Nowadays he feared the night again, just like he had when he was still a young slave on the desolate Tatooine. Afraid that Watto was to whip him again the next day, terrified that he would be sold off to an even worse slaver, utterly petrified that his master would separate him from his mother Shmi.

Back then, his mother had comforted him, pulled up the blankets and gave him a kiss and a hug. Teased his rounded cheeks with calloused hands, gleamed eyes of pure love and solace.

Now, he had no one.

He prayed, prayed to the Force, that Shmi, that Qui-Gon, that Padme and their dead child would not be looking down from the Afterlife as the droids cautiously lifted his crippled, inhuman lump-of-a-body into the bed- the bed that had to be specially designed just so he had a lesser chance of suffocating in his sleep, for he dreamt nightmares too often and would toss and turn in his agony, and his lungs were far too weak to withstand the "immense" pressure of his torso-body.

They would, he knew, sigh in disappointment at his actions, his horrendous sins; decisions that he had made to create himself this torture.

Surely, they would condemn him. He had been their "hope", after all, yet he failed them, allowed them to die-

Oh, how ironic; their "hope" had been their undoing, the one who caused their suffering, the one who could not stop, or played a hand in their deaths.

So, as the droids gently carried him into the bed with their padded arms, Vader shut his aching, useless eyes as tight as he possibly could, putting every ounce of effort he had in the brief action, so he could avoid seeing the Coruscant night sky outside the window.

(There was a sole reason why the window was even there. In the mornings of more uplifted days, sometimes he would sit limbless and blanket-covered in his hoverchair and watch the Coruscant traffic outside. It was one of the few appeals left on this Force-forsaken planet, to see the airspeeders bumbling about and remember the better parts of his youth… Excluding the frenzied drive to the Air Traffic Control Center, of course.)

A droid pulled the covering over his body, while his medical droid tenderly extracted the stump of an arm and prodded for a vein. Once satisfied, the needle was produced.

Out of nature, teeth bit hard into his bottom lip. He tried not to flinch and tremble, not to remember the scalpels and knives penetrating his blistered skin-

The needle was withdrawn.

It was over.

There was a dim swishing of fabric as the medical droid set the mangled stump back into the bed. From the barely audible clinking of medical tools, Vader gradually opened his eyes, knowing the ordeal was finished.

Every injection of his many medications was a fight against his mind, but there was no other option. Although his tongue was still functional, with a throat consisting of only dead skin cells, he could not swallow pills anymore. It was either injections or no (sporadically) decent sleep at all, for when the drugs entered his system, at least there was the smallest chance that his mind would lulled away from the nightmares.

All this had been Piett's intention when the Admiral stayed with his insomniac Majesty during his time in the medcenter, after the attempted suicide. For reasons other than "his importance to the galaxy" that Vader's mind could no longer comprehend, the man cared for his well-being. Of course, to grant his incredibly loyal Admiral some peace of mind, Vader took the advice—and truthfully, it was one that occasionally yielded splendid results.

Finally, after the medical droid searched his ruined skin for any inflammations or blisters, the lights of the dim room were closed, and he fell into a blissful sleep.

He'd been having dreams of her. Usually he dreaded them, for they were the reenactments of all his atrocious deeds. Having been played infinite times, each biting and regrettable word, each welling teardrop and desperate plea, every final howl of pain and corpse dropped to the ground was now ingrained in his wretched mind.

But today was different. Today was one of the good days.

Instead of the wrath of Mustafar or the smoking, ravaged Jedi Temple-the places he almost always found himself in-he was standing in the serene Naboo meadow, the one with the shaaks and sparkling waterfall from a lifetime ago.

Was he going to see his child tonight? His heart fluttered at the prospect; having been unable to visit due to the nightmares, he'd missed his little cherub immensely.

To his tremendous disappointment, there was no jubilant laughter nor mop of blonde hair and smiling blue eyes, and he did not catch sight of his precious boy excitedly dashing towards him with screams of "Daddy!".

Perhaps he wouldn't come out this time; though infrequently, that had happened before. He would not blame the cherub, not at all—his father was a man who had committed too many wrongs, and if the child felt disgust for those unjustifiable actions, then so be it. He had no right to stop the unblemished boy.

(He still could not look at his child without hearing the screams of the Jedi younglings and seeing their corpses plummet down... but the little one made it better, the little one willingly comforted his unqualified father. And for as much pain that these visits gave, the selfish part of him would overwhelm his constant reminder that he was unworthy.)

(His child never appeared in his nightmares. It was all too logical; what precious cherub would let itself fall to purgatory? Padme, the Padme that was in his good dreams was never truly there in the nightmares, either; the angel in his Hell just a lingering shadow, a phantom figure from his memories, the words and tears never-changing.)

"I've missed you, Ani." Warm, adoring hands began wrapping around his waist.

