[ His hyperbaric treatment mechanics on the shuttle aren't particularly advanced but they are highly functional, both with regards to spacing and handling. Along with a portion of the passenger compartment and the fresher, the small cargo hold has been re-purposed for his use, leaving a narrow work bench with tools near the wall and the small space itself capable of functioning like a pressure chamber. Using it will drain the shuttle of energy a lot faster but then again, he doesn't actually know where they're going anymore.
Clearly, he never did.
He seats himself crosslegged on the seat in the middle of the room, gesturing for Claude to make himself comfortable as he chooses. Punching in a few commands on the panel to his right, he steels himself as the room de-pressurizes. His ears don't pop from the change as they should - but Claude, his ears purely organic tissue, will. It takes seconds at best, however, before the room stabilizes and the oxygen level rockets to its final level. He flicks his hand quickly and a mask loosens from the ceiling, tumbling down to Claude's right with a dull thud. ]
Put that on. The air is too concentrated.
[ He reaches for his helmet and pauses, hands seemingly freezing for a moment as a burst of sudden, unfiltered panic surges through him. It's hard to quantify it, really; he's been without his armor around people, even nameless strangers, many times before. Or maybe that's the problem. Maybe it pops up now when he'd keep it down otherwise, because Claude is here, leaving a space for such feelings and he remembers what that used to be like.
He does.
So he takes the helmet off and the mask with it and then, he sits there and blinks stupidly at Claude from across the distance. He can make out his shape in the darkness, if nothing else. But his presence is bright and clear and he clings to it for a moment, to the notion of it. ]
[ Half the shuttle isn't really a shuttle anymore as much as it's been turned into a refurbished -- medical center, he's got no better word for it. Having followed the man who is Anakin, Anakin who is that man, inside, Claude takes a moment to look around, placing himself as much out of the way as possible while Anakin sits down crosslegged on the seat in the middle, seemingly intended for him, for this. Claude has seen him sit exactly like that so many times before, it feels like a strange, out of context kinda deja vu. Like two years haven't passed, no matter how undeniable that time is in every other way. The suit is testimony to it, right? Claude's face, too, the lines on it now. His fingers clench, unclench as he waits to get to see Anakin's face in turn. If it's changed just as much.
There are only so many things the darkness in here can obscure.
When the mask drops down next to him, he raises an eyebrow at Anakin, without really intending to, it just happens - that old amusement he used to watch him with when he used the Force, back then, before they both died, apparently. Floating lubes and fruits and similar objects around to make whatever they were doing otherwise easier. It's a shallow feeling now, but it's there, like a ghost of something he recognizes, at least. Echoes. Trails. He puts it on wordlessly, feeling the chamber decompress, his ears popping - then, popping back as the levels inside stabilize.
Anakin, on his end, seems to hesitate to remove his helmet, Claude just watching his calmly, though his insides are ice, his heart is thumping, but the hesitation passes, like it always did with Anakin, if you were patient about it. Because the man was if not braver than most, bravery that always comes at a cost, for everyone involved, then definitely more willing to act. Someone's made full use of that, haven't they?
His fingers clench, unclench, clench.
Off the mask comes.
Claude stares.
He isn't unrecognisable, unrecognisable isn't the word. He is badly burned, his injuries only half-healed, really, and that makes Claude feel sick to his stomach, but his features are mostly the same, the nose, the line of his jaw, lips. His eyes are blue and couldn't be anyone else's, Claude's stared into them too often, too intensely, not to place them... anywhere. They are Anakin's eyes. This is Anakin.
The ice melts inside him. Feeling nothing but a strong sense of relief, like finding something you'd thought you'd been careless enough to lose in the first place, he moves forward, breathing in shakily, noisily, stopping up close in front of Anakin, Anakin in the suit, Anakin who works for the Empire, Anakin who is still his and does stupid things for Claude's sake, like fucking himself on vegetables. Like being too harsh on himself, in so many other ways. Like now. He reaches up with one hand, then stops. ]
Can I touch you?
