A/N:
Hello again, and thank you for being here.
Here is another Vader POV, the final of the chapter trilogy from his perspective for a bit. Again, Vader's POV is such an emotional, "mechanical" space to be in—it holds a unique place in what I write.
Thank you to all those who followed and favorited. And a big thank you to those who reviewed: Scarease, Guest LEMONS, MAlina, Guest, and Empress Vader. It was great hearing from you, either again or for the first time! I loved reading the lines you enjoyed and quotes, your thoughts, emotions, observations, etc! Thank you so much!
I hope you enjoy. Happy reading.
Response to Guest Reviews:
LEMONS:
Hello again!
Thank you so much for your thoughtful comment! I love how you picked up on all the small ways Vader/Anakin is ensuring Padmé's comfort and safety, even when he thinks he's keeping a distance. His instinct to provide and protect runs so deep—he just cannot help but take care of her, even when he doesn't fully understand, or can't say, why he's doing it.
Yes! The safe houses are a big deal—his way of ensuring she's always protected, even from Sidious himself. That instinct, that unyielding connection, is something powerful.
I'm so glad you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you for reading and for your kind words. Until next time, and many blessings!
MAlina:
Hello there!
Aw, thank you so much! I'm so glad you're enjoying it so far!
Until next time, and many blessings!
Guest:
Hi!
Thank you so much for your kind words! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story and that the dynamic between Vader and Padmé is resonating with you. Their push and pull, that intense and complicated connection, is so fascinating to explore—how they can be both destructive and yet, in some ways, still an undeniable team. If their ability to destroy is immense, than there must be an equal and opposite to create, yeah? He-he…
I really appreciate you mentioning the disclaimer, too! It's important to acknowledge the distinction between fiction and reality, and I'm glad you understand that balance. The dark, obsessive nature of their relationship is so compelling in storytelling, and I love delving into all the complexities that make it "work".
Thank you again for reading and for your thoughtful comment! I absolutely plan to keep writing—until next time, and many blessings!
Chapter 8
Click.
The tool he held locked into the correct location.
Whirr.
A recalibration cycle spun to life, adjusting pressure levels.
Snap.
Metal fitted together, sealed with precise force.
Hiss.
Steam vented, dissipating into the sulfuric atmosphere.
Tick-tick.
Fine adjustments. Minuscule shifts. Perfect execution.
Khoo-pah.
His breath, steady. Inescapable.
The silence never lasted.
It was never truly silent.
He had forgotten what silence used to mean.
Once, it had been peaceful. The sound of her breathing late into the night. Her rhythm steady and warm body curled against him. Or, when she whispered words meant only for him while they were together at home.
Now, silence was measured. Calculated. His breath a metronome. A series of sounds and spaces between them—no true emptiness, only the gaps where the machine had nothing left to say.
He did not need rest. He operated better without it. Fatigue was a relic of the past, something he no longer indulged in. He operated better this way.
More efficiently.
More controlled.
No distractions.
No weakness.
Clink.
He turned the last component into place, securing it.
Khoo-pah.
A mechanically measured inhale. Then an exhale.
The artificial rhythm of his existence.
The ship was nearly ready. Soon, they would leave this wretched place. Escape was imminent.
Another task completed. Another step forward.
Another distraction to stave off the thing pressing at the edges of his mind.
And yet…
Something insisted.
A pull. From something just beyond the edge of his awareness.
It gnawed at him, persistent.
Go.
He fought what he wanted to do.
Where he wanted to go…
Who he wanted to be near.
He did not need to check on her.
She was safe.
Sleeping.
Resting, as she should be.
But the pull remained.
Click.
His hands tightened over the edge of the panel.
He could ignore it—should ignore it.
Whirr.
The diagnostics completed, confirming system stability.
That repair done, now to wait on the ordered parts.
He should stay near the ship…
And yet, his legs were already moving.
He did not know why.
Only that he had to be close to her.
He had long since abandoned the need to explain himself. But not with her.
He never could define himself when it came to her.
Never could understand.
Only that the silence was leading him to her.
Padmé.
Tension coiled tighter in his shoulders the closer he got.
Vader stepped into the trading post as quietly as he could.
Most of the lights were off.
His visor adapted to the darkness.
She was asleep, her form beneath the blankets he had brought in for her.
