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When Vader first learned he had a son, it took a few days to settle in. Which his officers seemed quite puzzled by; he was in a state of shock, but he did hope it wasn’t that obvious. The murder rate aboard Executor went down by 99%, and so did the amount of colds treated by the ship’s med bay.
After the first few days of holy-crap-I-have-a-son, it really got to him that he did, indeed, have a son. At which point, most of the standing water on the ship became ice. Because holy shit, he had no idea how to have a son. Or be a father. Or anything like that.
When he’d had a wife, he’d strangled her.
When he’d had a padawan, he’d buried her alive.
Fuck, he didn’t want to mess his son up, too. Well, more than leaving him to rot on Tatooine would have, anyway. Bloody Obi-Wan; still an annoying smart-arse after being murdered.
Once the ship’s technicians had got their collective shit together, they attempted to unfreeze the pipes, and patch up the multiple holes. They lasted a few days before Vader found them sat in an abandoned room, downing the entire ship’s supply of Corellian whiskey.
“Oh, Milord, I didn’t think,” the man paused, held up a finger and convulsed, letting out a loud hiccup, which the rest of the officers applauded, “that you would be here.”
Darth Vader raised an eyebrow behind his mask. Because of course not. He had only found them because the Force had been giggling its fucking ass off over the situation, so he’d taken a look. It wasn’t as amusing as the ethereal power seemed to think. “What… are you doing?”
A different one spoke up, this time. “Drinking in your honour! Sir! Bursting all these pipes is very impressive, sir!”
“You are blaming your incompetence on me?”
“Essentially,” a third officer chimed in, to the tune of giggles from both the Force and his fellows.
And if that wasn’t an excuse to strangle the entire useless damn ship (except for Piett… He liked Piett), then he didn’t know what was. But. Luke probably wouldn’t like that. So he didn’t. Because that was a good dad move… Right?
Instead, Vader walked over to the wall and leaned a hand against it, closing his ears to the almost-teasing stares of his pathetic technicians, and reaching out with the Force. It didn’t take long to find each tear in his gorgeous, if oversized ship. And then patch it up. Shifting atoms around wasn’t too hard when you could restart your own heart, after all. It took only a few moments, during which the officers giggled and whispered amongst themselves.
“Next time, do your own jobs,” Vader growled as he stormed out, resisting the extremely prevalent urge to crush their spines.
UwU
After the first week had passed, after the revelation, Vader was more back to his old self. The death rate rode up again, as did the shivers as people walked by him. Apart from Piett, because Piett was, pretty much, the most competent individual Vader had ever met, excluding himself. And his son. Because Luke was probably the best person in the world, except for his propensity for getting into trouble and escaping traps.
Thinking of traps. Vader planned many, in that first week. Most of them were too murderous to be used on his son, the others included outside help; and, after everything with Grakkus, he didn’t want his son remotely near to anyone who could even potentially be linked to the slave trade.
Instead of the more sinister plans, Vader tried his hand at something more benign.
His first attempt was a holo-card, with the message: “Sorry I support Corellia United, but you’re still my son!” Except, Corellia United was quite firmly scribbled out, with “the Galactic Empire” squiggled, barely-legible above it.
He didn’t really know what to write inside, so he just sent it like that. Which got quite a few strange looks from his bridge crew for a couple of weeks. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t know how to write a card! He was literally raised a slave, then as a soldier with no family. It wasn’t a very useful skill in his background.
It took a few weeks before his card was delivered, and a few more before it was read. At which point there was no response.
For the hours after the little tick in the corner of his notification turned to green, Vader remained shut inside his quarters, bent over the PADD, eyes shifting from yellow to blue with frightening rapidity. Once it became clear he (Darth motherfucking Vader) had been left on read, the pipes burst again.
UwU
Next, he tried something more simple. Just a voice message! It would be harder to leave him on read then, right? Vader didn’t really know. Social interaction wasn’t his forte; most people just started running if he tried to have a pleasant conversation.
Sitting down in his hyperbaric chamber, Vader flipped a switch and his helmet was pulled away. He held his personal (untraceable – he made it himself) commlink. With a few flicks, he managed to get it to record a voice message, despite his oversized fingers nearly crushing the damn thing multiple times.
Once it started recording, the little red light beeping, he had no idea what to say. Therefore, he quickly flipped it off, retrieved his mask and set about finding a flimsi and pen.
After a few minutes of searching, he had procured a single, squashed piece and a stylus which looked about ready to snap in half. He sat back down and removed the annoying helmet once again. Using his thighs as a rest – the one upside to durasteel legs – Vader began to write.
