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[ The castle on Mustafar is coming along all too slowly. Possibly, he could wait out learning a different way to raise it - to take advantage of the dormant powers festering here - but Darth Vader has no need for patience and living next to his Master on Imperial Center is honestly becoming unsustainable for the both of them.
For Sidious, especially.
He's watching the construction process from his throne room, hands clasped behind his back. The building site is a treacherous place and they've lost many workers already, underestimating the lava and its gasses, the instability of the terrain, the darkness within it. He'd exchange them for droids if he cared - but in this Empire of Sidious' construction, all beings remain disposable and a weak, organic work force is just another way to maintain the balance of power.
His comm pings. The first prisoner of the complex, it seems, is ready to be interrogated. It's a political enemy, his Master has told him by the name of Cyne Billet, one important enough to become Vader's assignment despite the fact that nearly no one ever is; one that may lead them to Padmé Amidala who's gone into hiding, pulling invisible but efficient strings to counteract him, in the Senate and beyond. She's a bug, says Sidious, but even the tiniest, most insignificant bugs can cause contamination in any delicate systems.
It's not his place to doubt his Master's words.
So he leaves it there.
He could bring up an image of the prisoner, data files, logs, if he wanted to. His eye lenses can play back the information easily. But this assignment matters about as much to him as anything else these days and thus, he simply heads for the cell and pulls the door aside, stepping in and freezing in the doorway, his artificial breath cycling through several rounds while he stares, utterly confounded.
There's a dead man in the cell. ]
For Sidious, especially.
He's watching the construction process from his throne room, hands clasped behind his back. The building site is a treacherous place and they've lost many workers already, underestimating the lava and its gasses, the instability of the terrain, the darkness within it. He'd exchange them for droids if he cared - but in this Empire of Sidious' construction, all beings remain disposable and a weak, organic work force is just another way to maintain the balance of power.
His comm pings. The first prisoner of the complex, it seems, is ready to be interrogated. It's a political enemy, his Master has told him by the name of Cyne Billet, one important enough to become Vader's assignment despite the fact that nearly no one ever is; one that may lead them to Padmé Amidala who's gone into hiding, pulling invisible but efficient strings to counteract him, in the Senate and beyond. She's a bug, says Sidious, but even the tiniest, most insignificant bugs can cause contamination in any delicate systems.
It's not his place to doubt his Master's words.
So he leaves it there.
He could bring up an image of the prisoner, data files, logs, if he wanted to. His eye lenses can play back the information easily. But this assignment matters about as much to him as anything else these days and thus, he simply heads for the cell and pulls the door aside, stepping in and freezing in the doorway, his artificial breath cycling through several rounds while he stares, utterly confounded.
There's a dead man in the cell. ]
[ Claude has said goodbye to everything a handful of times already while waiting for what's coming. He's gone through the small gallery of people who've helped him so far, before his ship was boarded by the Empire and he was taken to this place, for reasons he doesn't know and doesn't care about either, he's said goodbye Bail, goodbye Padmé, goodbye Akiva's mausims, goodbye Paris' old rebellious spirit... Well, it's a pretty short list. Most importantly, he said goodbye to Anakin what feels like a lifetime ago. So long ago that it feels like he was someone else before it happened, like he became another person afterwards. Which, for all intents and purposes, he did, right? He's Cyne Billet now. No one knows Cyne Billet. No one cares about Cyne Billet. No one loves Cyne Billet.
He touches the kyber pendant beneath his shirt, just a soft touch of fingertips, almost a caress, if he thought touching the heart of Anakin's lightsaber in any way compared to touching him. But sometimes what you get isn't what you wanted and you got the choice between either loving it as is or being half a person without.
Claude isn't ready to be half a person. If he's gonna die tonight, he wants to die whole.
Hearing heavy footfalls come down the hallway outside, he remains seated on the narrow bunk, dropping his hands into his lap so as not to give away the kyber too easily. Yeah, if he's gonna die tonight, he's dying with the crystal on his body. It's the only way he can imagine going, not stripped, not bare, not alone.
The door slides aside and he has to look up, and up, and up, the person entering tall and looming over him like a tower, a whisper of cape and the shine of metal - everywhere. Metal. Unwittingly, Claude remembers Anakin's mechno arm. He remembers the touch of him. He remembers.
Swallowing hard, he runs his gaze over the outline of the figure in front of him, waiting for him to do something, act, react. Except, nothing happens. Claude raises his chin, lips a thin line, his jaw set. Padmé and Bail have known there were whispers of some background lackey, but no one knew who they were, what they did.
If this is them? The answer is: not much. ]
He touches the kyber pendant beneath his shirt, just a soft touch of fingertips, almost a caress, if he thought touching the heart of Anakin's lightsaber in any way compared to touching him. But sometimes what you get isn't what you wanted and you got the choice between either loving it as is or being half a person without.
Claude isn't ready to be half a person. If he's gonna die tonight, he wants to die whole.
Hearing heavy footfalls come down the hallway outside, he remains seated on the narrow bunk, dropping his hands into his lap so as not to give away the kyber too easily. Yeah, if he's gonna die tonight, he's dying with the crystal on his body. It's the only way he can imagine going, not stripped, not bare, not alone.
The door slides aside and he has to look up, and up, and up, the person entering tall and looming over him like a tower, a whisper of cape and the shine of metal - everywhere. Metal. Unwittingly, Claude remembers Anakin's mechno arm. He remembers the touch of him. He remembers.