[ His fingers clench, unclench, but he waits. They know how to wait, they taught each other that, first. ]
[ He can make out the way Claude picks up the mask and puts it on, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. Good. Though the concentrated air won't necessarily cause him any harm, he can't even make himself imagine a scenario in which he might accidentally...
No. He can't.
It's been two years and he's never stopped wishing for a different ending. It's at the very core of his disagreements with Sidious, with his Master's displeasure concerning his progress as his apprentice; the fact that he can't let go of the notion that in the end, no one could help them. Him and Claude. No one. Not the Jedi, not Padmé, not Sidious. No one. This conclusion has left him with only one answer to everything: him, his actions, his choices, and all the roads he could've gone. In the beginning, he'd tried to think of ways to bring Claude back but Sidious has never seemed overly engaged with this objective. Too many other things, he says. A growing Empire. A new, governmental structure.
In time, says his Master but Vader has had enough Masters by now to know that they all lie.
He looks up at Claude as the other man comes into view, closer now. He takes a second before he looks up, preparing himself for any kind of reaction - after all, the last time they saw each other, he'd been quite a lot easier to look at. Regardless, when he finally looks up, all he sees is relief and the feeling matches the one in his chest, the lightness spreading slowly, surely, as every minute passes and Claude remains here, alive, present.
Alive. ]
Yes.
[ He gives Claude a very slight smile. He hasn't been touched by anyone but Sidious since his failure on Mustafar but he isn't afraid of Claude's hands and never will be. They look the same. They are the same. ]
[ Breathing through the mask, long, easy, too easy inhalations, Claude waits for the yes that he somehow knew would come. Anakin and he never told each other no before either, not because they didn't give each other the option, but because they didn't need to hold anything back from each other. They gave, they gave, they gave. And they held everything they were given between gentle hands. So, when Anakin tells him he can, he crouches down in front of the other man, coming on level with his eyes, blue eyes, incredibly, icy blue, and he holds his gaze, an arm's length from his face, stares him into the only things that's left mostly untouched. He can't tell how well the other man can actually see him, making him lean in a little, a trembling smile finding its way onto his lips at the slight twinge of Anakin's mouth. There's more cynicism there now than there ever was before, which is saying something. For the both of them.
Then, he reaches up with both hands, gently angling the other man's scarred face into his palms, cupping his cheek, scar tissue rising along his cheekbone, amassed skin eaten by something he doesn't know what is and it kills him, it kills him not knowing. How much of Anakin's life hasn't he been left out of, unable to support him, all the worst times. All the worst times. He breathes more quickly now, biting down something equally ugly and beautiful. A deep, dark hate and a sweet, gentle love. His other hand cups the other side of Anakin's face, an ugly scar at the edge of his fingertips, like his head has been not just cut, but beaten open at some point and who knows, maybe it has. Maybe it has.
He wouldn't be able to say, would he? Kriff.
Stroking along Anakin's right cheekbone with his thumb, soft, careful brushes of fingertip, skin on skin, he looks into the other man's eyes the entire time. He wants to ask, what happened, but granted that they aren't killed anytime soon, time is actually on their side. He can get the story some other time, right? He will get the chance. He will get that chance. Instead, Claude smiles, just a little bit wider, happier, truer than he's felt for years at this point, and runs his left hand up to cradle the back of Anakin's skull. Hairless and uneven beneath his touch. ]
I thought you were lost, Anakin. I thought I'd lost you.
[ Claude crouches down in front of him and his eyes are so warm, they always were, he never forgot, never. Staring at the other man, his own eyes widening a fraction with emotion, with the feeling of a withheld breath, he realises that this truly is real. Claude is here. He isn't dead. He isn't dead. And then, he gives him back his name along with his senses - he's seen next to nothing for the past two years, felt nothing, but here are Claude's hands, tracing his face so gently, cupping his cheeks. It's like a dream. For one, fractured second, he imagines waking up in his tank with Sidious' laughter ringing in his ears - see, here is your weakness, apprentice - and he blinks rapidly, head swimming, but Claude is still here.
He strokes along Anakin's ruined skin and the nerves aren't as sensitive as they used to be but it feels lovely regardless. His voice is slightly distorted by the oxygen mask but his words come through anyway and Anakin sighs, leaning into his touch, his eyes slipping shut briefly while he thinks about landings, about how this one must have been the worst either of them have ever had to endure. ]
Makes two of us.
