Work Text:
The corridors of the Executor were never silent. The hum of machinery, the distant clank of stormtrooper boots, the occasional hiss of a door sliding open—all of it filled the air like a mechanical heartbeat. Yet, amidst the noise, a tiny, frantic beep-beep-beep caught Lord Vader’s attention.
He turned his helmeted head, his respirator cycling in a slow, deliberate rhythm. There, against the wall, a mouse droid trembled, its little blocky frame twitching left and right as if searching for escape. Its motivator whined unevenly, and one of its treads stuttered, causing it to jerk in place rather than roll smoothly.
Vader took a step forward.
The mouse droid let out a terrified squeal and tried to flee, but its damaged tread sent it spinning in a half-circle before it bumped pathetically into the Dark Lord’s boot. It froze, its tiny sensors flickering up at the towering figure in black.
For a long moment, Vader simply stared.
Then, slowly, he bent down.
The mouse droid let out a series of frantic, staticky beeps, certain it was about to be crushed. But instead of destruction, gloved fingers closed around its chassis with surprising care. Vader lifted it, examining its damaged tread with a tilt of his helmet.
"You are malfunctioning," he observed, his voice a deep rumble.
The droid beeped weakly in response.
Without another word, Vader turned and strode toward his private quarters. Stormtroopers and officers alike scrambled out of his path, none daring to question why the Emperor’s Fist was carrying a broken mouse droid like it was a wounded soldier.
.
.
.
Inside his private chamber, away from prying eyes, Vader set the droid on a workbench. His cape billowed behind him as he reached for a set of precision tools. The mouse droid chirped uncertainly, its sensors darting around the dimly lit room.
"Be still," Vader commanded.
The droid obeyed.
With practiced ease, Vader pried open the droid’s access panel, revealing a tangle of wires and circuitry. A few were frayed, and one of the servos in its tread assembly had come loose. It was a simple fix—something any technician could have handled.
But Vader did not summon a technician.
His hands moved with mechanical precision, yet there was something gentle in the way he reconnected the wires, tightened the servo, and smoothed out the droid’s damaged tread. The Force hummed around him, not with anger, not with pain, but with something quieter. Something focused.
The mouse droid beeped curiously as Vader reactivated its systems. Its tread spun smoothly once more, and it let out a happy little trill, rolling in a small circle on the bench.
Vader watched.
Then, with a single gloved finger, he nudged it toward the edge. "Go."
The mouse droid hesitated, its newly repaired treads shifting uncertainly. Its sensors were blinking as if trying to decipher the enigma of the Dark Lord’s actions. Then, with a soft, almost musical beep-beep, it rolled forward—not toward the door, but toward Vader’s hand.
It nudged against his gloved fingers.
A droid’s gratitude.
Vader went very still.
The gesture was absurd. Insignificant. Beneath him. And yet—
"You’re welcome, Artoo. Just don’t go getting yourself shot again, all right?"
The memory struck like a spark in the dark.
A laugh. His own, but lighter, freer. The warmth of a hangar bay on Coruscant, the scent of oil and ozone. A blue-and-white astromech chirping indignantly as he tightened a loose motivator.
For a single, fractured second, Vader wasn’t on the Executor. He was back there, in the light.
Then the pain rushed in like a flood.
His respirator cycled harshly, the sound jagged in the silence. The mouse droid recoiled, skittering back a few inches before pausing, as if waiting to see if it had offended him.
Vader clenched his fist. The memory shattered.
"Go," he repeated, the word rougher this time.
The droid beeped once more—softer now, almost hesitant—before finally turning and zipping away, its repaired tread carrying it swiftly into the shadows of the corridor.
Alone again, Vader stared at the space where it had been.
The ghost of Anakin Skywalker lingered in this room like a stain.
It was in the way his hands had moved without thought, the way he had known the droid’s inner workings by instinct. It was in the way his chest ached—not from the suit, not from the Emperor’s punishments, but from something far older.
Something that had no right to still exist.
"Anakin Skywalker is dead," he growled, the words reverberating off the walls.
But the silence that followed was hollow.
Because his hands remembered.
They remembered the weight of tools, the hum of a lightsaber hilt taking shape, the way wires yielded beneath his fingers like they were meant to be touched by him. They remembered repairing, building, creating—not just destroying.
And for a single, unforgivable moment, his heart remembered too.
It remembered loving.
The betrayal of that memory was worse than any pain the suit could inflict.
With a snarl, Vader backhanded the workbench, sending tools clattering to the floor. The crash echoed like a blaster shot. Outside, a stormtrooper on patrol stiffened but wisely kept walking.
The Dark Side coiled around him, feeding on his fury, his shame.
Good.
Let it burn away the weakness.
Let it erase the boy who had once knelt in a dusty Tatooine workshop, whispering to broken droids like they were friends.
That boy was gone.
That Jedi was gone.
All that remained was Vader.
And yet—
As he turned to leave, his boot came down on a stray hydrospanner that had rolled near his feet. He paused.
Slowly, deliberately, he bent and picked it up.
For a heartbeat, he simply held it, unable to feel the coolness of the metal through his glove.
Then, with a final, mechanical hiss, he set it back on the bench.
And left it there.