Swallowing hard, he runs his gaze over the outline of the figure in front of him, waiting for him to do something, act, react. Except, nothing happens. Claude raises his chin, lips a thin line, his jaw set. Padmé and Bail have known there were whispers of some background lackey, but no one knew who they were, what they did.
If this is them? The answer is: not much. ]
[ It's...
But that's impossible. He was told - it's impossible. Once Sidious had failed to ensure Claude's safety following the end of the Clone Wars, after he'd died because he was sent to Paris in the midst of a conflict he should have never been near - naturally, Vader had attempted to recover what was left of him. He'd known, of course, that an explosion leaves little left of people when they're caught in the midst of it but even so, he'd wanted to go there. To see, for himself. Unfortunately, his... health had not permitted it (his Master had seen to that, Vader knows very well, because grief is not as powerful as anger and his Master wants a powerful apprentice, not a man crippled by anything, least of all grief). And once he'd been strong enough to decide for himself, he'd lost the motivation to do anything about it.
Claude, after all, was dead.
There was nothing left of Claude.
And yet, here, in this very cell... He stares. Wishes, not for the first time, that he could take his mask off and actually look at him, just to ascertain that his eyes aren't tricking him. But he can sense it, of course, not just him, with his familiar energy, his familiar everything - and also, the singing kyber underneath his shirt, calling out to him with faint, distant recognition. The past is such a long way behind them; it should not have been possible for anything, any remains, any echoes, to catch up at all.
And yet.
They're watching each other now, Claude with a wary expression on his face, chin raised, jaw set. Waiting, no doubt, for what the Empire promises all its enemies.
Deciding that if he can't make any choices, any decisions, at least he can move, Vader turns his back on the other man, the remains of his heart screeching in his chest to turn right back, pick him up and run away. Instead, mechanically, he opens the door and says: ]
Come.
But that's impossible. He was told - it's impossible. Once Sidious had failed to ensure Claude's safety following the end of the Clone Wars, after he'd died because he was sent to Paris in the midst of a conflict he should have never been near - naturally, Vader had attempted to recover what was left of him. He'd known, of course, that an explosion leaves little left of people when they're caught in the midst of it but even so, he'd wanted to go there. To see, for himself. Unfortunately, his... health had not permitted it (his Master had seen to that, Vader knows very well, because grief is not as powerful as anger and his Master wants a powerful apprentice, not a man crippled by anything, least of all grief). And once he'd been strong enough to decide for himself, he'd lost the motivation to do anything about it.
Claude, after all, was dead.
There was nothing left of Claude.
And yet, here, in this very cell... He stares. Wishes, not for the first time, that he could take his mask off and actually look at him, just to ascertain that his eyes aren't tricking him. But he can sense it, of course, not just him, with his familiar energy, his familiar everything - and also, the singing kyber underneath his shirt, calling out to him with faint, distant recognition. The past is such a long way behind them; it should not have been possible for anything, any remains, any echoes, to catch up at all.
And yet.
They're watching each other now, Claude with a wary expression on his face, chin raised, jaw set. Waiting, no doubt, for what the Empire promises all its enemies.
Deciding that if he can't make any choices, any decisions, at least he can move, Vader turns his back on the other man, the remains of his heart screeching in his chest to turn right back, pick him up and run away. Instead, mechanically, he opens the door and says: ]
Come.
[ There's nothing to read on the helmet. There's nothing to read on the body language either, weighed down as it is by seemingly endless amounts of metal, so when the other person finally moves, turning away, Claude frowns, feels himself tense up in expectation of something that can't be predicted, although sure - everyone knows what the Empire does to traitors and public menaces. Societal enemies. Everyone knows.
Claude knows, too.
Come, says the other man, voice dark and deep and heavily distorted by what must be a modulator, carrying the word from his lips behind the mask into the room between them. Standing up slowly, Claude glances around the cell, not sure what to do with himself. Isn't he supposed to be cuffed for a transfer? In case he'd managed to smuggle in a fork or something and wanted to try it against the thick layers of cape protecting the man's back as he opens the door.
Doesn't the Empire have protocols?
No, Claude knows for sure, they do. Knows better than most.
A bit stupidly, he looks down at his hands, wrists unbound and his range of movement unrestricted. Naturally, he isn't gonna ask his captor whether they can put some handcuffs on him, please, Claude is many things, certainly more jaded and more uncaring than two years ago, but he still isn't stupid. He lets his hands drop to his sides, straightens up, on perfect eye-level with the man's shoulder and little else as he steps forward, following behind him. Kriff, he's tall. Dwarfs everything around them, Claude included.
Scaring tactics.
Don't work on him. ]
Guess there's no point to asking where we're going.
[ He says, deliberately not phrasing it like a question, since the meaning is more because I'm gonna die either way and I don't care than because you're not gonna tell me and I do. ]
Claude knows, too.
Come, says the other man, voice dark and deep and heavily distorted by what must be a modulator, carrying the word from his lips behind the mask into the room between them. Standing up slowly, Claude glances around the cell, not sure what to do with himself. Isn't he supposed to be cuffed for a transfer? In case he'd managed to smuggle in a fork or something and wanted to try it against the thick layers of cape protecting the man's back as he opens the door.
Doesn't the Empire have protocols?
No, Claude knows for sure, they do. Knows better than most.
