AN: This is a plot bunny I needed to get rid of so I can continue to write Of Brothers and Betrayal (a Loki-centric fic set straight after Ragnarök; go read it!) and this is what happened. This is currently a drabble, but I will probably start working on it whenever my other story gets writer's-blocked.
Title: The Hero With No Name
Important Info: I am NOT a Star Wars nerd: I've only watched them about once or twice. However, I love our poor, lost soul Anakin/Vader, so this will be Ani-centric. Set right after Return of the Jedi (Clone Wars is included in this fic, but not much, so you don't need to watch them. I would recommend it though, the show after the first season is great!), including lots of angst and fluff (maybe humour, too), so keep your eyes peeled! No slash (well, mentions don't count because you can't have Ani-centric without mentions of Padmé)! Oh, and I'm sticking with Hayden as Ani, so yeah. And, I am twisting this universe beyond recognisable after Vader's death, so be prepared.
Summary: Darth Vader wakes up after his death in unfamiliar surroundings. His suit is gone and his full powers as the Chosen One have been reawakened. However, he is firmly within the Alliance's grasp – he must choose whether to help or hinder, and exactly what identity he now holds, and what he will tell the Rebels.
Enjoy!
His breaths were coming in ragged gasps, the unfiltered air ripping clean through his ravaged lungs, as his eyes squinted against the light doing its best to saw open his skull. Against the blinding glare, a silhouette. He could just about hear words sluggishly worming into his ears, but he could make nothing more of them than meaningless sounds.
The Force, however, had not abandoned him. The ancient power wrapped around his body, almost comfortingly. Slowly, the feeling focused until he knew who the silhouette belonged to, but he was too late. His burnt lips parted as his led tongue attempted to find the words that would return the retreating figure to his side.
A soft rasp, too muted to be heard, struggled past his aching throat. The shadow continued to retreat, the panicked footsteps increasing into a run until they died away, the blaring alarms only now ripping at his sensitive senses.
Alone, his eyes eventually slipped shut as he listened to his own breathing for the first time in twenty three years. The absent rasping wheeze of his respirator leaving the silence echoing with his soft heaving, so unlike normal breathing, but still as close as he could ever come again.
Blaring sirens fading away, Darth Vader slid into blackness.
Beep!
Beep!
Beep!
Such an irritating sound. Irritating and horrifically familiar.
Beep!
Beep!
The surface beneath him was soft and pliable. A mattress?
Beep!
Yes, probably.
Beep!
That sound was driving him out of his head. The infernal noise ricocheting about his skull relentlessly.
Beep!
Comfortable swathes of cloth had been draped over him from the… from his shoulders down. That was… unusual. Uncomfortable.
Beep!
Unfamiliar. Unlike the infuriating, static, monotonous and Force-cursed beeping!
…
The sound decidedly halted with a satisfying crunch, leaving the man alone with his thoughts. He didn't know where he was and…
Start with the basics – something taught to all younglings.
The man jack knifed straight up, his neck stinging unpleasantly.
Younglings…!
Where was he?
He was supposed to be dead, where no more harm could come to him (and everyone else) and he could just curl into a ball and ignore everything!
He had died saving his son from his Master, only to reawaken where he was most certainly unwelcome.
A faint rattling filled the room, panic immediately setting into the confused man.
Automatically, he pulled up his legs, crossing them into the peculiar way he had been taught when he was nine. His breathing stabilised and the trembling fled both his body and the room.
Head bowed, he opened his eyes, only to freeze in shock.
He stared at one pale hand (the other a prosthetic shell) resting where his hands should be, on where his legs should be. He just stared, until one of the fingers on the left hand cricked, very, very slightly.
With a startled yelp, the man tumbled from the bed, desperately scrambling from the disembodied extremity. He jumped immediately to his feet, wobbling and tottering before he collapsed.
What was happening?!
He lifted an incredibly light arm and yanked himself up with the bed frame's help. At the sight of the limb, his eyes bugged uncharacteristically.
The limb wasn't encased in cumbersome black armour. It wasn't even a tangle of wires and metal. It was smooth, fair skin. Muscular and real. Tangible. Human.
It was his arm!