[ His voice is a scratchy, useless thing, weak and trembling. But the words sound like him for the first time since his fall - if he ever truly did, he doesn't know, what makes a Sith and how do you differentiate him from a mere traitor? - and he leans forward, into Claude's hold, tipping forward slightly in his suit until he can rest his head against his shoulder. He's too heavy, he's aware so he holds himself up, used to navigating without his lower legs at this point and compensating with his upper body, instead.
Carefully, he slips one, metal arm around Claude's waist and pulls him in. ]
[ The arm that slips around his waist and pulls him in is metal, it's metal and it's heavy and Claude thinks to himself, resting his cheek against the side of Anakin's face, gently, that they've lost so much regardless, the both of them. Maybe not each other, maybe not the love between them, but they're not living inside a vacuum. There's a world out there and it has cost them, also more than life costs most. Breathing evenly, not on the verge of sleep, honestly, he couldn't be further from sleep than this, but he feels incredibly peaceful as he sits there, held by Anakin again, feeling his new body and adjusting to it, getting used to this new reality.
Nothing's the same. Not even the parts that are.
Not even those. Not even them.
He takes another breath, deeper, shaking, and feels the outline of Anakin's ear against the bridge of his nose. He smells familiar, new, but not fully known yet. Like they've got a long kriffing way to go before they're home again. Because home doesn't exist anymore. Claude's planet is in shambles. The Galaxy is what has been made of it, by the Empire and in extension, by Anakin himself.
It's a strange thought, but part of Claude understands that as always Anakin was only scrambling for autonomy. Beneath so many layers of slavery that no sane person could have figured out a better way for him. So, Claude holds him. He just holds him, humming slightly under his breath and every now and then kissing what he can reach, his ear in this case, through the oxygen mask. ]
I don't wanna call it luck, but... I've been alone so long now.
[ He leans into those kisses, though he's very much aware that Claude shouldn't even be touching him, a mass murderer, so many lives on his hands now that he can't even begin to count. The other man isn't a pacifist by any means, he understands war and rebellion and uprisings but Anakin isn't stupid enough not to know that what he did when he marched on the Temple was none of those things. It was a trade, plain and simple, a way to keep what he thought he'd otherwise lose. Obi-Wan called the Jedi his family.
To Anakin, they were and are dispensible.
Claude's voice is quiet as he holds him, speaking close to his ear and Anakin imagines that his breath should be warm, gentle. Around them, the shuttle trembles faintly from strain as the pressure chamber slowly but surely taps it of energy. They'll have to break this moment soon, sooner than either of them wants, and then, there will be reality. What Anakin did. What Claude should choose to love, if he can.
If he can't...
Anakin pushes the thought away. ]
You are not anymore.
[ He squeezes Claude's waist briefly before pulling back, straightening into his seated position once more. Looking at Claude, eating up the visual of him, he thinks about the mask. In a moment, yes, he'll have to let go of this. They can't stay. They can't. Not like this. Eventually, if they were to simply freeze here, unmoving, the shuttle would tumble from its hyperlane and be dead in space, lost. He thinks about Claude leaving again, refusing to love him now, with what he is, what he's done and the thought of floating in nothing forever seems almost pleasant in comparison.
Again, he's afraid.
His gaze slides away. ]
But perhaps you would prefer to be, once you know the whole story.
Honestly, for now I just want you to tell me. That's good enough.
[ When Anakin straightens up, so does Claude, though he doesn't stand up completely, needing to stay on eye-level with the other man, although his thighs are buzzing and feeling painful and tight from his crouched position. He makes no promises of after. Being more than able to imagine the extents to which Anakin has gone to end up here, he can't imagine the story that led up to it and he needs to hear it, before they can know where it leaves them, either of them. He makes no promises he might not be able to keep, but he can lend his ear and he can be present to accept what Anakin is willingly giving him. Others would have let him puzzle it together on his own, but Anakin and him... They were never like that. Anakin grapples with his fear. Anakin faces him head on.