Her hair damp from a recent shower.
An empty thermal cup, with the teabag still steeped inside, rested on the counter. He noticed the plates beside a faucet; washed and left to dry.
She had eaten.
She had taken care of herself.
The tension in his shoulders uncoiled.
If only slightly.
His gaze shifted, drawn to the fabric draped loosely over her arms.
The sleeves of a nightgown—one he had packed for her.
Something settled inside him. Vader did not know what to call it.
He had ensured her needs were provided for.
She had no other options, save the dirty clothes on her back.
But still… she had chosen to wear it.
Something he had selected with her in mind.
She had trusted his choice.
That felt… acceptable.
Perhaps—perhaps—he had done something good for her.
A small thing.
Insignificant.
But it had been her decision.
Vader took mental notes of her preferences, to ensure they were available in the safehouses and aboard his vessels.
He lingered, watching but not imposing.
She looked… peaceful.
Something in his chest shifted, something heavy. A dangerous warmth.
She had found some level of comfort here, and he had provided it—the realization settled over him strangely.
Had he ever truly given her peace before?
Had he ever done something for her that wasn't tainted.
By war.
By grief.
By mistakes.
By the inevitable destruction that followed him?
He refused to dwell on it further.
Only pain paved that path.
He could not afford that, not now.
He had work to do.
Vader turned away, leaving before the moment burned him.
Time passed in increments of progress.
Re-recalculating of his repairs.
More calibrations.
Checks.
Needed adjustments— perhaps debatably…
His mask's computer display flashed, indicating an incoming vessel.
An unmarked delivery drone had entered the atmosphere.
Sooner than expected.
Excellent.
He tracked its approach in his peripheral as he continued tightening a bolt. When it was close enough to hear above him, he stepped towards the delivery dock.
It landed, artificial intelligence guiding its landing; it delivered the large crate and left.
This was not all the parts needed, but enough to keep working on while he waited for more.
Vader did a thorough inventory check.
Began installation.
Click.
The container seals disengaged, releasing a faint hydraulic hiss.
Clank.
The durasteel lid was set aside.
Tick-tick.
His gloved fingers moved with precision, scanning serial numbers, cross-referencing the manifest.
Zzt.
The scanner's blue light passed over each component, registering them into his system.
A low hum vibrated from the core of the ship, a steady backdrop to his work.
Whirr.
A motivator coil spun up as he slotted it into place.
Khoo-pah.
Another breath.
Snap.
A power coupling locked into its housing.
Hiss-click.
A pressure valve stabilized, equalizing thermal output.
Fzzzt.
A weak plasma relay sputtered as he reattached the flow conduit, its energy flickering briefly before aligning to proper output.
He noted its instability; it would need reinforcement.
He did not hesitate.
A new component was selected, wires stripped with the deft flick of a tool.
Whirr.
A fusion cutter traced clean, glowing lines over the metal, reshaping where necessary.
Clink.
A fastening brace slotted over the actuator joint, reinforcing its hold.
Thud.
The repulsor matrix locked into place, the stabilizers realigning in perfect sync.
He cataloged each movement, each adjustment.
There was no thought beyond the next task.
No concern beyond the precise arrangement of machinery.
Each screw, each cable, each connection—this was calculation.
Control.
Because if he was consumed by these details, there was no room for anything else.
His mind did not wander.
His heart did not betray him.
Click.
Another task completed.
Khoo-pah.
Another breath measured.
He ran further diagnostics.
He had run out of pieces, finished his second, third, and forth check.
Vader entered the ship, went towards the desk where pieces and parts were systematically laid about.
At least, a system to him.
He turned his focus to something delicate, smaller—something not part of the ship, but just as important.
A communicator.
For Padmé.
He patiently—skillfully— welded and compacted the micro-components together.
Then carved into exterior components.
He hoped this device he was constructing would…
…please…
…her to have.
When he finally completed it with the needed parts that were delivered, he hesitated. He could give it to her now… or later.
It would be, should she accept it, a great tool and device of protection, should she need it.
Now seemed better.
He stepped inside the trading post, hesitating at the threshold.
She was awake now, sitting near the small table, reading a holo-news display.
A personal holo-device she must have had on her person.
A flickering blue light cast shifting shadows over her face, giving the illusion of something softer than reality allowed.