A bit stupidly, he looks down at his hands, wrists unbound and his range of movement unrestricted. Naturally, he isn't gonna ask his captor whether they can put some handcuffs on him, please, Claude is many things, certainly more jaded and more uncaring than two years ago, but he still isn't stupid. He lets his hands drop to his sides, straightens up, on perfect eye-level with the man's shoulder and little else as he steps forward, following behind him. Kriff, he's tall. Dwarfs everything around them, Claude included.
Scaring tactics.
Don't work on him. ]
Guess there's no point to asking where we're going.
[ He says, deliberately not phrasing it like a question, since the meaning is more because I'm gonna die either way and I don't care than because you're not gonna tell me and I do. ]
[ He turns away without answering and it's not just because he isn't actually certain himself - he wasn't supposed to move the prisoner at all - but first and foremost... that's such a typically Claude thing to do, to straighten up and demand a little space for himself, as much as he dares. That small act of defiance - even if a laughably bad strategic choice on the other man's part if he actually wants to live and maybe he doesn't, really - goes straight past all the implants in his body, the burns, the festering wounds and hits him harder than any of it. It makes Anakin Skywalker resonate.
After all, if anyone believes in facing the darkness as opposed to letting it conquer you, it's Claude.
Anakin used to believe in him.
Though he's behind his back as they walk out and beyond his field of vision, Claude takes up all available space within his mind now - behind the mental shields he's erected to keep Sidious challenged, if not to keep him out, there's just the residual image of the other man in that cell, looking older (two years, it's been only two years) and resigned to his faith. Claude. Claude.
Claude who is dead.
Claude, who is alive.
He walks onwards, past security personnel, his breathing seemingly louder than ever in the stillness between them. He doesn't know what to say. He wants them both off this forsaken planet, off and away, he wants to pick him up and hold him with the hands he's got left. He doesn't want them to be here. That's all he knows. This place, this planet, gives nothing to anyone, it takes and inevitably, you lose. They've had enough of that, the two of them.
No, he will tolerate no further losses. ]
After all, if anyone believes in facing the darkness as opposed to letting it conquer you, it's Claude.
Anakin used to believe in him.
Though he's behind his back as they walk out and beyond his field of vision, Claude takes up all available space within his mind now - behind the mental shields he's erected to keep Sidious challenged, if not to keep him out, there's just the residual image of the other man in that cell, looking older (two years, it's been only two years) and resigned to his faith. Claude. Claude.
Claude who is dead.
Claude, who is alive.
He walks onwards, past security personnel, his breathing seemingly louder than ever in the stillness between them. He doesn't know what to say. He wants them both off this forsaken planet, off and away, he wants to pick him up and hold him with the hands he's got left. He doesn't want them to be here. That's all he knows. This place, this planet, gives nothing to anyone, it takes and inevitably, you lose. They've had enough of that, the two of them.
No, he will tolerate no further losses. ]
Edited 2023-02-08 16:12 (UTC)
[ He hasn't gotten any answers, only more questions. The man, whoever he is, whatever he is, simply moved him onto a shuttle without saying a single word, left him in the passenger area and took the ship into hyperspace, Claude felt the shift, in a matter of five minutes. Tops. Only Anakin could've done it faster, Claude thinks, sitting in one of the passenger seats for a while, just staring straight ahead. Except, Anakin would've been nicer about it. Anakin wouldn't have been able to help himself.
Touching the kyber pendant underneath his shirt again, he looks towards the cockpit with a frown. He can't imagine why the Empire would bother moving him somewhere else to execute him, when they might as well have done it in the cell where they'd placed him to begin with. Lots of resources going to waste. Lots of effort, needless. And because he is who he is, still, regardless, and because Anakin taught him to act accordingly, maybe borderline recklessly, Claude gets up after a quarter of an hour has passed, heading for the cockpit stiffly, every step sending shivers down his spine. What is he doing? Does he want to die?
Yeah, does he, is the question. That one, he's got no right and only wrong answers for.
Without saying a word, because two can play that game, Claude slips into the seat behind the man in the helmet, staring into the back of his seat, the way he towers over that, too. Shoulders broader than ought to be legal, really. Cape only adding to the overall impression of insurmountability. Half a minute passes in complete silence, then Claude leans forward, speaking at neck-level with the man up front, keeping his voice even and unshaking mostly because he's stubborn as all kriff.
Because someone, somewhere, once taught him to fight for his own sake, too. Not the time to let down the ghost of the one person who would've cared whether Claude kept objecting, however futile his hope. However futile all hope. He reaches up for the pendant without thinking, stopping himself halfway and letting his hand drop to his lap again. A hard swallow. ]
You're setting a lot of things in motion for a literal nobody, you know. [ Pause. ] Unauthorized.
Touching the kyber pendant underneath his shirt again, he looks towards the cockpit with a frown. He can't imagine why the Empire would bother moving him somewhere else to execute him, when they might as well have done it in the cell where they'd placed him to begin with. Lots of resources going to waste. Lots of effort, needless. And because he is who he is, still, regardless, and because Anakin taught him to act accordingly, maybe borderline recklessly, Claude gets up after a quarter of an hour has passed, heading for the cockpit stiffly, every step sending shivers down his spine. What is he doing? Does he want to die?
Yeah, does he, is the question. That one, he's got no right and only wrong answers for.
Without saying a word, because two can play that game, Claude slips into the seat behind the man in the helmet, staring into the back of his seat, the way he towers over that, too. Shoulders broader than ought to be legal, really. Cape only adding to the overall impression of insurmountability. Half a minute passes in complete silence, then Claude leans forward, speaking at neck-level with the man up front, keeping his voice even and unshaking mostly because he's stubborn as all kriff.