Whatever came before, that is admirable. That is true to who they are with each other. ]
Thank you, Anakin.
[ Reaching up, he strokes the other man's cheek once more before letting his elbows come to a rest on his thighs, waiting. Thank you for trusting me, thank you for your honesty, thank you for fighting, trying... I'm fighting, trying, too.
So, they can fight, try together.
As he looks at him, at his familiar features, changed almost beyond recognition, though not for Claude, never for him, Claude thinks that forgiveness isn't in the cards here. Forgiveness isn't in play. The Empire is an atrocity in and by itself, what hasn't Anakin become to serve it. But then he remembers Anakin's history and he thinks, he has served atrocities before, what you are and what you do aren't always synonymous.
Sometimes you act, not due to something inside you, but due to everything around you.
He hopes it's something like that, kriff, he hopes. ]
[ They sit there, opposite one another, and if he closes his eyes, he can still feel the imprints of Claude's fingers against his cheek. That's good enough, he says because Claude was always like this - prepared to wait, to hear him out and then, to listen. He never thought he'd have that again and maybe he won't, maybe there's a limit to the things Claude will understand and live alongside. A part of him wants to remember how to accept such things - that sometimes, people want different things and paths converge only briefly before they part. He used to know about this. He told his mother goodbye after knowing nothing but her, but them, thinking that they might never see each other again.
Then, he held her in his arms, her blood pooling against the sands, and he forgot.
The pain of loss is, indeed, crippling. With all the pain he's been dealt, it still rates higher than anything. ]
I thought that Sidious - Palpatine - would help me. [ He looks at his hands, flexes his fingers slowly. ] I foresaw your death and he promised...
[ His lips tighten. He takes a breath, the sound harsh, rattling. ]
But then you died anyway or so I thought. And the things I'd done in exchange for his help were not compatible with my old life. I destroyed the Jedi.
[ Slowly, he looks back at Claude, his own gaze flat. Resigned, too, though his voice doesn't tremble. This truth is both hateful and unremarkable; he didn't like striking them down, as he generally doesn't like killing, but he'd done it willingly. He'd done it without a chip in his head and he still doesn't mourn them nor the life they lived, the life he watched from the outside, even after they stopped treating him like a stranger. Anakin never belonged. He's well-aware. ]
It doesn't fully compute. Claude looks back at Anakin, his empty eyes, gaze flat, and can't make himself look away, though part of him wants to. If only to get the facts -- right. To have it make sense, somehow. Anakin turned on his own people, for what? Because he'd thought Claude was going to die and it was preventable that way? Suddenly, for the first time in months and months, Claude remembers the large explosion on Paris that would've killed him, if not for the help of Rex, Anakin's second-in-command who'd been assigned to the mission without any real reason or precedence. Just because Anakin had wanted it like that, to keep Claude safe. And Claude thinks about this burning desire to keep him safe, that Anakin has had from the beginning, insisting on it, even. Illogically, senselessly. He knows what Anakin means to him and he's always, somewhere inside, known he means doubly to Anakin.
I destroyed the Jedi.
But Claude had gotten word back that Anakin was gone, and they'd all just assumed he'd been at the Temple during the siege, that he'd died fighting like the rest of them. When instead... he'd... He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again slowly. There's a frown crawling onto his face. Heavy across his brow.
As long as Claude has known Anakin, he was more himself than he was Jedi. He was at the core of it more alone than with them. Sure, Claude could wonder who would turn on their own family, but Anakin thought they hated him, pretty much.
He thought they were just looking for excuses to put him down.
Like masters do.
Anakin never stopped being a slave, did he? He never stopped. Claude swallows hard and licks his lips, then says the only thing that comes to mind which is something that might be actually useful between them in this very moment. ]
You made them pay a heavy price for whatever mistakes you thought they made. [ Pause, then -- ] But you've paid for your own, too, Anakin. Guess that's somewhere to start.
[ And he looks at him still, not looking away, not looking away, taking in his burned face, his brittle skin, the limbs he's lost. There really are no winners in war. Only losers, past, present and future. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Clearly, he never did.
