Sorry if there was any mix-up. This is the real chapter eighteen. Enjoy.

Ch 18

The time to kill Vader would come, and I would know it when it did, feel it in every nerve in my body, understand it to the depths of my soul. But I bided my time, feeling him out, waiting.

He came to see me all the time. He would watch me, mostly. Occasionally he would ask me questions about myself, and they didn't always concern my eventual turn to the dark side, my joining him in "bringing order to the Galaxy." Once he asked me, with what sounded like concern, who had raised me. Another time, if I had liked growing up on Tatooine, which turned into a brief conversation about pod racing for some reason. I always kept my answers short and to the point, cold but consenting. He never asked me about the Alliance, which confirmed my suspicion that he had not sought me because of my political agenda, but only because I was his son. I never asked any questions the first few weeks.

One day, that changed. I lounged on the couch watching him stare out the window at hyperspace swirling by. I asked him a question, not knowing why, but on a whim. "Do I remind you of my mother?" That is, assuming he stopped to look at her. He didn't answer at first, perhaps confused by the question, or by my asking it. I regretting having done it immediately, my hate swelling as I thought about Leia aboard the Death Star the day Ben was conceived.

"You…don't look much like her," he said at last, with obvious difficulty. "But you have her spirit."

I blinked. "You knew her, then?"

"I was married to her. A long time ago. Before I was old enough to know what I wanted. What was truly important."

He had been married to her? He had loved her, then?

He must have been listening to my thoughts. "Love is an emotion for foolish children and the weak. I learned that eventually. As you have, or are beginning to, at least."

I shook my head. "No. It's not for the weak. It takes strength to feel, to handle…and…and I don't have that strength any more."

"You have the strength of hate, Luke. It is stronger than love." It sounded like a promise made to make me feel better. Maybe it was true. But one emotion being stronger than another had not been my point.

"Vader?"

He looked at me in response.

"Did you know about me before I destroyed the Death Star? I mean…did you know my mother was pregnant?"

He turned away, and nodded.

He left her pregnant? Of all the terrible—

I swallowed hard when I realized that I had recently done the same thing to Leia.

"You're a grandfather, you know." It didn't matter that I was telling him. We'd both be dead soon.

"You…have a child? He asked in disbelief, turning to face me.

I nodded. "My wife's pregnant." I couldn't bear to tell him about Ben, or who that wife was. My last lingering threads of connection to Leia demanded that she be kept safe.

"You're just a boy—"

"I'm nearly twenty-two. Do the math."

He looked as thoughtful as a man in a mask could. "Has it been so long?" he breathed. Recovering, he said, almost proudly, "One day, Luke, your child will join us here."

I laughed bitterly. "Sweet. Just like I joined you, like a tradition. My son's never coming to join us, father. There won't be anything to join. Neither of us are coming out of this alive."

I'm well acquainted with the emotion of guilt. But my guilty feelings usually just drive me deeper and deeper into despair—it's rare that I feel the need to apologize for anything. But as I "spice myself into oblivion," as Han so eloquently put it, for the rest of the day, the guilt will not leave me alone. He hadn't done anything wrong. Not until I pissed him off. The remark about Leia was completely uncalled for, but he only said that to upset me. He didn't mean it. Maybe I should say I'm sorry—because if I don't, he and Leia are going to be convinced I'm unstable and never let me see my boys again. They're all I'm living for at this point, and they actually make me want to let go of the anger and sadness and just be me again. Without my boys, I'm nothing.

But I can't go over there and I can't call. Pride, anger, and depression are a terrible mixture.

The thing is, I think maybe I could get better—emotionally and dependency-wise—with the kid's help, if it wasn't for Han and Leia around, reminding me of dark times and broken dreams.

Han's pillow smells like him. I sleep on it tonight, hating him, and missing him terribly.