Because someone, somewhere, once taught him to fight for his own sake, too. Not the time to let down the ghost of the one person who would've cared whether Claude kept objecting, however futile his hope. However futile all hope. He reaches up for the pendant without thinking, stopping himself halfway and letting his hand drop to his lap again. A hard swallow. ]
You're setting a lot of things in motion for a literal nobody, you know. [ Pause. ] Unauthorized.
[ He senses the other man moving from his spot in the passenger area - because where else is he supposed to put him, he isn't even supposed to put him anywhere except in the ground - and his hands tighten around the controls uselessly. The fact that he doesn't know what he's doing is a foregone conclusion at this point; what's left is not what but perhaps, why. It's been two years and Anakin Skywalker supposedly died a fiery death on Mustafar - and before that, too, in other ways. His supposedly dead lover shouldn't merit any kind of attention now, perhaps aside from a none-too-swift execution; he's no one. Anakin is dead. This person is a stranger.
He couldn't convince himself of that even if he had Sidious sitting right opposite him, twisting his mind accordingly.
Claude is here. Claude is here. As ridiculous as the thought may be, he's in hyperspace right now because he couldn't think of anywhere safer to bring him. As the other man enters the cockpit, he can sense the remains of his body reacting as much as they ever can these days; his skin prickling along ruined or half-dead nerves, his chest muscles working to expand around his lung implants; he'd be hyperventilating, he thinks, if he'd been capable. Instead, he just sits. If he doesn't kill people, that's all he does these days, isn't it, so that suits.
When Claude leans into his personal space, he has to fight not to lean back against him. ]
You aren't nobody. [ He wishes for the first time that his voice wasn't so harsh. ] Claude. You have changed your name but not your face.
He couldn't convince himself of that even if he had Sidious sitting right opposite him, twisting his mind accordingly.
Claude is here. Claude is here. As ridiculous as the thought may be, he's in hyperspace right now because he couldn't think of anywhere safer to bring him. As the other man enters the cockpit, he can sense the remains of his body reacting as much as they ever can these days; his skin prickling along ruined or half-dead nerves, his chest muscles working to expand around his lung implants; he'd be hyperventilating, he thinks, if he'd been capable. Instead, he just sits. If he doesn't kill people, that's all he does these days, isn't it, so that suits.
When Claude leans into his personal space, he has to fight not to lean back against him. ]
You aren't nobody. [ He wishes for the first time that his voice wasn't so harsh. ] Claude. You have changed your name but not your face.
[ The voice is almost inhuman. Like it's something else sitting inside the metal hull. Claude is about to lean back and be done with it, that was his resistance, that was his handful of credits paid, but the man in front of him says, you aren't nobody. Which sounds borderline like a threat.
Then, he says, Claude.
Claude feels himself stiffen, his entire body going rigid, his breathing speeding up, getting shallow and laboured. Claude isn't dead, evidently, Claude is sitting right here, but except with a few exceptions, he can currently count two, he's known as Cyne Billet now. He's a mediator and a spokesperson. He's no one the Empire needs to take into account, unthreatening and unimportant. Whatever he once was, it might not be gone, but it's past. Very much past.
Claude, the man says. You've changed your name but not your face. ]
Think you owe me an explanation. We can't work together on uneven ground like this, you knowing who I am and me knowing kriffing nothing. [ His voice takes on some edge there, so he halts himself, he breathes. Breathe. ] Who are you?
[ Jaw tightening, Claude grabs the seat in front of him, fingers digging into the hard material of the cushioning that's there for support, not comfort. We hold other things for comfort, granted that we haven't lost them. The evenness is gone from his voice, at the question, it shakes and it cracks and he's tired of only waiting for death. ]
Then, he says, Claude.
Claude feels himself stiffen, his entire body going rigid, his breathing speeding up, getting shallow and laboured. Claude isn't dead, evidently, Claude is sitting right here, but except with a few exceptions, he can currently count two, he's known as Cyne Billet now. He's a mediator and a spokesperson. He's no one the Empire needs to take into account, unthreatening and unimportant. Whatever he once was, it might not be gone, but it's past. Very much past.
Claude, the man says. You've changed your name but not your face. ]
Think you owe me an explanation. We can't work together on uneven ground like this, you knowing who I am and me knowing kriffing nothing. [ His voice takes on some edge there, so he halts himself, he breathes. Breathe. ] Who are you?
[ Jaw tightening, Claude grabs the seat in front of him, fingers digging into the hard material of the cushioning that's there for support, not comfort. We hold other things for comfort, granted that we haven't lost them. The evenness is gone from his voice, at the question, it shakes and it cracks and he's tired of only waiting for death. ]
[ The air in the cockpit changes noticeably, tension increasing tenfold. He could, theoretically, attempt to coax Claude's co-conspirators from him if only to get confirmation - after all, this has Padmé's resilience written all over it, the fact that Claude has disappeared, the fact that they've held out for such a long time undetected. But then, who would he pass that information along to? His Master, who didn't even know of Claude's survival, of his real identity? Either he's forseen this and underestimated the consequences or he hasn't, which would be worse.
We can't work together says Claude, making assumptions that are understandable, perhaps, because he doesn't know Darth Vader and Darth Vader, in turn, barely knows himself.