He seats himself crosslegged on the seat in the middle of the room, gesturing for Claude to make himself comfortable as he chooses. Punching in a few commands on the panel to his right, he steels himself as the room de-pressurizes. His ears don't pop from the change as they should - but Claude, his ears purely organic tissue, will. It takes seconds at best, however, before the room stabilizes and the oxygen level rockets to its final level. He flicks his hand quickly and a mask loosens from the ceiling, tumbling down to Claude's right with a dull thud. ]
Put that on. The air is too concentrated.
[ He reaches for his helmet and pauses, hands seemingly freezing for a moment as a burst of sudden, unfiltered panic surges through him. It's hard to quantify it, really; he's been without his armor around people, even nameless strangers, many times before. Or maybe that's the problem. Maybe it pops up now when he'd keep it down otherwise, because Claude is here, leaving a space for such feelings and he remembers what that used to be like.
He does.
So he takes the helmet off and the mask with it and then, he sits there and blinks stupidly at Claude from across the distance. He can make out his shape in the darkness, if nothing else. But his presence is bright and clear and he clings to it for a moment, to the notion of it. ]
no subject
There are only so many things the darkness in here can obscure.
When the mask drops down next to him, he raises an eyebrow at Anakin, without really intending to, it just happens - that old amusement he used to watch him with when he used the Force, back then, before they both died, apparently. Floating lubes and fruits and similar objects around to make whatever they were doing otherwise easier. It's a shallow feeling now, but it's there, like a ghost of something he recognizes, at least. Echoes. Trails. He puts it on wordlessly, feeling the chamber decompress, his ears popping - then, popping back as the levels inside stabilize.
Anakin, on his end, seems to hesitate to remove his helmet, Claude just watching his calmly, though his insides are ice, his heart is thumping, but the hesitation passes, like it always did with Anakin, if you were patient about it. Because the man was if not braver than most, bravery that always comes at a cost, for everyone involved, then definitely more willing to act. Someone's made full use of that, haven't they?
His fingers clench, unclench, clench.
Off the mask comes.
Claude stares.
He isn't unrecognisable, unrecognisable isn't the word. He is badly burned, his injuries only half-healed, really, and that makes Claude feel sick to his stomach, but his features are mostly the same, the nose, the line of his jaw, lips. His eyes are blue and couldn't be anyone else's, Claude's stared into them too often, too intensely, not to place them... anywhere. They are Anakin's eyes. This is Anakin.
The ice melts inside him. Feeling nothing but a strong sense of relief, like finding something you'd thought you'd been careless enough to lose in the first place, he moves forward, breathing in shakily, noisily, stopping up close in front of Anakin, Anakin in the suit, Anakin who works for the Empire, Anakin who is still his and does stupid things for Claude's sake, like fucking himself on vegetables. Like being too harsh on himself, in so many other ways. Like now. He reaches up with one hand, then stops. ]
Can I touch you?
[ His fingers clench, unclench, but he waits. They know how to wait, they taught each other that, first. ]
no subject
No. He can't.
It's been two years and he's never stopped wishing for a different ending. It's at the very core of his disagreements with Sidious, with his Master's displeasure concerning his progress as his apprentice; the fact that he can't let go of the notion that in the end, no one could help them. Him and Claude. No one. Not the Jedi, not Padmé, not Sidious. No one. This conclusion has left him with only one answer to everything: him, his actions, his choices, and all the roads he could've gone. In the beginning, he'd tried to think of ways to bring Claude back but Sidious has never seemed overly engaged with this objective. Too many other things, he says. A growing Empire. A new, governmental structure.
In time, says his Master but Vader has had enough Masters by now to know that they all lie.
He looks up at Claude as the other man comes into view, closer now. He takes a second before he looks up, preparing himself for any kind of reaction - after all, the last time they saw each other, he'd been quite a lot easier to look at. Regardless, when he finally looks up, all he sees is relief and the feeling matches the one in his chest, the lightness spreading slowly, surely, as every minute passes and Claude remains here, alive, present.
Alive. ]
Yes.