He gawked. His other hand came up and he gawked at that one, too (prosthetic or not, anything was better than that blank blackness of his suit). He poked the skin of his left (human) arm, still staring. The shocked silence was filled with quiet, muted breaths.
Eventually, he stood, legs still shaking. Cautiously, the man sat back on the edge of the bed. He grabbed his leg and rolled up the material covering it to see the same, smooth skin. Twisting, he turned to see the back of his knee, checking for something.
A grin split his face; he found it! A birth mark roughly the size of his thumb he used to absolutely despise. Before he got burned almost to death on Mustafar, that is. Now, he had never been more joyous to see something he hated.
Carefully letting down the pant leg, he sat on the bed, utterly confused. He knew he wasn't dead, but he was whole again (apart from his right arm). How was that possible?
He stood and began to pace. The feeling was so… freeing. He hadn't moved properly like this for over two decades. The tottering smoothed out within moments as he relaxed back into the familiar motion.
The amazing sensation of standing unaided upon his own two feet speedily demolished the brooding aura gathering about him.
He was free!
The man turned again as he hit the edge of the room and set off in a run. It soon became a sprint as he neared the wall to his left. Confidently, he pushed off from the metal ground and sped along the wall for a few paces before twisting again to push off from the ceiling, flip in mid-air a plonk down onto the bed, legs once again crossed.
He loved this far too much to think about where he was and who did this to him, but he would kiss the ground at their feet 'till he wore a hole in the floor when he found them.
Leaping from the bed to return to pacing, his grin exposed pearly white teeth.
Now, he needed to find a mirror. How did he look? How would a fourty five year old Anakin Skywalker look?
A thorough search revealed a floor length mirror on the inside door of a wardrobe he had overlooked.
Staring into the reflection, he expected to see greying, short hair. Maybe a chin of untidy stubble.
What was actually staring back at him was far, far worse. Or better. He couldn't decide.
Better, because a forty five year old Sith or Jedi wouldn't be able to do the acrobatics he had just performed, no matter how fit or Force sensitive. The image before him was of himself, exactly as he had been moments from a fiery dismemberment at the hands of Obi-Wan.
His fingers automatically reached up to brush the edge of his cheek, flinching as the skin made contact.
His eyes were blue, a slight glint of feral yellow scattered among his irises; the only sign of who he was. The scar over his right eye was clearly visible, just as it had been before he received his numerous burns. Once again, his head was home to horrifically messy, light brown hair. His clothes consisted of a plain beige tank top and baggy cargo pants, his feet enclosed by thin-soled trainers.
He looked so different. Different from Vader, but also from Anakin. Vader wore a feared mask; he wheezed and carried himself stiffly. Anakin had been relaxed and cocky, the terrible things he had witnessed and committed carried upon his shoulders with ease.
He was neither of those people. His back was straight, yet the cocky jaunt to his stance remained. The eyes staring at him held the fierceness of a Sith's, yet they also contained clearly distinguishable grief and fear, if you knew where to look.
He was neither of the people he had been before, but the resemblance to Anakin was uncanny. He looked like the young Sith would have done if he had matured past his age.
Killing billions, if not trillions of sentients did that sort of thing to you.
But, even gloomy thoughts like that couldn't stop his lips from stretching into the biggest darn beaming grin the universe had ever seen.
Because he was back! Back, not as Vader, but as himself. He didn't need the mask now, and he was pretty certain he'd have a panic attack if he ever found one on his face again.
However, something was missing. He ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling the messy locks even more, but also shifting them into the style he had worn before all of this. He thought, gaze searching for what was wrong.
He quickly found it.
There was no lightsaber hanging from his utility belt. He felt and looked strangely empty without it hooked to his waist. With a meditative hum, the man turned back to the bed and sat down. His legs dangled from the end and he slowly swung them, rejoicing in the itchy feeling of cloth rubbing against none-synthesized skin.
The almost silent sound of his breathing was incredibly calming, leaving the man alone with his thoughts for the first time in far, far too long.
Who was he?
What was his name?
These questions floated by him as the Force wrapped about his new body, securing him in peace. The simple joy of actually feeling the sheets beneath his fingertips leading to an uninterrupted state of calm.
He did not need to confront those questions now; not yet. He could just float here and ignore the world for a little while longer. Until his capturers made themselves known, that was what he would do.