For a moment, it felt…
Normal.
The ordinariness of it.
Yet, it was vastly outside his ordinary.
The ease of her presence in a quiet room, occupied with something so mundane.
Exactly as she had done before in her 500 Republica apartment on Coruscant.
Like they had lived together all these years instead of being torn apart.
He shoved the thought away.
His eyes scanned her, taking note of what she was wearing.
Observed.
Catalogued
A cloak.
Again.
He had not noticed the pattern until now.
It was draped over her shoulders, wrapped carefully around her, layered over a loose-fitting tunic from the luggage. A practical choice, modest—
And yet, why?
Why a cloak? Indoors? On a lava planet?
The base's climate control must be faulty. He would need to check it.
And he did.
It was all in perfect working order, as he had left it.
But she had adjusted it herself.
The system was functioning properly—she had lowered the temperature.
Strange.
Though, she always preferred it colder.
He had always known her wardrobe intimately—better than most.
He had been many things, but he had also been the partner of Padmé Amidala during the Clone Wars.
He had spent years with a woman who was integral to politics, diplomacy, and the subtle though loud language of fashion.
He had sat beside her as she sifted through silk and organza samples.
Listened to her discuss cuts and embellishments with her handmaidens.
Knew the designers, the stitches, the difference between court-wear and casual-wear, the politics behind every fabric choice.
He knew how she had once dressed.
He knew how she had armed herself with beauty and culture—how every outfit had been deliberate, a statement.
But these? These new choices? Loose fabrics, draped silhouettes, the layering of wraps, ponchos, shawls, and cloaks?
Unlike her.
But it had been five years...
If this was what she preferred now…
If she wanted to wear cloaks, he would get her millions of them.
If she wanted silks, wool, intricate embroidery, or something entirely new, he would ensure she had it.
He refocused.
Vader had not come to analyze her wardrobe.
"I made something for you," he said, voice curt, pragmatic.
She looked up… wary and… intrigued? "What?"
He held out the delicate piece. An ivory-white chain, threaded with Lithium Pearl cylinder beads and white-gold accents. They were elegant materials worthy of her, yet still did not draw attention.
Like her new clothing choices.
Once, she wore outfits that had presence akin to her. Announced her, and armed her with Naboo's culture, traditions, and responsibilities.
But this piece, he made echo all he knew of her and saw in her now.
He wanted to respect how she seemed to be living her life.
Her choices.
He knew she'd not make them lightly and without cause.
Unassuming.
Subtle.
Yet, as always: beautiful.
"It's a communicator," he explained. His voice was factual, hiding the weight behind the gift. "Encrypted and undetectable. There is an exclusive frequency it's on. There are only two in existence using the frequency—yours, and mine."
Her fingers brushed over the beads, the intricate carvings he had made by hand, though she would never guess it. The craftsmanship was too refined, perfected with years of working with mechanical parts, lightsabers, and minute details.
So far removed from the japor snippet he had made and given to her as a child.
She turned it over in her hands, touching the clasp where the weighted bead rested, the disguised command controls hidden beneath careful etchings.
"It will allow messages anywhere in the galaxy," he continued. "Even beyond it."
Padmé studied him, then the communicator.
"There is a distress signal that can be activated by pressing this button," he gestured to it, "It will be able to be found anywhere. But it does not actively track you, and no one else can activate it. It uses text to communicate, not voice and projection."
He hesitated, again, then added, "The control interface is embedded here," he gestured to another section of the clasp, "pressing this will project a keyboard. The display is angle-sensitive—only you will be able to see it. You can move it, reposition it as needed."
Padmé's expression didn't change, but she turned the piece over, as if reevaluating it.
"You… invented an entirely new communications device? Why this, of all things?" she said.
Her tone was less clipped than it usually was. He could not tell why.
Was she impressed?
Or…
Testing him, unsure of his intention?
He paused, unsure of what to say, what not to say.
There was so much he wanted to say.
But he couldn't.
"For better communication. You said you had been waiting for me. That should not happen again. It's safer this way. For you," he finished feeling every bit as awkward talking to her as he did before they were married.
When he was weak.
She looked him right in the eyes, despite his mask.
It felt like she stared into his soul.
If he even had one anymore.