How weak are they truly, his Master and he? How many lies has he been told this time? ]
I am not with your people.
[ Not anymore, no, after what he did. Padmé. Bail Organa. Others, people of no importance, compared to the man behind him who'll have no reason at all to treat him any less as an enemy than the rest. Claude's voice has given out. He sounds like he's barely breathing. Telling him the truth suddenly feels insurmountable. ]
I thought... [ His voice stumbles. He pauses, lets his breathing run for another cycle before he tries again. He must. He woke up alive after Mustafar and he will see this through as well. That is what Claude is owed, at the very least. ] He told me you died.
We can't work together says Claude, making assumptions that are understandable, perhaps, because he doesn't know Darth Vader and Darth Vader, in turn, barely knows himself.
How weak are they truly, his Master and he? How many lies has he been told this time? ]
I am not with your people.
[ Not anymore, no, after what he did. Padmé. Bail Organa. Others, people of no importance, compared to the man behind him who'll have no reason at all to treat him any less as an enemy than the rest. Claude's voice has given out. He sounds like he's barely breathing. Telling him the truth suddenly feels insurmountable. ]
I thought... [ His voice stumbles. He pauses, lets his breathing run for another cycle before he tries again. He must. He woke up alive after Mustafar and he will see this through as well. That is what Claude is owed, at the very least. ] He told me you died.
[ Feeling it in the air, the way Anakin could make the temperatures sizzle, the molecyles boil when he was aroused, this man makes the tension expand exponentially. Like an explosion of tightness and invisible fingers clawing at your throat, at your chest, weight, strength. Force-wielder, then. Claude thought their days were numbered, he thought that was the whole agenda to which Anakin lost in the end. Swallowing again, he runs his palms flat over the back of the seat in front of him, like a caress or a way to tether himself, yeah, here's something tangible. Something that's not as fuzzy as war ethics and the morality of the battlefield. Something not hidden. Something not lost. He feels endlessly frustrated. If this man isn't with them, but not against him either, who does he work for, what is his goal? Are they just moving forward aimlessly right now or what?
Claude doesn't have time for that. He works for a resistance movement that is probably desperately looking for him as they speak. Using precious energy and resources on locating him, although they live by a code of 'leave behind what can't be salvaged'. One thing is the codes, though, another is the reality of human attachment, bonds of trust and debt. Love.
Even lost things aren't truly left behind in love, are they?
He told me you died, the man says, then, after a brief pause, the mechanisms that assists his breathing, sounds like, carrying that same inhuman, metallic quality. Claude lets both hands drop to his thighs, smoothening over the fabric of his trousers, the kind of clothes he used not to wear on Paris, but Paris is in shambles and there's not really anything left of the old days. Maybe he should've stayed a royal. Maybe his abdication wasn't of any help, at the end of the day. At the end of the whole kriffing era. I might as well have, he wants to reply, but gets a grip after a moment. ]
You're not with us. [ Voice tired now, just -- tired. He touches the kyber again, through his shirt. Looks past the breadth of the other man's shoulders and into the silent path they're following through hyperspace. ] So why would you care?
Claude doesn't have time for that. He works for a resistance movement that is probably desperately looking for him as they speak. Using precious energy and resources on locating him, although they live by a code of 'leave behind what can't be salvaged'. One thing is the codes, though, another is the reality of human attachment, bonds of trust and debt. Love.
Even lost things aren't truly left behind in love, are they?
He told me you died, the man says, then, after a brief pause, the mechanisms that assists his breathing, sounds like, carrying that same inhuman, metallic quality. Claude lets both hands drop to his thighs, smoothening over the fabric of his trousers, the kind of clothes he used not to wear on Paris, but Paris is in shambles and there's not really anything left of the old days. Maybe he should've stayed a royal. Maybe his abdication wasn't of any help, at the end of the day. At the end of the whole kriffing era. I might as well have, he wants to reply, but gets a grip after a moment. ]
You're not with us. [ Voice tired now, just -- tired. He touches the kyber again, through his shirt. Looks past the breadth of the other man's shoulders and into the silent path they're following through hyperspace. ] So why would you care?
[ Why would you care asks Claude, who clearly hasn't stopped caring about causes greater than himself, not even now. To be fighting back against Sidious' Empire is, for most people, akin to suicide, if not right away then eventually, once the system inevitably catches up to you. He's seen many hunted down like this, not necessarily quickly but always relentlessly, the way his Master gets, a character trait somehow imprinted upon his constructions. All his constructions. Vader glances down at his gloved hands. Why would you care?
It's not that he wouldn't. It's that caring feels impossible now, like he might as well stop breathing and let himself fade into nothing instead, like that might be easier, it might be at least doable. Caring? Caring means...
He glances sideways slowly, turning his head enough to glimpse the other man out of the corner of his vision. Claude's tinted in red now, like everything else. The only thing that consistently looks as it should is his lightsaber. He isn't meant to be looking at anything else. His opinion is not needed - his care, even less so - and something about that reality, that fact of his current half-existence is very nearly impossible to give up.
Why would you care?
It's easier not to, so why indeed? ]
I used to be with you.
[ The words are flat because of his vocoder, too sharp, too mechanical. He hates his voice, all of a sudden. He's had no opinions on that, either. Not on the rest of his body modifications, either, nothing beyond whatever he might observe, then disregard. He's had no opinions on his actions, no opinions on the trail of death he's left in his wake, nothing. Oh, but the problem is that when he starts caring, he can't stop with just Claude, can he? He can't.
