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The crash is the first thing Vader remembers upon waking. The TIE-fighter had spiralled out of control, the g-forces pressing him into his chair, compressing his lungs so that it was harder to breathe even than what was the norm for him. Flashes of dark and scorching sunlight had interchanged as he faced the planet’s surface and the sky one after the other. The controls of the ship had been shot, leaving him with nothing to hinder the crash other than his determination and the Force. Were it not for the Force, he would not be waking up in agony now. He would be dead. He is in agony. His suit is long since silent and dark, no diagnostics to tell him what ails and the jumbled sensations from his body are less than useless. Pain is such a ubiquitous condition that its presence tells him less than nothing, only there as a constant reminder of how utterly Obi-Wan was capable of betraying him.
“Hi.”
Vader turns his head towards the voice and hisses. He was wrong. His body can increase its output of pain. He tries to spy the person but can see nothing. His lenses are covered in a fine network of cracks that have made them practically frosted. The speaker sounds young.
“You’re very injured, but we’re taking care of you. Is there someone we should contact for you?”
“Where?”
“We’re near Anchorage. On a moisture farm. You crashed right by the vaporators up on the northern ridge.”
“Planet?”
“Oh. Tatooine.”
Tatooine. Why in all hells would he crash here. He doesn’t remember why he would be anywhere near the godforsaken rock. He’d not been sent to deal with the hutts and anyone else can be sent for making the trip avoidable. It had something to do with Malachor.
“Can I get you anything? I’m not sure normal painkillers would be much help. Water?”
Vader can drink. He only does so in a hyperbaric chamber. It’s pleasant to rinse his throat. A rare indulgence that his Master likes to ridicule him for. It would require him to remove his mask and respirator, a cumbersome affair. His suit should see to his needs and keep him from being dehydrated. But it seems far from functional.
“How long since the crash?”
“Almost three days.”
That’s a long time to go without the addition of liquids.
“Yes. I want water.”
The sound of sloshing and clinking of earthenware signifies that water has been poured.
“Do you want me to leave if you take off your helmet? We haven’t removed it although my aunt wanted to see if you had any head injuries, but my uncle said that you don’t simply remove someone’s helmet without knowing their species or their creed.”
Vader aborts an eye roll - it hurts too much. This youngling is very talkative. He opens his mouth to demand privacy. The Force tells him to slow down.
“You can stay.”
“Okay. Do you want help to sit up?”
He doesn’t want it. He needs it, however.
“Assist me.”
Hands that are much too gentle - he’s not felt the like of in ages - inch under his back from beneath each of his armpits and pull. Here the gentleness ends. He is much too heavy for this child to handle with any grace, especially as he tries to get some pillows into place behind Vader at the same time.
When he’s situated somewhat stably they’re both groaning.
“You’re heavy.”
“I am aware. Don’t point out the obvious.”
“Sorry. Can you unlatch your helmet on your own?”
Vader lifts his hands to do so. He can’t move them. The ignominy of his vulnerability infuriates him. He is halfway to lashing out when once more the Force tells him to slow down. He should not hurt this youngling. What makes him so special when Vader has ended the lives of countless children, the Force does not reveal.
“There are release buttons on either side of the neck. Press them and lift.”
“Okay.”
The youngling jostles Vader’s helmet slightly as he reaches forward. There’s a hiss of exchanging atmosphere as the seal is released, a smell of something indistinguishable - as all smells are to Vader - reaches his nose, and as his helmet is removed, he can see the youngling for the first time. Not well, his - vision is blurry without corrective lenses to sharpen things - but clearer than before. He is indeed young, though not a child as such, but on his way to growing into a man. He has suntanned skin, and sun-bleached hair that his parents should have told him to cut before it was allowed to reach such an abominable length.
“Oh.” It’s a small horrified sound. Better than the reactions of most who have laid eyes on Vader’s naked face.
“Most of these injuries are old, I assure you.”
He doesn’t know why he says it. He’s not interested in providing comfort.
“That one looks new.”
“Hmm.”
“Your water.”
“If you have a straw, I can drink without removing my respirator.”
“Oh! Of course, I’ll go get one. Just a second.”
Vader feels through the bed each step the youngling takes as he leaves the room and again as he returns hardly a moment later, hand raised in triumph with a metal straw poking out.
A few running steps and he’s back at Vader’s side, straw in the cup and cup reached out so the tip of the straw can be pushed around the respirator and into Vader’s mouth.
Sucking at it is akin to taking deep breaths and as such to use his lungs in a manner they no longer agree with. He makes due. The cool water trickles into his mouth, and he is sure no water ever tasted so sweet.
“Hey! Slow down or you’ll make yourself sick.”
Vader glares yet releases the straw. Lessons decades into the part on how to handle thirst seem irrelevant next to the life-giving nectar he’s been offered.
“Okay. A little more now. Slowly.” The Force agrees. It’s very adamant about being slow today.
Vader sips quietly, making his way to the bottom of the cup too fast nevertheless.
“We’ll see how that sits with you before we try anything more. I should really tell my aunt or uncle that you’re awake. They’ll want to speak with you. Maybe if you tell me who to contact for you, I can get on it. It’s only mid-morning. We’ll have time to go into town to get in contact with someone off-planet if that’s what you need.”
“Any Imperial Garrison will do.”
The boy’s expression goes blank. “You’re imperial.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No! No-no. No problem. I’ve been planning on going to one of the academies in a couple of years actually. I want to be a pilot.”
“Hmm.” It’s no lie. The vehement denial of there being a problem with imperials, however, does tell a different story.
“If you give me your name, I might be able to make a recommendation for you. The Empire needs young people willing to help.”
“You could? That would be wizard! I’m Luke Skywalker.”
Static fills Vader’s ears and grey blotches fill in his vision.
Skywalker. Luke Skywalker. A son? Yes, the Force says. A son. His son. His child.
“Aunt Beru! Aunt Beru! You have to come! I think he’s going into shock!”
He is. But it’s not a medical shock.
“Luke,” Vader whispers.
“Yeah?”
From a place deep within, he finds strength - separate from the Force - to lift his hand. Luke is leaning forward, so he doesn’t have to reach far to touch his face.
“My child.”
Luke’s mouth is open with his own shock, but he stays stock still, not drawing back from the stranger who’s touching him. He too senses the truth of it. The Force is strong with him.
Vader has been given a gift. He will not squander it. He'll take it as slow as the Force desires. Anything for his son.