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Luke had no idea how long he’d stood there, shivering, covered in blood. He had no idea how, exactly, he’d gotten here, either - everything since his squad had gone into the old Jedi temple was a blur of panic, pain, and the Force.
They’d—They’d almost made it out.
They’d almost made it out.
It hadn’t started until they’d gotten quite a distance into the temple, he remembered that. It wasn’t until far, far too late that they realized the entire place was set with traps to kill Jedi, and they only had one - half-trained, at that - in their number.
Luke was the only one who’d been able to react fast enough to dodge the first spikes that came shooting out of the wall. Olin, Jerod, and Heth had managed to escape those as well, although not unscathed. Heth was lost on the way back towards the entrance, he hadn’t looked back to see how; all he knew was that it involved a loud crunch.
And Olin and Jerod, they...they…
He couldn’t save them. He couldn’t save them.
A chill made him shiver harder, and he finally looked up through his bloody bangs, towards the doorway.
Blocking the light was the large, dark form of his father.
His stomach twisted with emotions he couldn’t name as he stared, his father’s even, mechanical breathing filling his ears. Relief made him want to collapse, blood be damned, but anxiety, fear, grief kept him rooted.
It might be another trap, anyway. Hadn’t the cave on Dagobah given him visions? Surely a Jedi temple would be capable of the same thing.
He said nothing as his father walked, boots splashing, towards him.
Vader grabbed his arm, mechanical grip more gentle than Luke would have imagined it, and Luke stared at that arm as his father pulled him out into the sun.
His father...was really here?
Oh.
Luke shuddered as they left the temple. He couldn’t think about what his father being here meant right now, and refused to think about what he was leaving behind, carefully folding it away, locking it deep in his memory. He’d—he’d deal with it later, when it wasn’t so...fresh.
When it wasn’t slowly congealing, drying on his skin.
He sat gingerly on the edge of the seat that was suddenly beside him. A shuttle. When did he get in here?
Not important. All that mattered right now was keeping his trembling limbs away from the seat as much as possible, to keep the blood from getting everywhere, and keeping the Force out of his head. The danger was gone, now, and he wouldn’t taint anything else if he could help it.
Gloved hands strapped crash webbing around him and he made a small noise of distress. Would blood even come out of crash webbing?
The Rebellion maintenance crews might kn—
No.
He carefully tucked that thought away, too. His mind was as clear as the Dunes, and just as desolate.
The ship rocked underneath him. He just stared, unseeing, at the far wall as he held himself carefully to avoid leaning back, ignoring the tension and slowly growing ache in his body.
In no time at all, the gloved hands were back, this time undoing the straps and pulling him upright by the hand. He went without complaint, and let his surroundings pass in a blur. Blood, now dried in places, flaked off his elbows and knees as he walked. He felt like he was leaving a trail, some record of the violence. He hated it. He wanted it to end.
He hugged his arms close to himself as he followed the dark shadow in front of him.
“Would you like to shower, young one?”
The voice startled him partially out of his haze.
Luke gaped at his father, tilting his head up to look into his dark, reflective lenses. He couldn’t respond. He didn’t move.
His father seemed to nod minutely, then he was leading Luke into a ‘fresher that was as big as his room back home on Tatooine, and gently pushing him into a stool. Luke stared at the floor as water ran.
A warm, wet cloth suddenly touched his face and he startled. It was just his father, who had paused at his flinch, then resumed. Luke closed his eyes. It felt nice. The warm cloth ran over his skin, slowly wiping the congealing blood off. His father ran it under water again and again, until finally it ran clear. His face cooled as it dried.
Next his hands were taken out of his lap and cleaned off with the warm cloth. Luke watched with unfocused eyes, making no move to assist. All of his energy was going into staying upright, into ignoring the exhaustion now beginning to pull at him. He just wanted the blood gone—although he feared he could never get its stain out of his skin.
It was his fault the entire crew was dead. He should’ve been able to sense that the temple was a danger, should’ve been able to sense the traps littered throughout, should’ve been able to react faster, fast enough to get them out.
His hands were dropped back into his lap. He twisted his fingers together, just for something to hold onto. Footsteps retreated, then returned as the water on his hands slowly cooled.
“Will you dress?”
Clothes, black and neatly folded, were set on the counter. He stared at them, unmoving.
His father tugged off his tunic. The air was cold.
The tap ran, then the warm cloth was being run over his shoulders, down his arms. He hissed when it dragged over a wound he hadn’t noticed in his back, but this time Vader didn’t stop, just carefully dabbed it clean then rinsed the cloth and resumed.
The cloth was pressed into Luke’s hands, and he blinked up at his father.
“You may get dressed by yourself. I will be outside. Knock when you are done.”
Vader left, cape flaring behind him.
Luke stayed where he was for a minute, then dragged himself to his feet and put a hand on the clothes on the counter. The fabric was surprisingly soft for what he suspected was an Imp uniform. But then again, maybe the Imps could afford it.
Mechanically, he pulled off his blood-stiff clothes and used the cloth to wipe the blood off the rest of his body.
When he was done and dressed, he knocked softly on the door, head bowed.
Vader opened it. He looked Luke up and down, then gestured for him to sit again. Luke did.
Then he was tilted back, and there was cool stone under his neck. Water ran again, soaking his hair. The smell of soap filled his nostrils, a welcome reprieve from the metallic scent of blood, even if it was harsh military soap that reminded him of nothing but Rebellion barracks, of weeks, months in the field, living each day with fear and death and the Empire nipping at their heels. His scalp tingled as his father’s fingers scrubbed. The water running over his scalp made a pleasant noise, like sand in a sandstorm outside the homestead.
He stared up at Vader’s mask and wondered why he was bothering. Didn’t the Second In Command of the Empire have better things to do than to hunt errant rebels, even sons? Didn’t Darth Vader have better things to do than wash his son’s hair?
Didn’t Vader cut off his hand, last time they met face-to-face?
“When does it stop?” he asked quietly.
The water turned off.
“When does what stop, my son?”
“The gentleness. When does it...when does it go back to the way it’s been?”
His eyes pleaded with his father, but Vader didn’t appear to have an answer. He avoided Luke’s gaze, and merely helped him sit up. Luke shivered as water slid down his neck, dripping out of his hair.
His father put a towel over his head, temporarily turning the galaxy into soft, dim white, and began drying his hair.
Luke closed his eyes and leaned back into his father’s legs.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Maybe...this was alright. Maybe right now was his only chance to have this, to have a father who cared for and about him.
He leaned into the comfort his father was offering, and let the tears finally fall.