There's a long, long fall to the ground from there. ]
It's not that he wouldn't. It's that caring feels impossible now, like he might as well stop breathing and let himself fade into nothing instead, like that might be easier, it might be at least doable. Caring? Caring means...
He glances sideways slowly, turning his head enough to glimpse the other man out of the corner of his vision. Claude's tinted in red now, like everything else. The only thing that consistently looks as it should is his lightsaber. He isn't meant to be looking at anything else. His opinion is not needed - his care, even less so - and something about that reality, that fact of his current half-existence is very nearly impossible to give up.
Why would you care?
It's easier not to, so why indeed? ]
I used to be with you.
[ The words are flat because of his vocoder, too sharp, too mechanical. He hates his voice, all of a sudden. He's had no opinions on that, either. Not on the rest of his body modifications, either, nothing beyond whatever he might observe, then disregard. He's had no opinions on his actions, no opinions on the trail of death he's left in his wake, nothing. Oh, but the problem is that when he starts caring, he can't stop with just Claude, can he? He can't.
There's a long, long fall to the ground from there. ]
[ The voice says, I used to be with you, the faintest stress on you, because the rest is mechanical murmur and the clinking of plates, the creaking of screws. Claude grabs Anakin's kyber crystal through his shirt now, hard, an unyielding hold, like he's afraid what's gonna happen to it if he lets go. To him, if he does. What does that even mean? I used to be with you, who is this man, an old friend, an ally? Someone from Paris. His life doesn't go any further back than that. Breathing slow and even, mostly because he hasn't got lung capacity enough for more stress, he stares straight ahead and doesn't register anything. It's not like it isn't there, Claude just doesn't -- can't see it properly like this. And it makes him kriffing furious. He's so tired of getting dragged around, from planet to planet, from plan to plan, from attempt to attempt to attempt where nothing matters, because everything he does inevitably ends up in halves. Because he is.
His knuckles look white when he looks down at his hand, fingers tight and trembling around the kyber. ]
You're making a mockery of the people who used to be with me...
[ Releasing a breath at the same time as he releases his hard grasp on the crystal, Claude gets to his feet in one hard movement, not the way he used to move, when nothing weighed him down but a loincloth. He can't remember the last time he was just partially naked, he sleeps in everything these days, always ready to flee or hide or run. Always ready.
For what? Yeah, you tell him. You tell him.
He turns after one step, two. Looks at the cloaked figure, the man who doesn't seem to be anything but an armour. The man who isn't with them, but used to be with him, and Claude somewhere deep in the endless pit of his stomach feels that should probably mean something. Feels that once, too long ago to think about now, it would have. ]
... I hope you know that.
His knuckles look white when he looks down at his hand, fingers tight and trembling around the kyber. ]
You're making a mockery of the people who used to be with me...
[ Releasing a breath at the same time as he releases his hard grasp on the crystal, Claude gets to his feet in one hard movement, not the way he used to move, when nothing weighed him down but a loincloth. He can't remember the last time he was just partially naked, he sleeps in everything these days, always ready to flee or hide or run. Always ready.
For what? Yeah, you tell him. You tell him.
He turns after one step, two. Looks at the cloaked figure, the man who doesn't seem to be anything but an armour. The man who isn't with them, but used to be with him, and Claude somewhere deep in the endless pit of his stomach feels that should probably mean something. Feels that once, too long ago to think about now, it would have. ]
... I hope you know that.
[ Claude gets up and moves and he loses sight of his face like that, his own range of motion too restricted to turn his head any further. Smiling faintly and humourlessly at the other man's remark - a mockery is a suitable word - he inclines his head before he turns the seat to look at him fully. Claude's watching him with an expression on his face that he can't recognise; either his mask isn't translating the details correctly which is at least semi-likable or Claude's gained (or lost) nuances along the way. They've all lost something, it seems, in the wake of the war and the birth of the new world order.
His hands clench. Un-clench.
I am Darth Vader he could say, and you belong to me. Surely, if he wanted to, he could keep him, make certain that he stays safe. His Master might not even begrudge him that small concession, considering the rocky foundation of his apprenticeship. He could keep him, yes, and Claude would never go anywhere without him, he'd never be in any sort of danger, except perhaps the obvious one.
When people own you, what are you?
What?
The thought of turning Claude into that, of stripping that last bit of resistance from him is intolerable because he knows Claude, what matters and what doesn't, they used to speak of these things at length when the world was warmer and softer and full of sunlit patches. He closes his eyes, reaching for whatever little small bit of courage he might have left. ]
I do. [ He looks at Claude. Tints of red. Too little nuance. But all the same, he looks. ] It's me. This - behind this. [ He can't say it. Instead he gestures uselessly towards his mask an adds, fighting with his own tone of voice, trying to make it softer and failing: ] Do you understand?
His hands clench. Un-clench.
I am Darth Vader he could say, and you belong to me. Surely, if he wanted to, he could keep him, make certain that he stays safe. His Master might not even begrudge him that small concession, considering the rocky foundation of his apprenticeship. He could keep him, yes, and Claude would never go anywhere without him, he'd never be in any sort of danger, except perhaps the obvious one.
When people own you, what are you?
What?