No- don't hurt her-

He immediately backed away, desperate not to defile her radiant skin and innocent soul- a soul that fell victim to his heinous acts. I-I cannot-

But for all his cowering, he could not deny how overjoyed he was to see her.

(That was one thing Vader had not taken from Anakin, even if he would never again be the man, the "hero", that he used to be.)

"Hello, Padmé."

He forced himself to stare at her face, though the first look during every sporadic visit was always the hardest.

Unlike him, his angel hadn't aged a single day. The gorgeously long chestnut curls, the gleaming brown eyes... identical to the last time he saw her alive, albeit with less dread in those lovely orbs, of course. Even her hairstyle was reminiscent of the one she wore on that fateful day; he winced, and his muscles stiffened, his eyes shining unshed tears and regret enough to last three lifetimes.

"It's okay, Ani." She assured him with that simple yet dazzling, pearly-teethed grin, her eyes bright with (undeserved) forgiveness. Gulping, he tried not to clench his fists in remorse. I'd hurt her, I'd choked her out of my madness, I'd broken my promise of keeping her safe and sound- why, why would she pardon me, how is she still tolerating my presence-

"Would you like to sit down?" A slender hand reached out to rest upon his mechanical right forearm and pulled him out of his thoughts and, oh, how he missed that touch. It scalded his metal skin, just like the Mustafar inferno, except this blaze was not destructive and callous, but gentle and warming to the deadened heart, if only for brief seconds.

He nodded.

Svelte hands encased themselves tightly around his waist. With struggle, she carefully helped him settle on the wild green grass. His stiff, unresponsive kneecaps (that she had to aid with bending) ached with a terrible phantom pain, and he grimaced, a vein protruding out of his bald, scorched scalp.

"Ani, you're not young anymore. Be careful when you're alone, alright?" A gentle hand rested at the back of his head, then slid down to his neck, messaging the sore spot that had been bothering him for days; the tenderness was almost instantly alleviated. He agreed with certainty; indeed, she was right, as she always had been... He was getting old now. Again, he nodded, a bit more absentmindedly while taking in her fine, delicate features. She seemed to be glowing in the warm sun. It hurt less this time.

He didn't really care much for his well-being anymore, but he would still say "yes" to her request, just to make her happy.

("When you're alone." He wished so much that he could just be with them, in the Afterlife, where maybe there would be no suffering, no loneliness anymore. If he was not banished to the Corellian hells, that is.)

She seemed to see right through his timid nod. Frowning, she took one of his large mechanical hands and murmured, "I'm being serious, Ani. It pains me tremendously to see your self-neglect. You are so precious to me."

Even after everything I've done? All the lives I've taken out of blind, desperate idiocy?

"I know," was all he muttered. In shame and remorse, he looked away from her and began picking at a random blade of grass. He didn't deserve this treatment, this love.

Luckily, she did not press on. Silent, they sat there for a while, relishing the scarce closeness that they now shared. As Vader watched the plump shaaks graze and the waterfall tumble, Padme set her hands on his tired, slumped shoulders, sending a tingle to fire through his ruined skin. He bit down hard on his lower lip, almost enough to draw blood through the crusted, chapped surface, trying not to jerk away, not to let the sudden pang of animalistic basorexia running through his wretched head dominate, not to permit himself in making another inappropriate decision that would ruin their time.

"You've been having nightmares again?" The query drifted delicately into his annihilated ears; her concern crawled on his skin.

Yes; of course. Writhed in his sleep, re-dreaming Mustafar over and over, begging his younger self to let go of his guiltless wife (though the efforts were always futile), pleading Obi-Wan to have mercy on him and simply end his former padawan's miserable life.

(Though very rarely compared to his other dreams of dread, he had even undergone nightmares of his ruthless slaughter of innocents during his short time as Sidious' revolting "apprentice", fracturing their necks into halves and breaking their spines, all in what he saw as an obligation to fulfill his own dark, selfish need for vengeance... All the heinous, unforgivable things he had done as he pursued the Emperor.

All the regrettable acts he had done because of the Emperor.)

"Do not worry, I am fine."

He'd been facing nightmares for as long as he could remember, down to his slave days on Tatooine. They were a normal recurrence now. Though unwelcomed, he was used to them.

She snuggled her head on his right shoulder, rubbing the other side with her hands, lips caressing the crust of his scorched, grisly neck. He closed his eyes, basking in her proximity, for he knew the experience would not occur for a while after this, once the nightmares invaded again. Slowly he lifted a hand, running the spindly metal fingers through a thick, spiraling rope of Juna-berry-scented hair that dangled over his shoulder.

"You should take care of yourself better... after all, you'll be meeting someone very special soon."

Puzzled, he turned to face her and ask, only to find her sylphlike form waning away. He could no longer feel her feather-light weight on his shoulders, no longer smell her perfume—

No—

No, please don't go—

The warm sunlight, the sparkling waterfall, the lush, blooming meadow- it all faded to a vague silhouette, overtaken by the ensuing darkness.