Float.
"I want to see him!" The Rebel she was arguing with was starting to cower rather impressively beneath her glare, "Now!"
Han sighed, "Look who's a spoiled Princess?" The glare turned his way. He sighed, "I didn't mean anything by it, darling! It's just that it may not be the best thing if you go in blasters blazing on the guy! He just had over seventy percent of his cells regrown!"
She glowered at her husband, "I really don't care. He might know something about the whereabouts of Vader! And, he is the only living person from aboard that battle station – he probably knows far too much to just let him sit there!" She gestured angrily at the holo-vid showcasing the man sitting atop his bed, head bowed.
Han chuckled, "Calm it, Princess! The First Order isn't going to do anything, okay?" The woman looked away, eyes starting to mist, "Look… We've had them on the run for two years now. That's not going to change."
"It will… When will be able to get him back, Han?" She sighed, her head falling to her hands, "We need to know everything we can. This man has probably committed terrible acts – he's an Imperial, for crying out loud!"
"Look, I agree with you, sweet cheeks, but we won't get anything out of the bastard if he's scared senseless by our warrior Princess here, okay?" Han knelt down and looked up at his wife, hands firmly on her elbows, "Like I said, he has regained over half his body and is probably in shock. Either way, if we say we were the ones to restore him, he's gonna want to help us any way he can, agreed?"
Again, the politician sighed, fingers coming up to stroke the man's face, "Yes, Han…" She looked down and to the side, unhappy, "It's just that our baby is being taken further and further away from us every second, and he could help…!"
"I know, Leia, I know. Just saying that it's probably best to let the guy get over the shock before interrogating him," Han gripped her arms tighter, the man smiling gently up at her, "It'll give us the best chance to get him to speak. You get that, right?"
She grumbled at him, face once again filling with indignant rage, "No, I don't! He could tell us where Ben is and we're giving him time to adjust! He can do that after I know where our baby is! Not a moment later!" She turned on her heel, incredibly long, intricate braids lashing into Han's face, "I will see the prisoner," The poor soldier before her shook her head defiantly, "Now!" She scrambled to the controls, hastily opening the door.
Leia stormed in, an aura of unrelenting anger swirling about her.
He sat, eyes closed, listening to the Force. Inside this room, it couldn't stretch out. It was trapped, just as he was. He couldn't sense what was occurring beyond the walls of his prison, leaving him blind to both their identity and their intentions.
He just hoped that they weren't a group of escaped Imperials, or affiliated in any way to the Rump State the Empire now undoubtedly was.
Knowing nothing outside of his room was utterly terrifying.
Before, whenever he had been captured, he had always known what was happening, why it was happening, who had captured and how to escape (the clankers didn't exactly make it challenging). This was an incredibly unwelcome turn of events, leaving him groping in pitch black.
His gloomy thoughts were interrupted, rather ironically, by the single door sliding open.
He stood immediately, blinking against the glare to see his captors.
At first he thought he had to be dead, because the angel stalking towards him looked exactly like his deceased wife, Padmé. Her white clothes billowed behind like furred wings and the too-bright light haloed her, highlighting the soft brown hair whirled up in an ornate braid before it hung down her back.
But, it wasn't Padmé; he knew that no more than a second later, as her face became clear in his vision. Her cheek bones were too low to be his wife, and her whole face only bore the woman's eyes and shape.
This was Princess Leia. His daughter and leader of the Rebellion.
The only possible worse situation he could be in would be if he had been captured by the Emperor and his two children had been turned to the Dark side.
He was very, very dead.
"Who are you?"
The words shocked him.
She didn't know who he was? Wasn't the armour obvious enough…? Oh, right. The armour was likely floating somewhere in space. Thank the Force.
Remembering, he snapped his mouth shut. Leia stormed further into his prison and glowered at him, "You are the only living Imperial we know off outside of the Order's base. You will tell me what you know of the First Order and where they have taken Ben. But before that, you will tell me your name and what you did aboard that station, prisoner."
Astounded by the cold ice in his daughter's voice, the man stood slightly straighter, his own anger beginning to rise at being talked down to so thoroughly. He could feel the Dark Force brushing against his mind, oh so very tempting. The flecks of burning yellow within his gaze flared brightly with indignation.