The thought of turning Claude into that, of stripping that last bit of resistance from him is intolerable because he knows Claude, what matters and what doesn't, they used to speak of these things at length when the world was warmer and softer and full of sunlit patches. He closes his eyes, reaching for whatever little small bit of courage he might have left. ]
I do. [ He looks at Claude. Tints of red. Too little nuance. But all the same, he looks. ] It's me. This - behind this. [ He can't say it. Instead he gestures uselessly towards his mask an adds, fighting with his own tone of voice, trying to make it softer and failing: ] Do you understand?
[ Do you understand, asks the man with metal in his facade, metal seeping all the way into his voice and Claude doesn't, he doesn't understand anything. How can he know? This man, when he didn't know... the people who used to be with him. When he didn't know Anakin and Anakin is gone, Anakin is gone. He stares a long moment at the expressionless steel of the man's mask, made to scare and intimidate and cower. Except, Claude feels no fear and no intimidation and no need to hide away which in itself is a mystery. He has everything to lose. Just like he's already lost everything once before.
It's me.
Behind this.
And in that moment, he feels all air escape him, his lungs clamping shut and his eyes widening and his hairs standing on end down his arms, shivers down his spine. For the first time, ironically, Claude looks at the man in front of him, who's turned towards him completely now, and feels an overwhelming surge of fear.
The kyber around his neck feels heavy enough to drag him to the ground. Swallowing hard, he grabs the headrest of the nearest chair and clings to it, his knees feeling weak and crumbling beneath him. The muscles in his upper arm flex beneath his shirt from the strength with which he's holding on. He stares. And stares. ]
Anakin?
[ The worst realization isn't even that he doesn't want to believe it. The worst realization is that he doesn't kriffing dare. Hope. ]
It's me.
Behind this.
And in that moment, he feels all air escape him, his lungs clamping shut and his eyes widening and his hairs standing on end down his arms, shivers down his spine. For the first time, ironically, Claude looks at the man in front of him, who's turned towards him completely now, and feels an overwhelming surge of fear.
The kyber around his neck feels heavy enough to drag him to the ground. Swallowing hard, he grabs the headrest of the nearest chair and clings to it, his knees feeling weak and crumbling beneath him. The muscles in his upper arm flex beneath his shirt from the strength with which he's holding on. He stares. And stares. ]
Anakin?
[ The worst realization isn't even that he doesn't want to believe it. The worst realization is that he doesn't kriffing dare. Hope. ]
[ He can sense Claude's feelings change, from confusion and frustration to something blanker, first, something that doesn't quite know itself, and then -
Vader stares right back at him as the other man clings to the nearest chair, fingers digging in, his knuckles a bony white. It comes afterwards, then, that name, the name he still carries somewhere within his chest despite himself. It's been only two years and he might have pledged himself to Sidious but then, Claude died and it didn't matter, none of it did. He'd been so certain that nothing ever would again until he'd seen him in that cell, looking prepared for the worst (to be tortured and executed by Vader's hand and yes, that is the worst, there is nothing beyond it, nothing). He can sense the kyber calling out to him, clearer now, with the same purpose as always. There's something about it that's always been knife-like and sharp. Cold. Made for change. Sometimes, change is hard.
Sometimes, it's awful. ]
Yes. [ Pause. ] No. I don't know.
[ He looks down. The blue swirls of hyperspace reflect in the durasteel of his boots as the shuttle hurtles along. ]
I was.
[ That, at least, he can say without getting lost, trying to put the words together. He doesn't look up, feeling ridiculously small despite the suit or perhaps, indeed, because of it. Even after two years, he still isn't used to the clumsy nature of it, the stiffness of his joints. He can feel a well of emotion building beneath the surface at the thought alone, of Claude speaking that name to him when there ought to be nothing left to respond but the by-now-familiar anger won't come. It never did around him.
Instead, his left eye is tearing up, what little it still can. ]
Vader stares right back at him as the other man clings to the nearest chair, fingers digging in, his knuckles a bony white. It comes afterwards, then, that name, the name he still carries somewhere within his chest despite himself. It's been only two years and he might have pledged himself to Sidious but then, Claude died and it didn't matter, none of it did. He'd been so certain that nothing ever would again until he'd seen him in that cell, looking prepared for the worst (to be tortured and executed by Vader's hand and yes, that is the worst, there is nothing beyond it, nothing). He can sense the kyber calling out to him, clearer now, with the same purpose as always. There's something about it that's always been knife-like and sharp. Cold. Made for change. Sometimes, change is hard.
Sometimes, it's awful. ]
Yes. [ Pause. ] No. I don't know.
[ He looks down. The blue swirls of hyperspace reflect in the durasteel of his boots as the shuttle hurtles along. ]
I was.
[ That, at least, he can say without getting lost, trying to put the words together. He doesn't look up, feeling ridiculously small despite the suit or perhaps, indeed, because of it. Even after two years, he still isn't used to the clumsy nature of it, the stiffness of his joints. He can feel a well of emotion building beneath the surface at the thought alone, of Claude speaking that name to him when there ought to be nothing left to respond but the by-now-familiar anger won't come. It never did around him.
Instead, his left eye is tearing up, what little it still can. ]
[ He was, he says. He was?
Who is he now, then? If not Anakin.
The Empire's watch dog? That would still be Anakin, Anakin who was the Jedi Order's watch dog first. He's just exchanged one master with another, if so. If so. Turning around fully, coming face to face with the other man in his metallic suit and his dead mask and his cloak, Claude's mouth sets, a stubborn, insistent line, unlike any expression he's made since he got the news, exaggerated obviously, of Anakin's death. He wanted to change the world, once. Now he just wants the world to change for him, for them.
