Hello everyone, I don't know where this is going but it will get there eventually. These really are just one-shots that my brain cooks up.
Anakin goes back to war. It is his skillset. It is where he excels. Each battle takes a little more out of him; each time he returns is just a little longer in the bacta. The tremor in his limbs has not worsened, yet, it has also not improved. Still, one would not see such degradation by the results of his efforts.
It has been nearly a year since his entrance into the ranks of the Rebels, and already, he has seemingly turned the tide of battle.
He traverses battlefields in the gory aftermath, seeing rows of bodies of stormtroopers, the air stinking with rotting flesh, and an all other manner of fetid fluids. He hears the officers who've accompanied him heave surreptitiously behind their hands at the overpowering smell.
Anakin had thought his years as Vader had inured him to its horrors. And, indeed, his heart feels dead and numb, but even so, he feels a twinge, a twinge at the sound of retching that tells him he should care. That he should be repulsed.
Only a year before, he'd have strangled a man who showed such weakness under his command. But now, he finds himself convicted by their humanity.
Shortly thereafter, he cuts off their tour of the field, so full of death and rot. He tells himself it is not weakness. That it is unnecessary to waste further time. They are all dead. But he relaxes just a bit as he returns to his X-wing and seals the cockpit behind him. His mind turns to Padmé and pleasant thoughts of warmth and soft hands. She is waiting for him, and nothing else could settle his ill-ease quite like that thought.
Before he can take off, his comm chirps, breaking his reverie. A garbled voice reports that they are bringing in two civilian casualties found on the battlefield. One in condition critical. This is trivial and hardly surprising. Civilians often got mixed up in Imperial encampments, despite how many times he'd punished such infractions as a security risk to the Empire. Wherever the men went, inevitably, a few of them "went native," bringing their newfound local friends and lovers into the heart of the Imperial installations. While his inclination might have been to let them die, it was not the policy of the Rebellion; it was not the policy of General Padmé Amidala.
All field casualties, Imperial or otherwise, were triaged and treated by the Rebellion, albeit with lesser priority than Rebel soldiers. Though it was not an approach that he would have personally implemented, he saw the pragmatic wisdom beneath such apparent altruism. It had been an excellent means of diplomacy and had certainly helped to shore up Rebellion propaganda, differentiating their supposed compassionate "democratic" ideals from the (admittedly) indifferent authoritarian practices of the Empire.
When he returns to base, he lands just behind the transport shuttle. As Anakin disembarks, his eyes settle on the mangled body being carried on a stretcher from the Rebellion's med-evac. It is hard to believe the twisted mass is human, flesh burned and twisted from a volley of plasma cannons.
He lets out a humorless huff at the thought; one might have said the same of him once.
His eyes follow the stretcher as the medics jog for the infirmary.
For all he knows, it may have been his cannons that had done the work to turn the humanoid into a mass of barbecued tissue. He is tired. Thirsty. Hungry. Aching in every fiber. Yet, the thought stirs nothing.
He turns his eyes away and climbs down to the tarmac.
Later that evening, he attends a debriefing, the now-notorious and aptly dubbed "meetings-so-boring" officer presiding and living up to his unwanted nickname. Anakin waits until the officer's pitifully small portion of substantive information is shared and then leaves.
There had been two civilians brought in. He had only seen the one. The officer has confirmed that both are alive; Anakin makes a note to conduct an informal interrogation later.
When he arrives at his and Padmé's shared quarters, he is surprised to find them empty. If she has not joined him on the battlefield then it is normally here that she works and waits for him after such excursions, relieved to see him upon his returns.
Whether Anakin intends it or not, he finds himself walking the base, his eyes searching for her among the soldiers and officers, the Force around him twinging with longing. Rest does not come easily. But since uniting their quarters, sleep has come softer with her presence. His pains eased when he wakes after a night beside her, as if her very proximity soothes him.
Of course, he finds her in the infirmary, sitting with the civilian casualty he'd seen on the tarmac, a heavily bandaged and bacta'ed woman, whose humanity is barely discernible beneath the layers of white gauze, even as the unmistakeable scent of burned flesh lingers in the air. The woman is in one of the many open beds used for normal patients. (Patients who, unlike him during his stint in the medbay, do not terrify their ward-mates).
Padmé is speaking gently but firmly to the woman, whose aura feels clouded and muddled. She is most likely questioning the civilian, but if he knows Padmé, there is kindness laced into her queries, an intent to comfort as well as inquire.
His wife has not noticed where he lingers in the doorway, even as medical staff eye him from across the room as they bustle and tend to the Rebellion's wounded. The ward is a long, ugly chorus of cacophony, with patients moaning and groaning, equipment clanging, and bodies bustling about. A pang of annoyance bubbles up, which he then firmly suppresses. He is better than to be affected by something so trivial as a diversion in Padmé's attentions. She does, after all, hold command for a reason.
The audio-receptors in his helmet pick up a soft noise that draws his attention as he hears a shuffling noise near one of the adjacent beds. A pile of dark curls bobs up from behind the white sheets, and he cocks his helm to the side, watching as a small body toddles out from behind bedding. It takes several stumbling steps. And then collapses before stumbling to its feet once again.
To his surprise, it is a toddler, clad only in an over-sized makeshift diaper. The little being is grimy and dirty, its arms and legs wrapped in soft bandages. Still, its face and body appear largely untouched, the curls of its head perfectly unsinged.
Anakin is surprised by how little mind the child is being paid as it roams about, nurses stepping around it in an effort to move to attend freshly wounded patients. Unwittingly, the small waif aimlessly meanders closer and closer to where he stands.