But, almost immediately, he clamped down hard on the emotions. He didn't know why, but letting his daughter see such a horrible thing in him cause him almost physical pain.
She stepped closer, attempting to intimidate him, "Your name, prisoner!"
"Anakin," The words were rolling from his tongue before he could stop himself, "Anakin… Naberrie."
The woman glared up at him for a moment, "And what did you do aboard the Death Star, Anakin Naberrie?"
This was so unfair. He woke up about a day or two ago (after dying, and having completely gone against everything he had done for twenty three years before that to save his son before that, too) and now his daughter was interrogating him about what he did aboard the Death Star she had recently destroyed! What was he supposed to say?! 'Hi! I'm your dad and, oh, look at that, also your worst enemy and torturer? Sorry, I'm a changed man!'?!
To put it blandly, the poor Sith was having an (almost) panic attack.
"Err…" He would need to pick something carefully. If she was anything like him or Padmé, she would need the info for a mission. A mission he intended to participate in, "I was a pilot, miss. And a Commander. Helped build that station, too, miss, so you could say I'm good with my hands," Vader (or Anakin, he wasn't decided yet) smiled, trying to get it somewhere around hopeful, shy and far away from creepy. He could barely remember how to do it – there was no need to with the mask, but the way they didn't start staring or backing up was reassuring.
The man at the back walked forwards, his pace rambling and easy, "Hi, I'm Han. This crazy gal is my wife. Sorry about her," He smirked in a way that practically screamed 'women, what are their brains made of?' which their prisoner would have found hilarious at any other time, "But we really need to know about the First Order, okay? It's urgent."
The Sith cocked his head, curious, "Could you tell me what it is that you need the information for?" They looked at him, suspicion beginning to burn up their eyes.
"Look, kid, we just need the information, okay? It's none of your business why. And, since you're an Imperial, you're technically a terrorist, supporting a terrorist Rump State, okay?" Han stepped forwards, attempting to loom over the taller man, "So, I'd say it is very generous of us to have not killed you yet. The best way you can repay us for that is info, so, please."
Anakin raised a brow. This child was attempting to intimidate him. He was at least ten years this arrogant man's senior and he was puny enough to only come up to his chin.
But still, he could barely get it out of his head that someone was trying to intimidate him! Him! Of all people to try to intimidate, the midget had to choose the one person most likely to knock him on his arse (he'd had the audacity to marry his daughter, after all. He was justified) with a breath. He was Darth Vader, intimidation personified – according to his poor Admirals, at least.
But, he couldn't laugh at them (despite the corners of his lips twitching upwards), because then he would have to explain why he was rolling around on the floor, snorting up his lungs. Then he would have to explain that he was Vader, their nemesis, and had found Han's intimidation attempt so ridiculous that even his hardened, 'villain' mentality had given way to uncontrollable laughter.
In short, it would be embarrassing to tarnish his feared Sith name with such depraved hilarity.
So, he held in his undignified snorts and squared up (or rather, down) to his daughter's husband and glared, "I'm ever so sorry, Han, but I cannot help you much there," The two barely hid the disappointment on their faces, "However, I do know an awful lot about the Empire that will be incredibly useful."
A disbelieving huff, "Like what? Any codes you provide us with will probably be long dead. You could also be a spy, even though that is unlikely. And the Empire is gone, Naberrie. Didn't you know that?"
"No. I most definitely didn't," But, the way they talked, it was quite easy to find out, "How long is it since the second Death Star got destroyed?"
The two blinked, shocked. This man had been asleep when he arrived in an escape pod, but they hadn't thought he could have been asleep that long! "This will come as quite a shock but… Two years. The Death Star was destroyed two years ago. And now another one is being built. We need to stop it."
Vader blinked, "Well, I'm guessing that this First Order is a… Rump State of the Empire. So, it will basically be the Empire, but smaller and more aggressive," The two were watching him, a small amount of respect tinging Han's eyes, "So I can help you. A lot, actually. Thing is, I'll need to come with you in order to do that."
"Who said we were going anywhere?"
Vader took that as an insult to his intelligence.