Come on, have some kriffing pity on them.
On Anakin who was proud and arrogant and self-conscious and the thing that weighed the most about him was his metaphorical balls. Anakin whose balls are still of steel, along with the rest of him, because here Claude is, where he has been taken, where he has been led. Anakin who holds every potential to lead, as much as he holds every potential to be led astray. Meaning, he holds every option in his hand, but works for people who don't want him to use his free will, not now, not ever. Claude vividly remembers having had this very conversation with him before, long ago. But not longer than that. They both still remember, that much is clear. They still remember. They still --
His eyes are brimming over with tears and he breathes in, air stuck in his throat, thick and wet. Then, without saying a single word, he walks up to the man in the pilot's seat, stops right in front of him, Anakin still on eye-level with him, sitting down. In how many ways has he grown since they last saw each other? In how many ways has he shrunk?
Wiping at his left cheek with the fingers of the corresponding hand, Claude reaches up with his right hand and touches his palm to the side of Anakin's helmet. He doesn't try to remove it himself, he hasn't been given permission and everything else aside, he won't just be a new master, giving new orders. He wants to be his support.
That's different. ]
Can you take it off for me? I want to -- [ Voice breaking, he has to wait half a second before continuing, correcting himself easily. ] -- I need to see you.
Who is he now, then? If not Anakin.
The Empire's watch dog? That would still be Anakin, Anakin who was the Jedi Order's watch dog first. He's just exchanged one master with another, if so. If so. Turning around fully, coming face to face with the other man in his metallic suit and his dead mask and his cloak, Claude's mouth sets, a stubborn, insistent line, unlike any expression he's made since he got the news, exaggerated obviously, of Anakin's death. He wanted to change the world, once. Now he just wants the world to change for him, for them.
Come on, have some kriffing pity on them.
On Anakin who was proud and arrogant and self-conscious and the thing that weighed the most about him was his metaphorical balls. Anakin whose balls are still of steel, along with the rest of him, because here Claude is, where he has been taken, where he has been led. Anakin who holds every potential to lead, as much as he holds every potential to be led astray. Meaning, he holds every option in his hand, but works for people who don't want him to use his free will, not now, not ever. Claude vividly remembers having had this very conversation with him before, long ago. But not longer than that. They both still remember, that much is clear. They still remember. They still --
His eyes are brimming over with tears and he breathes in, air stuck in his throat, thick and wet. Then, without saying a single word, he walks up to the man in the pilot's seat, stops right in front of him, Anakin still on eye-level with him, sitting down. In how many ways has he grown since they last saw each other? In how many ways has he shrunk?
Wiping at his left cheek with the fingers of the corresponding hand, Claude reaches up with his right hand and touches his palm to the side of Anakin's helmet. He doesn't try to remove it himself, he hasn't been given permission and everything else aside, he won't just be a new master, giving new orders. He wants to be his support.
That's different. ]
Can you take it off for me? I want to -- [ Voice breaking, he has to wait half a second before continuing, correcting himself easily. ] -- I need to see you.
[ He doesn't look up, not even as Claude approaches but he can feel the mood changing regardless, the storm of emotions rising across the space between them. A part of him wants to revel in them, the potential darkness lingering like a promise in every moment of sadness or grief; when harnessed correctly, there's always potential, destructive transformation there, capable of breaking things, of leaving them to burn and turn to ashes. But he hasn't been a Sith for very long, nor has he been a very studious apprentice and consequently, the urge to simply fall to the ground on his knees and slam his head into the floor is greater. He stays where he is, curling his hands against his knees and squeezing hard enough that the joints creak, sensors sending spikes of pain into his nervous system.
When he finally looks up at Claude behind the mask because he has to, because at some point, the sense of proximity becomes too pronounced to ignore, what remains of his heart breaks from recognition. It's not just the way he looks - so familiar, this close up - but also, the way he's crying. Anguish is the most painful feeling in the world, he thinks. Useless. Devoid of power.
At this moment, they look at each other and they're once more perfectly in sync.
He looks at Claude for a long moment before he rises to his feet, towering above him by too many inches. He can't feel the echoes of Claude's fingers against his helmet, of course, but he can imagine. There will be spots there, now, damp and completely unique to him, the man he thought he'd lost.
Bits of treasure, undeserved. ]
This way, then.
[ He steps around him and heads for the back of the modified shuttle without pausing to see if Claude truly follows along. He doesn't want to believe anything.
After all - then, he'd have to hope.
And after that? ]
When he finally looks up at Claude behind the mask because he has to, because at some point, the sense of proximity becomes too pronounced to ignore, what remains of his heart breaks from recognition. It's not just the way he looks - so familiar, this close up - but also, the way he's crying. Anguish is the most painful feeling in the world, he thinks. Useless. Devoid of power.
At this moment, they look at each other and they're once more perfectly in sync.
He looks at Claude for a long moment before he rises to his feet, towering above him by too many inches. He can't feel the echoes of Claude's fingers against his helmet, of course, but he can imagine. There will be spots there, now, damp and completely unique to him, the man he thought he'd lost.
Bits of treasure, undeserved. ]
This way, then.
[ He steps around him and heads for the back of the modified shuttle without pausing to see if Claude truly follows along. He doesn't want to believe anything.
After all - then, he'd have to hope.
And after that? ]
[ 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. ]
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. ]
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. ]
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.
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. ]
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.
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.
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.
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