[ He gives Claude a very slight smile. He hasn't been touched by anyone but Sidious since his failure on Mustafar but he isn't afraid of Claude's hands and never will be. They look the same. They are the same. ]
no subject
Then, he reaches up with both hands, gently angling the other man's scarred face into his palms, cupping his cheek, scar tissue rising along his cheekbone, amassed skin eaten by something he doesn't know what is and it kills him, it kills him not knowing. How much of Anakin's life hasn't he been left out of, unable to support him, all the worst times. All the worst times. He breathes more quickly now, biting down something equally ugly and beautiful. A deep, dark hate and a sweet, gentle love. His other hand cups the other side of Anakin's face, an ugly scar at the edge of his fingertips, like his head has been not just cut, but beaten open at some point and who knows, maybe it has. Maybe it has.
He wouldn't be able to say, would he? Kriff.
Stroking along Anakin's right cheekbone with his thumb, soft, careful brushes of fingertip, skin on skin, he looks into the other man's eyes the entire time. He wants to ask, what happened, but granted that they aren't killed anytime soon, time is actually on their side. He can get the story some other time, right? He will get the chance. He will get that chance. Instead, Claude smiles, just a little bit wider, happier, truer than he's felt for years at this point, and runs his left hand up to cradle the back of Anakin's skull. Hairless and uneven beneath his touch. ]
I thought you were lost, Anakin. I thought I'd lost you.
no subject
He strokes along Anakin's ruined skin and the nerves aren't as sensitive as they used to be but it feels lovely regardless. His voice is slightly distorted by the oxygen mask but his words come through anyway and Anakin sighs, leaning into his touch, his eyes slipping shut briefly while he thinks about landings, about how this one must have been the worst either of them have ever had to endure. ]
Makes two of us.
[ His voice is a scratchy, useless thing, weak and trembling. But the words sound like him for the first time since his fall - if he ever truly did, he doesn't know, what makes a Sith and how do you differentiate him from a mere traitor? - and he leans forward, into Claude's hold, tipping forward slightly in his suit until he can rest his head against his shoulder. He's too heavy, he's aware so he holds himself up, used to navigating without his lower legs at this point and compensating with his upper body, instead.
Carefully, he slips one, metal arm around Claude's waist and pulls him in. ]
no subject
Nothing's the same. Not even the parts that are.
Not even those. Not even them.
He takes another breath, deeper, shaking, and feels the outline of Anakin's ear against the bridge of his nose. He smells familiar, new, but not fully known yet. Like they've got a long kriffing way to go before they're home again. Because home doesn't exist anymore. Claude's planet is in shambles. The Galaxy is what has been made of it, by the Empire and in extension, by Anakin himself.
It's a strange thought, but part of Claude understands that as always Anakin was only scrambling for autonomy. Beneath so many layers of slavery that no sane person could have figured out a better way for him. So, Claude holds him. He just holds him, humming slightly under his breath and every now and then kissing what he can reach, his ear in this case, through the oxygen mask. ]
I don't wanna call it luck, but... I've been alone so long now.
no subject
To Anakin, they were and are dispensible.
Claude's voice is quiet as he holds him, speaking close to his ear and Anakin imagines that his breath should be warm, gentle. Around them, the shuttle trembles faintly from strain as the pressure chamber slowly but surely taps it of energy. They'll have to break this moment soon, sooner than either of them wants, and then, there will be reality. What Anakin did. What Claude should choose to love, if he can.
If he can't...
Anakin pushes the thought away. ]
You are not anymore.
[ He squeezes Claude's waist briefly before pulling back, straightening into his seated position once more. Looking at Claude, eating up the visual of him, he thinks about the mask. In a moment, yes, he'll have to let go of this. They can't stay. They can't. Not like this. Eventually, if they were to simply freeze here, unmoving, the shuttle would tumble from its hyperlane and be dead in space, lost. He thinks about Claude leaving again, refusing to love him now, with what he is, what he's done and the thought of floating in nothing forever seems almost pleasant in comparison.
Again, he's afraid.