A derisive snort, "You obviously are. From how agitated you are, you are also looking for someone close to you. A daughter or son, most likely," At the way both of them immediately froze, he knew he had got it right, "And, you would be irresponsible leaders indeed if you took an entire army into battle to retrieve your offspring, so you plan on going yourselves. With some close friends too, probably. That or you're stupid. And, since none of you are Imperials, you will have no idea how to get through undetected. I do. You need me."
They stared, gob-smacked.
"Oh, and I'm an experienced fighter. With such a small group of people, you can use all the extra blasters," The word tasted foul upon his tongue, but saying warriors or lightsabers would give him away, "You can get."
"But you're an Imperial and we are Alliance leaders. We blew up the battle station you were working on, and now you suddenly want to help us? We ain't mongs, pipsqueak. What do you want?" Han was looking decidedly put out and shaken. He hadn't expected the Imperial to be quite that observant. Or actually willing to help.
"Nothing much," He smirked in a way that Han thought best suited a mirror (when he was looking in it, of course), "Just an adventure. I've been locked up in that station for way too long."
That was the truest darn thing he'd said for over twenty years.
He had his old body back; fate was going to be hard pressed to keep him from messing everything up for as many unsavoury characters he could. Anakin had always liked causing mischief.
Leia stared at him, obviously deciding whether or not to trust him.
"Let's get going, then. We set off at dawn," The woman smiled, hands on hips as she observed her newest crew member, "I'm Leia, this is Han and welcome aboard the Millennium Falcon, Anakin."
"This is a bucket of bolts."
"It is not! This baby is the best ship this side of Coruscant!"
"You sure she can even fly? I mean, I've seen her from the station, but she must be two years older, now."
"She can fly, alright. Better than one of your nerf herding, ass licking piles of crap TIE fighters!"
Anakin (it was best if he started thinking of himself like that, it was what they called him) sighed, "I'll believe it when I see it…"
He then went on to mutter in Huttese about senile old fools for Captains.
Once aboard the ship, the trio met up with Chewbacca, C-3PO and R2-D2. The Sith was shocked, to say the least.
The ancient astromech obviously recognised him and whizzed over straight away, warbling ecstatically.
"Artoo! How the kriffing Force did you end up here?!" Anakin yelled, ecstatic, running over to the droid, "I thought you got blasted to smithereens back when my fighter got toasted! How'd you end up with these guys?"
Artoo warbled excitedly, running circles around his old master.
"Of course I missed you!"
More ridiculously excited electronic beeps, "Yes, my arm's holding out fine. No you don't need to repair it again. I can do that on my own!"
The droid whistled questioningly, rolling to a stop in front of Anakin.
"Padmé's fine, Artoo. And I quit doing that ages ago. And no, you can't bring it up ever again. Remember?"
Wobbling on his rollers, Artoo bumped right into his master, giving him a droid hug (as close as they can get, anyway. That's why it's called a 'droid hug') which was returned immediately.
"You must be getting on a bit now, old buddy. About fifty, now, aren't you?" A warbling, reminiscent reply, "Right, let's see what I can do to get you back up to shape, then, shall we?"
And with that, their new member trotted off the bridge, leaving the original crew gawping.
"That… Was weird," Han looked over to his wife.
"At least we can agree on that…" She sighed, holding her hand against her head, "Threepio, do you remember that guy?"
The gold-plated droid sounded rather affronted, "I most certainly do not, mistress Leia! Artoo has mentioned his former master before now, but I thought he would be long dead by now," His arms jerked slightly as he turned at the waist to regard them with his glowing eyes, "He should be roughly forty eight by now, mistress! Now, I'm no medical droid, but that human looks to be more in his twenties than forties, aren't I right, Artoo?" At this, the translator looked around, arms waving, "Oh, Artoo! Do wait for me!"
Once Threepio had shuffled off to find his friend, Leia, Han and Chewie were left by themselves on the bridge.
"Something about that guy is off, Leia," The ex-smuggler leant against his dashboard, "He's meant to be forty eight but looks like he's twenty. He's an Imperial but all too happy to help his worst enemies. We know absolutely nothing about him, but he's on my ship because we need him," He looked to his wife, eyes open and honest, "I don't like it. Not one bit. He's hiding something, something dangerous, and I know it."
