Work Text:
“Here.”
Luke, who was nearly asleep on the shuttle’s gravity couch, looked up slowly. Vader was standing over him, holding something in his hands.
“What is it?” Vader might have been his father, might have fished him out of a river, might have given him dry clothes and a thermal blanket and a quiet moment to rest, but that didn’t mean Luke was ready to trust him.
“Soup.”
Luke sat up and narrowed his eyes. “Where did you get soup?”
“This ship has a food synthesizer and your body temperature is low.”
“You chased me into a river!”
“And then I removed you from the river.”
Luke huffed and glared at the soup. It didn’t smell half-bad (certainly better than the atrocities the food synthesizer on the Falcon had been known to produce), and his traitorous stomach chose that moment to betray him and rumble loud enough for even Vader to hear. But he was exhausted and still cold and not feeling particularly cooperative. “I don’t want it.”
Vader thrust the bowl forward, very near Luke’s face; broth sloshed over the edges and onto the floor. “I do not recall asking.”
Luke crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his glare from the soup up to Vader’s mask. “Excuse me?”
“Warm liquids will help you raise your core temperature and avoid illness.”
“Avoid–” Luke stammered, dumbfounded. “Are you serious? You cut off my hand and now you’re worried I might catch a cold? And you think the solution is to force me to eat soup? That’s not – I mean – you can’t just force me to do whatever you want just because you think it’s best for me! I told you I don’t want it and that should be enough for you! I don’t want any soup, I don’t want to rule the galaxy with you, I don’t want to use the Dark Side and I don’t want any soup!”
He didn’t realize he’d lashed out until he was on his feet, the blanket twisted around his ankles, the bowl shattered on the deck, staring in horror at damp noodles clinging to the edges of Vader’s math as broth ran rivulets down the flare of the helmet to drip onto his shoulders.
He’d hit the bowl of soup out of Vader’s hands.
He had thrown soup onto Darth Vader.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered frantically, panic gnawing at his insides. He could sense absolutely nothing from Vader and it terrified him more than the instant rage he had expected. What kind of mountainous, volcanic emotions was Vader feeling that he had to keep so tightly shielded, and what would happen when he released those emotions on the ungrateful wretch of a son who couldn’t even accept one small peace offering?
What kind of a Jedi was he if he couldn’t look past his own hurt and take Vader’s small, fumbling gestures of kindness at face value? They didn’t wipe out the past, but they could have been tentative steps towards the future - and he had ruined it.
Vader still hadn’t moved, just stood motionless, dripping. “I’m sorry,” Luke said again and called the blanket from the floor to his hands. His left hand twitched mutinously, as if it had autonomously decided that it had only seconds remaining before Vader sent it off to join its long-lost counterpart. “Let me–”
He reached out to try to wipe the noodles off of Vader’s mask, but stopped short at the sound that began to roll out of Vader’s vocoder. It was…the only thing Luke could think of was the day his skyhopper’s engine wouldn’t turn over, how it would only wheeze with the rhythm of a semi-automatic blast rifle.
It couldn’t possibly be…
Vader’s shields crumbled, and instead of the rage Luke had expected he felt delight . Complete, utter delight. There was shock, yes, guilt that wove so deeply into Vader’s foundations that it seemed completely immovable, and maybe remnants of rage being swept out towards the reaches of deep space…
…but above all, there was only delight.
“Are you…” Luke trailed off. For once, he didn’t know what to say.
“When I told you to release your anger,” Vader said haltingly, shoulders now shaking with mirth, “this was not what I meant.”
Luke gasped in sheer disbelief, and then he was laughing too. The tension of this endless, exhausting day began to wash away - maybe even some of the tension he’d carried since he’d let go of that gantry and rejected everything his father had tried to impose on him.
Vader’s presence seemed to swell and curl around him and he reached out to grip Luke’s forearm. For the first time that day, the first time ever, Luke didn’t flinch away from his touch.
He hadn’t known Darth Vader could laugh.
It made Luke feel strange and buoyant, like gravity couldn’t touch him.
“I really am sorry,” he said again, and again reached up to wipe the soup from Vader’s mask. This time, Vader let him. Luke ran the corner of the blanket over Vader’s shoulders and along the edge of the helmet, catching the stray noodles and puddles of broth, hardly daring to breathe. His nerves were on edge, senses alert and heart hammering, as if he were grooming a sleeping krayt dragon. But then he reached the mask and with a trembling hand wiped the red-tinted eyeplates clean.
Eyes - his father’s eyes, his own eyes - stared at him through those red lenses, and Luke’s breath caught in his throat. Those eyes held so much sadness, so much regret…
Vader’s hand closed around his wrist, not tightly, and drew his hand down away from the mask. “You do not need to apologize. It is insignificant next to what I have done to you.”
“I’m not keeping score,” Luke said softly. “I just…I don’t want to fight with you. I meant what I said about the Dark Side and ruling the galaxy, but…if there’s some way we could meet in the middle? Maybe there’s a way we could both get what we want.”
Vader reached out, almost hesitant, and brushed his fingers against Luke’s cheek. Once again, Luke’s breath caught in his throat. “What do you want, Luke?”
Luke swallowed. His throat was dry and the words wouldn’t come.
He should have tried the soup.
“I want my father,” he finally managed.
Vader’s fingers twitched against his cheek.
“And I want my son.”
Luke’s heart was pounding, but for once it wasn’t from fear. It was, for once, something very close to hope. “On your terms, or on mine?”
Vader was quiet for a long time. Luke could barely breathe, waiting for the words that would decide both their fates, one way or another. The seconds slid by, the respirator echoed in the silence, but Vader’s hand still rested against his cheek and his presence still curled hesitantly around him.
“On whatever terms you require,” he said at last, and Luke’s knees went weak with relief. “I…do not want to fight with you either.”
Luke reached up to hold Vader’s wrist, not entirely sure his legs would keep supporting him. “My terms are pretty simple. No Dark Side, no ruling the galaxy, no Empire. Everything else we can figure out as we go.”
Vader nodded. “Yes. I believe we can.”
“And - one more thing.”
Vader looked at him, and Luke had a sudden flash of dark blonde curls falling over blue eyes, one eyebrow raised quizzically. He blinked, and the image was gone.
“Yes?”
“I still don’t want any soup, but…do you think that food synthesizer knows how to make hot chocolate?”
Warmth burst onto his skin like sunlight through clouds.
“Yes,” Vader said, and that warmth infused his voice, his hand on Luke’s face, his presence filling the room. “And if it does not, we will teach it.”
Together, Luke thought, and followed his father into the future.