His head is ringing. For longer than Vader cares to admit, he doesn't know why.
That it's Luke screaming to the point he can't hear anything else, can't even focus.
Decades ago, broken ribs and knock to the head had been soothed with a cool worn-out rag to wipe his face, a soft song, a breast presented to his mouth. He'd have been all of two.
That memory, Shmi's care, her brown hair in a long braid wrapped around a small hand, her voice, her love (her Light). My little blessing, sung whisper soft.
Our baby will be a blessing.
Luke screaming.
Vader rose, not truly moving under his own accord, to put his forefingers against Luke's head and shove something at him.
It's less delicate than Anakin had been trained to be, Vader clumsy from decades without practice.
Shoves that warmth of that memory, that safe-care-love that had been tangled in healing, a memory of a beautiful girl (the most beautiful her ever seen) in a robe made of flame wrapping a blanket around a shivering boy 'Space is cold Ani', a male voice groaning quietly in the dark, a hand well calloused from the hilt of a lightsaber falling down, bumping his head and rubbing hair shorn short 'go back to sleep Anakin', brilliant blue eyes and orange and white skin from a young Tortuga leaning over him and a man with warm brown eyes like rich dirt and a blond buzzcut right beside. 'Skyguy?' 'General Sir?'
Purple silk under his hand, the flesh under it warm and round and firm and so alive, a warm heavy body against his, dark brown curls obscuring his vision, something moving under his hand. 'Shhhh let your mother sleep'. In a voice too high, too warm to be Vader's - but unmistakably his candence.
Nothing of which Vader means to translate over. An impossible knot tethered to the feeling Luke is calling in.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2024-01-19 12:56 pm (UTC)That it's Luke screaming to the point he can't hear anything else, can't even focus.
Decades ago, broken ribs and knock to the head had been soothed with a cool worn-out rag to wipe his face, a soft song, a breast presented to his mouth. He'd have been all of two.
That memory, Shmi's care, her brown hair in a long braid wrapped around a small hand, her voice, her love (her Light). My little blessing, sung whisper soft.
Our baby will be a blessing.
Luke screaming.
Vader rose, not truly moving under his own accord, to put his forefingers against Luke's head and shove something at him.
It's less delicate than Anakin had been trained to be, Vader clumsy from decades without practice.
Shoves that warmth of that memory, that safe-care-love that had been tangled in healing, a memory of a beautiful girl (the most beautiful her ever seen) in a robe made of flame wrapping a blanket around a shivering boy 'Space is cold Ani', a male voice groaning quietly in the dark, a hand well calloused from the hilt of a lightsaber falling down, bumping his head and rubbing hair shorn short 'go back to sleep Anakin', brilliant blue eyes and orange and white skin from a young Tortuga leaning over him and a man with warm brown eyes like rich dirt and a blond buzzcut right beside. 'Skyguy?' 'General Sir?'
Purple silk under his hand, the flesh under it warm and round and firm and so alive, a warm heavy body against his, dark brown curls obscuring his vision, something moving under his hand. 'Shhhh let your mother sleep'. In a voice too high, too warm to be Vader's - but unmistakably his candence.
Nothing of which Vader means to translate over. An impossible knot tethered to the feeling Luke is calling in.
Hush its OK.