Her eyebrows raised, just slightly.
Disbelief?
Surprise?
Curse not being able to sense her with the Force as he used to. Padme was always hard to read, but this was impossible.
She was so reserved.
Guarded.
Had on her "senator face" continuously while in his presence.
He didn't blame her.
He never could.
But it was still difficult.
She held his creation delicately. Perhaps with care, even.
"That's…. very thorough," she said at last.
She had accepted it.
It unsettled him how easily she did.
Click.
The final adjustment slid into place, metal locking into metal with seamless precision.
Hiss.
Steam vented as the pressurized system recalibrated, releasing built-up heat from the thruster intake.
Tick-tick.
A diagnostic scanner pulsed through the ship's systems, running checks, verifying. No malfunctions detected.
Whirr.
Servos hummed as he tightened the final fasteners, ensuring every piece was in perfect alignment.
Khoo-pah.
He exhaled, a slow, mechanical release, moving to the next component.
And then—
A flicker.
A sensation, barely perceptible, just beyond the edge of his awareness.
He stilled. Focused.
Nothing.
He pushed it aside, returning to his work.
Snap.
A conduit locked into place.
Khoo-pah.
His breath, measured, steady, in perfect sync with the machine.
And then—
There it was again.
A disturbance.
A pulse.
A whisper in the Force.
Soft but insistent.
He stretched his senses to check in on Padmé.
It was not concerning her.
This sensation was small and faint. Yet—
Familiar.
Almost a déjà vu he could not fully remember.
His fingers hovered over the next component, unmoving.
He ignited the small welder and met the metal, sparks flying.
The quiet rhythm of a sort of creation.
Again, the flutter.
He tried harder to push the sensation from his mind.
But it was persistent.
Gnawed at him.
He knew some things about it now.
It was not a warning.
Not a shutter of future danger.
Something else.
The pull grew stronger. More insistent. It curled at the edge of his awareness, distracting. Not a being, but not not one.
Something inviting.
It almost… wanted.
To be… protected?
It refused to be ignored; despite all the advanced focus techniques he tried.
He lowered the tool in defeat.
So be it, small, strange flicker in the Force.
So be it.
He closed his eyes and opened himself up to the Force.
Despite his habit of refuting, pushing, and destroying these sort of Force sensations, he did not.
He…
…he did not want to.
In the darkness, he listened.
When was the last time he had done this with no determined goal?
When he was a Jedi, no doubt.
He pushed that thought aside, remained open to the currents of the Force.
It drew him closer to the other room.
Towards Padmé?
No, he knew it was not her.
But still, it guided him there.
The closer he got to her, the more he felt it.
It was almost… compelling, whatever this tug in the Force was.
He followed the faint flicker in the Force.
Once he entered the planet's sole structure, it got quiet.
Padme was in the kitchen, snacking on some replicated Nubian fruits.
He hoped she'd use that programming.
Her outfit unchanged.
She looked at him, expectantly.
Vader froze, scrambling for a reason, something to say.
"I wanted to check the water system, make sure the repairs are holding," he lied.
It would not be bad to check them, though.
He went to the other side of the counter and crouched down. He then reached under the sink where the interface for the water technology was.
He activated its screen.
The readings were, still, stable.
Vader could feel Padme's eyes on him. Not a threat or unkind, just curious and watching him work.
He found her gaze… soothing, just as her presence was.
Or had been, when he could fully sense it.
But even now, with what murky visage he could still feel…
She was soothing.
Always.
He felt it again, stronger.
Strongest it's ever been.
He turned his head quickly, listening, waiting.
Behind him.
He stood and scanned the area.
Nothing else but Padmé.
No… it came from Padmé.
But again, it was not her.
His head tilted slightly, confused.
He moved around the counter and approached her and the Force flicker.
She met his stare, brows drawing together. Waiting. Expecting.
And then—
A shift.
Something ignited in the Force.
A connection.
Padmé's expression changed sharply—as if she felt it, too.
A resonance.
An answer.
The presence, or maybe the Force itself—seemed to rejoice.
It was so small.
And fragile.
And completely undeniable.
The realization tore through him faster than logic could keep up.
His breath halted in his throat.
His voice was flat, instinctive, unthinking.
"You're pregnant."
March 14th, 2025 (01:00)