"I agree with you, Han, but we do need him. If we act wrong, he could quite easily refuse to help us anymore," A comforting hand found its way onto his shoulder as the wookiee in the background stealthily crept away, "We'll find out what it is, wait until we don't absolutely need him anymore, and then confront him, okay?"
Han chuckled, "You would make an excellent smuggler, you know that, darling?" His head tipped back to grin lazily, but genuinely, up at her.
"I'm gonna take that as a compliment," An answering smirk stole onto her face as they shared a kiss.
"Master Naberrie! Artoo! Where have you gotten yourself, Artoo?" Threepio was wandering the curving halls of the Falcon desperately trying to find his astromech friend. It wasn't that he was worried for his fellow droid, oh no, Artoo could most definitely take care of himself (any droid who had served in the Clone Wars could), but Artoo was his constant companion, and Threepio got twitchy without him. Having what was basically a veteran always did help a worrier to settle their nerves in the face of imminent short-circuiting.
C-3PO really didn't like the idea of not knowing where his little companion was, "Artoo? Where are you?" More silence greeted his shuffling footsteps as he rounded another corner in the circular freighter, "If you have been conspiring with the air cycler again, master Han shall be most displeased! I do not need you getting in any more trouble!"
He shuffled forwards a bit more, muffled voices drifting from around the corner. The distinctive beeping and whistling from Artoo caused Threepio to hurry up. When he rounded the corner, he found his friend's front panel propped against a wall with all his wiring on show.
"Gah!" Threepio through up his stiff arms, turning his head away from the site, "Artoo, what is master Naberrie doing to you?!"
Anakin pulled his head and left arm from out of the astromech's body and sat back on his feet, "Oh, hey, Threepio. You looking for something?"
"Yes, master Naberrie," The protocol droid shuffled back a bit more, arms still held before his receptors, "But I would like to know what in the known universe you are doing to that astromech?"
Anakin grinned, patting R2-D2's head almost parentally, "Nothing much, just disabling some inhibitors some Jawa fool put on him," C-3PO didn't even try to look vaguely interested, "You see, they stop him from using any of his weapons systems I rigged him with ages ago," The man dove back into Artoo's belly, "Makes him safe to be around. I bet you put up quite the fight when they tried to get you, huh, little buddy?"
"Artoo has weapons systems?!" Threepio shrieked, his arms rigidly waving about in his alarm, "That must be what's making him so temperamental! Bless my circuits; you must get it out of him!" Anakin blinked, an eyebrow rising.
"Why the Force would I do that? From what I can tell, he'll be more likely to survive with his systems intact and functioning with the attack protocols," Anakin wriggled about a bit more before working his way out again, holding a clump of wires, "There, got them. Feeling better, Artoo?"
The astromech whistled merrily, his rollers wobbling as he rocked excitedly.
"Thought so."
The droid then got his plating carefully, but efficiently bolted back on. Threepio didn't want to think how many times his friend had been tinkered with by this man!
Once back in one place, he rolled off, warbling as he went. This left Threepio alone with master Naberrie, the first human he had ever felt distinctly uncomfortable with. Being a droid, he didn't (or wasn't supposed to) feel. However, this man was dangerous; he could feel it.
Feel it like he could feel the seven million languages programmed into him.
He knew the man was dangerous, and very, very bad. He didn't know why or how he knew this, but he knew to be cautious around him, just in case he set him off.
But, the same feeling he got of danger and badness told him that he had nothing to fear from him. The man was bad, but he wouldn't hurt him or his other masters.
It was incredibly strange, to know such a thing so surely, but not from his programming, or even his wiring.
He just… knew.
It was a new… sensation for C-3PO, and he planned to heed it.
When Anakin (yes, he was Anakin, now, no one else) first was left alone aboard the Falcon, it was in the room he had been designated.
The quarters were dark and the size of a cupboard, but even having rooms that were his seemed amazing.
The last rooms that he had owned and had been allowed to decorate to his will had been at the Jedi Temple.
The Emperor had given him rooms, but they were not private. They had not been truly his.
Han and Leia had made it abundantly clear to him that these rooms were his, and that they would respect his privacy. That meant they wouldn't go in if he didn't want them to, and that he could do whatever he wanted to them (as long as it could be reversed, just if another person needed the rooms).
When they had presented them to him, he had been shocked.