His gaze slides away. ]
But perhaps you would prefer to be, once you know the whole story.
no subject
[ When Anakin straightens up, so does Claude, though he doesn't stand up completely, needing to stay on eye-level with the other man, although his thighs are buzzing and feeling painful and tight from his crouched position. He makes no promises of after. Being more than able to imagine the extents to which Anakin has gone to end up here, he can't imagine the story that led up to it and he needs to hear it, before they can know where it leaves them, either of them. He makes no promises he might not be able to keep, but he can lend his ear and he can be present to accept what Anakin is willingly giving him. Others would have let him puzzle it together on his own, but Anakin and him... They were never like that. Anakin grapples with his fear. Anakin faces him head on.
Whatever came before, that is admirable. That is true to who they are with each other. ]
Thank you, Anakin.
[ Reaching up, he strokes the other man's cheek once more before letting his elbows come to a rest on his thighs, waiting. Thank you for trusting me, thank you for your honesty, thank you for fighting, trying... I'm fighting, trying, too.
So, they can fight, try together.
As he looks at him, at his familiar features, changed almost beyond recognition, though not for Claude, never for him, Claude thinks that forgiveness isn't in the cards here. Forgiveness isn't in play. The Empire is an atrocity in and by itself, what hasn't Anakin become to serve it. But then he remembers Anakin's history and he thinks, he has served atrocities before, what you are and what you do aren't always synonymous.
Sometimes you act, not due to something inside you, but due to everything around you.
He hopes it's something like that, kriff, he hopes. ]
no subject
Then, he held her in his arms, her blood pooling against the sands, and he forgot.
The pain of loss is, indeed, crippling. With all the pain he's been dealt, it still rates higher than anything. ]
I thought that Sidious - Palpatine - would help me. [ He looks at his hands, flexes his fingers slowly. ] I foresaw your death and he promised...
[ His lips tighten. He takes a breath, the sound harsh, rattling. ]
But then you died anyway or so I thought. And the things I'd done in exchange for his help were not compatible with my old life. I destroyed the Jedi.
[ Slowly, he looks back at Claude, his own gaze flat. Resigned, too, though his voice doesn't tremble. This truth is both hateful and unremarkable; he didn't like striking them down, as he generally doesn't like killing, but he'd done it willingly. He'd done it without a chip in his head and he still doesn't mourn them nor the life they lived, the life he watched from the outside, even after they stopped treating him like a stranger. Anakin never belonged. He's well-aware. ]
no subject
It doesn't fully compute. Claude looks back at Anakin, his empty eyes, gaze flat, and can't make himself look away, though part of him wants to. If only to get the facts -- right. To have it make sense, somehow. Anakin turned on his own people, for what? Because he'd thought Claude was going to die and it was preventable that way? Suddenly, for the first time in months and months, Claude remembers the large explosion on Paris that would've killed him, if not for the help of Rex, Anakin's second-in-command who'd been assigned to the mission without any real reason or precedence. Just because Anakin had wanted it like that, to keep Claude safe. And Claude thinks about this burning desire to keep him safe, that Anakin has had from the beginning, insisting on it, even. Illogically, senselessly. He knows what Anakin means to him and he's always, somewhere inside, known he means doubly to Anakin.
I destroyed the Jedi.
But Claude had gotten word back that Anakin was gone, and they'd all just assumed he'd been at the Temple during the siege, that he'd died fighting like the rest of them. When instead... he'd... He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again slowly. There's a frown crawling onto his face. Heavy across his brow.
As long as Claude has known Anakin, he was more himself than he was Jedi. He was at the core of it more alone than with them. Sure, Claude could wonder who would turn on their own family, but Anakin thought they hated him, pretty much.
He thought they were just looking for excuses to put him down.
Like masters do.
Anakin never stopped being a slave, did he? He never stopped. Claude swallows hard and licks his lips, then says the only thing that comes to mind which is something that might be actually useful between them in this very moment. ]
You made them pay a heavy price for whatever mistakes you thought they made. [ Pause, then -- ] But you've paid for your own, too, Anakin. Guess that's somewhere to start.
[ And he looks at him still, not looking away, not looking away, taking in his burned face, his brittle skin, the limbs he's lost. There really are no winners in war. Only losers, past, present and future. ]