Why has no one stopped them? The nurses should have. His old self would have. A baby should never be so carelessly allowed anywhere near a man like him!
The toddler half stumbles, half crawls, its small fists clinging to various bed frames and supply boxes as it wanders.
With such little mind being paid to its whereabouts, he is hardly surprised as the toddler trips, its small forehead smashing with a sickening thump against the steel railing on the side of the hospital bed, dropping to the ground with a soundless cry, its facing scrunching up, mouth open as it begins to wail in pain.
Still, over the din of the med-ward, no one pays the baby any mind. Or perhaps everyone else expects someone else to be.
A lump is forming on the toddler's head as it lays helplessly on the ground, its face red and hot tears running down its cheeks as it sobs breathy cries for a mother who cannot answer.
Anakin looks around, oblivious glances being thrown his way, none paying any mind to the crying child below their eye and earshot. Not even Padmé has heard the sound, her back still facing the doorway. This is a small child. Not yet even verbal. It cannot even ask for its mother…
He looks down at the child. Hesitates. And then kneels awkwardly to scoop them into his arms. As he rises, its small fists grip him, clinging to the hard edges of machinery with no trace of survival instinct, no knowledge of the danger he poses.
As he fumbles to grasp the child without injuring them, he hears the noises around him begin to lessen.
The room seems to stutter. Its sounds grinding to a whisper. The child suddenly noticed, stark against his white suit and towering visage. He feels their stares. Their shock. Their suspicion.
The toddler is still crying, but it has turned its face inward toward the warmth of a larger body. Familiar with the rhythms of an embrace comforting such a fall.
"Who is responsible for this child?" He growls, stepping toward a group of medical personnel. "And why have they been left unattended?"
It is only then that Padmé turns to look at him. Her eyes widen as she notices the baby, whose flailing legs fumble for purchase on his hip.
The woman on the bed grows agitated. The child's mother, he assumes. She utters cries of alarm, struggling to sit up as Padmé shushes her before words in Basic flare from her lips: "No…Please…baby, give! Please…!" He elects to ignore her. She is in no fit state to look after a baby.
He glances down at the child's swelling forehead, their cries dying down as they lean into the white armor. The medical staff are all staring at him. None willing to claim responsibility for the child. All standing frozen.
The mother is still making an outcry, "please, no hurt! No hurt!" she repeats, begging, frightened.
"It is okay. Lie still. No harm will come to him…" Padmé assures quietly, holding her back.
Her words have devolved into guttural sounds, but the mother is still whimpering. Making shrill noises that grate on his ears. It is doing nothing to calm the baby, whose wails are adding to those of its parent.
Vader grumbles below the vocabulator's gain before taking several slow, careful steps toward the woman's bedside, carrying the child within easy sight of his mother as he looms over them, nearly touching Padmé's shoulder where she struggles to soothe the delirious mother.
The woman quiets, as does the child. But the room remains staring. Dumbstruck.
"You," Anakin says, pointing at one of the more familiar nurses and beckoning him forward. "Come here. Examine his skull." The welt is raised now, a red mark blooming where the flesh has been traumatized.
The man scrambles over, reaching out to lift the baby from his arms. But, unexpectedly, the baby's small fingers curl around the edges of his plating, gripping with primal ferocity as the child begins to wail again, only quieting when the man withdraws his hands.
After a moment, the nurse glances up at Vader hesitantly, questioningly. "He does not want to let go, sir."
Stupid child. The mother stares up, her eyes hazy and half-lidded, her eyes nervously dart from behind her lashes. But she stays silent.
Anakin sighs internally.
"Then examine him from here, if you must."
And so, he holds the child. Allows it to clutch for him as the nurse pokes and prods at the tender welt. Soon enough, the bustle of the ward resumes, even as eyes glance sideways at their direction. Even Padmé looks up at him from time to time with a look he finds inscrutable. Still, for just a small moment, he swears his heart leaps at the thought that it might be pride shining in her eyes.
As expected, the child is fine. Merely rattled. When the brief examination concludes, Padmé beckons him to lower the child down so that the mother can see them more clearly. He bends as much as he is able, offering the child's face to their mother, who mutters incoherent words of relief before the sedative takes effect and she slips softly into unconsciousness.
The child has quieted now. Placated. Its prior fall forgotten. Padmé's rises and her soft hands gently pry the baby from his shoulder. Taking the toddler into her embrace.
For just a moment, a part of him sees a vision, of how life would have been if this had been their own child. If he had been there when Luke and Leia were small. If they had been together. His heart aches as he automatically gives the baby up to her grasp.
It does not do to dwell on dreams. He has killed children. Children like this. The Jedi's children. Children he had sworn to protect. What right does he have to even touch this child? Let alone his own? Force, he had nearly killed his own children! Killing is all that he is good for. It is why the Rebellion keeps him around.
Anakin cannot stay here a moment longer. He had set out to find Padmé, and so he has. There is no further purpose in his being here. And so, he turns and leaves.
He hardly realizes how he finds himself in their quarters. But soon enough, he does.
Anakin still has that holo of Luke and Leia. By now, he has memorized it so much that he hardly needs it anymore. And yet, he keeps it all the same.
The holo is old. They are surely older now. Taller. Blooming into full adulthood, vestiges of childhood falling away. He realizes with a pang of anguish that he has no idea what they look like.
He is nothing but an old war machine. He is barely a husband. Certainly not a father. The fear and uncertainty in the eyes of the medical staff—the way the room stopped when he lifted the child into his arms—well, there is no doubt that they know he is a monster.
They were right to be afraid.
Vader knows he is a monster. So why does Anakin wish he wasn't?
Another plot bunny that ran off.