They had been unable to place his shock, exchanging confused glances and raised brows. Anakin hadn't minded, mainly because he was so shocked at the offer.
He had asked questions about regulations and what they counted as privacy and other things he would need to know to be able to function like a regular, sociable human. They had noticed the amount of questions and had been suspicious (he could tell; they would be utter fools not to be) and they were probably discussing him as he sat in his room, but he really didn't care.
He knew he had to keep them from figuring out too much about him, but sometimes he couldn't help himself.
Like when he woke up.
Like when he saw Artoo.
And just now, when he was given his very own room.
Looking around, he explored the almost rickety looking structure. The walls were a dull light grey, almost giving off light to create a cramped but light atmosphere. The floor was darker from wear and dirt, but not by much.
The only comfortable furniture in the room was a solid looking, grey bed that looked about an inch or two too short for him. The mattress and sheets looked worn and tired, but determined to continue like the rest of the room.
Across the walls there were shelves; rows upon rows of shelves with nothing but dust on them. At least three rows on each wall, apart from the one with the door.
Next to the bed, pushed against the far side of the left wall, was a tiny end table with a swinging light unsteadily standing atop it. Like everything else, it was grey yet determined, giving off a warm yellow light.
To his right stood a lopsided, miniscule desk, the entire top of it glowing gently. The surface was smooth, but docilely sloping up and down.
Overall, it was likely the nicest room he had ever been given. Even Padmé's apartment couldn't match the fact that he could do whatever he liked (within reason) with this room.
Anakin grinned, walking over to the bed and slumping onto it, feet sticking off the end like he had anticipated.
It was perfect.
An adventure with his daughter, her husband and Artoo?
Even better!
Little more than three days into their travel, and Leia was still trying to pin down the personality of Naberrie.
The man was always tinkering away with something, or moving, or sleeping (and he snored obnoxiously, refusing to wake up unless he was well rested – the man slept alarmingly deeply). Artoo had become is constant companion, following his master without hesitancy, leaving Threepio and everyone else to feel almost betrayed by the little droid. But, it was almost (almost) cute, the way they interacted all the time, with Artoo passing tools whenever Anakin was waist deep in the Falcon's innards (Han had yelled and yelled, but the guy didn't seem to get that he wasn't allowed to mess with the ship) and how he could actually understand the astromech. Leia had never met a person who understood binary, and Han hadn't either.
He had other quirks too, like always locking his door (and changing the password every night – paranoid arse), meditating, sleeping at bizarre times and always wearing something that went down to his mid-thigh at least.
Maybe his strange fashion sense was something that had mutated aboard the Death Star II – enclosed communities developed stuff like it all the time – or he was just an absolute nerf herder when it came to looking less stupid and more battle-ready (or intimidating, either one). And, well, one of the main reasons he was aboard the ship with them was to fight, and they'd never seen him in action or looking ready for it.
So, she currently had him down as eccentric, mechanic and loner, for some reason, she always thought he looked pretty closed off and… well… lonely whenever she saw him on his own.
The strange thing was that the unmistakeable feeling of him hiding something didn't bother her as much as it should have.
She knew it, Han knew it, even C-3PO had admitted to having strange feelings about their new crew member.
But, she wasn't worried.
Han was, and so was Threepio (but Han was a paranoid smuggler and Threepio was an equally paranoid fussbudget droid), but she wasn't.
Actually, she was, but not much. She could feel that Anakin didn't mean her any harm, and her feelings were always right. Something about being Force sensitive and having Vader (shudder) as a father.
So, she sat next to her husband in Chewie's usual seat and stared at the stars as they whipped past the ship in hyperspace.
It was still beautiful, despite her having seen it on a regular basis since she was nineteen. Forgetting thoughts of Anakin Naberrie, she turned her face to the memory-light of the stars.
The stars that were dead, but their light still reaching out to scrape across her and Han's face as they sat in the Falcon.
And they sat in peace, both thinking about nothing but the happy silence of the other's company.
AN: I think that I'm going to stop there and return to my main fic, Of Brothers and Betrayal (shameless self-promotion; I regret nothing!).
So, tell me if you liked this or not and where you think it will go, I would love to hear from anyone who is reading this!
-Ommallaredpanda.