Chapter Text
Father? Luke's alarm was a spike in the Force; Vader could feel it intimately from where he was standing on the bridge of the Death Star. Father, what's going on?
Nothing that concerns you, Vader snapped back. Go back to your studies. Luke was meant to be reading up about the history of the Empire, not interrupting him in the middle of his duties.
Is— If Luke had been there in person, he would have gasped, Vader was certain. We're over Alderaan—You're about to—
Remain on the Devastator, Vader ordered. This is none of your concern.
That's a planet! With a population! My best friend lives there, Father, you can't, tell Tarkin—
Your best friend is a traitor, Luke; she has brought this on herself. There is a reason Palpatine has ordered me not to tell you my movements, son, or why you didn't know about this beforehand. I suggest you curb your burgeoning Rebel sympathies before—
Tarkin gave the order to fire.
Vader yanked himself away from his conversation with Luke, his grip on the Princess's shoulder tightening to the point that she cried out in pain, her shouts oddly satisfying after she'd endured interrogation without saying a word—and then Alderaan was gone.
He felt it.
He knew that Luke felt it too.
He delivered Organa to her cell, to await her execution. And then he went to check on his son.
Luke was shaking—studying abandoned as he curled up in his bed and shook, his sense in the Force ringing like a bell beaten until it cracked. When Vader reached out, he jerked his head up and glared.
"What—" His voice broke. "Father, that hurt. What have you done?"
Vader felt uncomfortable under his son's accusing gaze. "Tarkin has destroyed Alderaan."
"You stood by and let him!"
"It was not my place to oppose. Princess Organa was a traitor—I have unambiguous evidence of that, Luke, do not chastise me for taking action on it. Alderaan was a warning to all others who will Rebel."
"You've created more Rebels!" Luke snarled. "You— you don't even realise what was wrong with that, do you? You're such a blind follower of the Empire, you really just don't give a kriff!"
"Luke…" Vader warned. "I have told you before that your… Rebel sympathetic language is dangerous, do not—"
"Don't do what? Tell the truth!? Father, you and your precious Empire just murdered billions of innocent people!"
"They were casualties of war."
Luke stared at him in horror.
"No," he whispered. "No, stop—Father, you're better than this, you're a good person, please. Stop, please. Come— leave the Empire, come away with me, you don't have to do this anymore—"
"Why would I leave, son?"
"Because what you're doing is evil!" Luke screamed. "And you…" He stared. "You don't even see it, do you?"
His irritation was fanning itself into full-blown fury. Vader pointed an aggressive finger at Luke and demanded, "Young one, your association with Princess Organa and her ilk has clearly done you and your worldview significant harm; be assured that this will be fixed as soon as possible. Stop snivelling about Alderaan; the Rebels on it doomed the civilians around them the moment they nested there, and their blood is on their hands. Regrettable casualties of war, but—"
"Father, stop. Please." Luke dragged himself to his feet and staggered over to Vader to grasp the front of his tabard, begging— "Don't do this."
"Do what, Luke? I dislike the Death Star's bluntness as much as anyone, but—"
"I can't believe this." Luke let go… and he started backing away.
Vader knew that expression on his face.
He looked exactly— exactly like his mother had—
And then Luke whispered, "You're breaking my heart."
Vader tensed up. The fires of Mustafar gnawed at his flesh.
Luke shook his head. "You're—"
He never finished his sentence.
A blink, and Luke was clawing desperately at his throat, nothing but horror—pure, unadulterated horror, betrayal—twisting his expression as he stared at Vader, his father, the man who'd raised him and carried him when he fell asleep and taken him flying and cradled him against his chest—
Vader's fist tightened even further, and Luke's choked gasps cut off entirely. His face grew redder, and redder, and redder.
Father, he tried to reach for him, terror vibrating in his words— Father, what— what are you doing—
And then his head lolled and his eyes drifted shut.
It was the abrupt disappearance of him in the Force that snapped Vader out of it: a blinding light, so often brushing against and soothing him, vanished, a void rushing in to replace it. Vader released the Force in shock… then beheld what he had wrought.
Luke lay on the floor of his bedroom, unmoving.
No.
No.
What— what had he done—
He was on his knees in a second, his commlink out and demanding a medic, unfeeling durasteel fingers reaching for a pulse. There—he felt no pulse in unfeeling fingers and sensed no flicker, but Luke's chest rose and feel infinitesimally. He was still alive.
He was still alive.
But— if he'd done that for any longer—
Vader wanted to take his lightsaber and drive it into his chest. He wanted to roar.
But not now.
Now, Luke needed him.
He had almost killed his son the way he'd killed his mother.
Darth Vader never ran. But when he'd scooped his boy into his arms and entering the corridors towards the medbay, he was flat out sprinting.