He tried to start it with a happy tone; “Hello Luke!” He scribbled down. “It’s me, your father!” After writing, the pen-end found its way into his scarred mouth as he sat, thinking. “father” got promptly crossed out; changed to “dad”. He continued. “I’m still alive. Not exactly still a Jedi, but pretty close. Stop being annoying and let me kidnap you?” Again, the pen was being chewed. He added “Please?” to the end. Then: “Sincerely, your loving father, who isn’t that evil, I swear on the Force.”
Vader leant back in his seat and examined the flimsi. And promptly crumpled it up, tore it and threw it to the floor of his chamber. Then called up the Dark Side and set fire to it. Because what use was the power of the Sith if he couldn’t burn stuff?
Fed up with attempting to figure out a strategy, Vader scooped up his comm and flicked it on again.
And promptly felt rather stupid, as he had no idea what to say. Or how to say it. How did kids nowadays greet each other? Was a high-five or handshake still acceptable, or had they evolved?
“Ah… Hello. Luke!” That was the most awkward fucking sentence in his entire life, by the Force. “I, uh, sent you a card. Earlier. You didn’t answer. Are you okay? Are the Rebels feeding you alright?” At this, Vader’s rather protective-father side made an appearance and he leant forwards. “My spies are telling me you’ve had to change your flight-suit size down! Are they not feeding you well enough? You’re a growing boy; you need nutrition.” It was what all the parenting holos he’d picked up said, anyway. “I didn’t eat enough… uh, potatoes! When I was your age, and now I’m a quadruple amputee with all of my body covered in third degree burns. Obviously, the two are related; eat healthily.” He paused awkwardly. “Please message me back?” With that last, very pathetic sentence, Vader swiftly flicked off the recording. He contemplated listening back to it, but quickly smushed his finger on the send button before he could lose his confidence.
Force, connecting with an estranged son was hard.
Scratch that; communication was hard.
UwU
The final attempt was another couple of weeks after the second, which had been left on read. Again. It was getting irritating.
Vader was trying his best to approach this like a normal dad! There weren’t many guides to trying to connect with your child on the other side of a war, with very different political and ideological beliefs, and who thought you were dead, whilst at the same time sworn to kill you.
Yeah, the spies had been quite clear on Obi-Wan’s lies.
So, for the last attempt at communication, Vader simply sent a set of co-ordinates to his son’s communicator. Via multiple VPNs, of course.
Once it was through and firmly on “read”, Vader set course for Iego. And got there twenty minutes later, because he had been planning this for far too long. And knew it wouldn’t take longer than an hour for Luke to get there from his position with the Alliance.
He had to wait two hours. The cheeky bastard.
But, eventually, Luke’s little X-Wing miraculously appeared from hyperspace, only a few kilometres away. At which point, Vader’s mind sort of blanked for a few minutes.
Because his son was there. With him. In the same sort of area.
Once he was less high on the sheer amount of pure, Light that his son emitted, Vader tucked his small snub (he’d forgone the TIE Advance this time around) into a steep dive towards one of the moons below. A backwards glance confirmed that Luke followed.
They both landed a few minutes later, one after the other. Luke, being an idiot (his idiot, though), leapt from his fighter without checking the outside atmosphere. Thankfully, Vader had checked for him. Multiple times. Quite a few hours ago.
“You!” Luke eventually said, once he was within yelling range. “You’re the scammer! I don’t know who you think you are, but my father is dead!!”
Oh. So that was why Luke had left him on read. Quite a reasonable conclusion, looking back on his actions.
“Now get out here, you Sithspawn, and give me some answers!”
The boy was pretty angry. Which, unfortunately was quite understandable. So, to clear it up as quickly as he could, Vader flicked his snub’s roof up with a flick of his hand. Just to be sure Luke couldn’t pretend his eyes were playing tricks, he leapt out. Then gave a few hissing, asthmatic breaths for good measure.
“… Oh mother of the Force…”
“No, Luke; I am your father.” His revelation was met with stunned silence.
Which was then broken. “You sent me that crappy card?!” Luke snorted, slightly hysterical.
“… Yes.”
“You’re Darth Vader.”
“Yes.”
“And you sent me the shitty card.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re my dad?”
“… I thought I made that clear.”
Luke stared at him. “You’re shit at this; you know that, right?”
“… Yes.”
The Jedi cracked a grin. “Well, I’ll help you pick out the card, next time.”
Vader smiled behind his mask for a second, before Luke’s words finally sunk in. Because he didn’t like the implication that this lengthy, embarrassing process may need repeating. “Next time?!”
“You didn’t know Leia’s my twin?”
With that, Vader’s poor, over-worked social abilities (inabilities, more like) collapsed and died.