalked forward. "Why you and not anyone else."
Tarkin folded his arms over his chest. Vader could intimidate better than this in his sleep. It was a paltry effort.
"I did."
Vader leaned down and this close, looking up into his face and wild eyes, he looked as boyish as Skywalker ever had, as intense and twice as violent.
"Because," he breathed, "you're not my type."
Tarkin stiffened. He'd known that, of course. Vader's type was petite brunettes with soulful eyes and enough idealism to crush entire star systems. His type was poison and it was luck alone that she'd died before she took Vader down with him.
Vader smiled at his reaction and caught him by the back of the neck, hauling him in for a vicious kiss. His thumb pressed down hard on Tarkin's throat as he kissed him, teeth drawing blood, but Tarkin found himself responding, hands on Vader's shoulders as he tried to bring the man in closer, deepen the kiss.
And then Vader pushed him away. His back hit against the exterior gate and he leaned against it, panting, feeling the dull throb of arousal as Vader walked away.
Vader stopped halfway to his speeder.
"And Wilhuff, you should be more mindful of your thoughts." He glanced over his shoulder again, temper cool and blue eyes dim in the night. "I am no one's toy."