Chapter Text
In Which Anakin, in Expected Fashion, is a Disapproving (Unofficial) Father-In-Law.
"Father?"
The old man—or so he unfalteringly referred to himself as—stirred from his thoughts and clumsily patted Luke's shoulder. From colorless lips came a feeble croak,
"Yes... son?"
Luke eyed him with a sheepish gaze and couldn’t help but let out a low, bashful chuckle. The younger man murmured softly, careful not to disturb the continued tranquility of the recovery room,
"Once you're better, we should head to the cantina together."
His father waited for cycles of machine-induced breaths—one, two, three, the oxygen forcing its way into dead lungs—before speaking again.
"My... dear... dear boy." In the still air, stiff metal fingers stroked Luke's blond mop of hair—Anakin always took advantage of what little physical touch he could afford. "Am... on my... deathbed... ailing... ancient man. Won't... be able... to... go... with you." Under the thick ventilator mask, the old man attempted a smile, hoping to soften Luke’s reaction.
"Father!” Luke reached to cup his father’s pallid, lined cheek in his flesh hand, his melancholic smile matching Anakin’s. “You're hardly even fifty years old—you've got a long way to go. Plus, you've been getting better, hmm? The doctors say your heart's becoming stronger every day. Soon, you’ll be able to spend some time outside this room."
What he said wasn’t true; the former warlord was just as much of a living corpse now as he’d been when he arrived in the Alliance medbay, severely wounded and nearly dead. Decades of acute torture had ruined his body to the utmost, and the medics had informed Luke that recovery would be sluggish if it even happens at all. But Luke could hope—and he knew that if anything, the prospect of spending more time with his son would be enough encouragement for his father to work at restoring his wellbeing.
"I... s-suppose..." The old man sank back into his pillow, exhausted from their brief exchange of words. Eyes half-open to look at his son despite his bone-deep lethargy, he continued carding his more steady hand through Luke's hair, and Luke remained silent, savoring his father's touch. Relaxed in his son’s presence, Anakin began ruminating once more. The room fell noiseless except for the background rasp and whirr of Anakin’s artificial breathing, the beeping of a plethora of monitors, and the faint rustling of clothes as Luke shifted to nestle himself in a more comfortable position.
Suddenly, with a jerk, Anakin's crinkling mouth transformed into a scowl, and the hand that weaved at Luke’s hair abruptly stopped.
"What's wrong, Father?" Luke moved his hand from that wizened cheek to his father's shoulder, hoping to placate whatever thoughts disturbed the man.
"My… son. I assume... S-Solo..." His scowl deepened at the stumblingly lisped name of the general in his toothless mouth as if the word itself was vulgar, "takes you... to drink... fre-...frequently?"
"Yeah." Luke chuckled again.
Anakin's cloudy eyes bulged, and near them, the heart monitor beeped cautionary warnings. Raising his more unsteady hand, for he was reluctant to remove his contact with Luke's head, he wagged a tremulous finger at empty air and grumbled, "oh... that ruffian!" A wet cough later, he threatened, "endangering my... s-son's health... hmmph! When I... walk again..."
Hesitation nonexistent, a stern Luke sat up, removing his head, chest, and right arm from his snug spot on father's caving, mutilated but warm breast, earning a pained noise of protest from the old man.
"Father, don't you admonish Han’s habits. He’s saved my life far too many times to count."
A flash of grief surfaced in Anakin’s unfocused eyes as he knew the exact culprit who made Han’s numerous rescues necessary, and the man fell silent, his wheezing turning harsher from the guilt weighing down on his already aching body. The struggled breaths rapidly descended into a coughing fit that knocked what scarce remaining wind out of Anakin’s lungs.
Despite himself, Luke could not weather seeing his father coughing like this, and he leaned down close to Anakin’s ear, whispering to pacify the old man’s condition,
“Hush… don’t get too worked up, alright?”
Between pitiful gasps for air, Anakin nodded and attempted to regulate his breathing. Luke kissed his father’s blotched temple and, in spite of his conscience and defensiveness over his best friend, secretly thought that the motivation of being able to punish Han’s bad habits might expedite his father’s admittedly inert recovery.
Having salvaged his breath, the old man was straining to hold his son again, and at Anakin's longing face, Luke returned to his spot on his father's chest. Anakin looked over his son with loving eyes, unwound his scrunched expression, stroked Luke’s cheek, secured his boy in heavy, enveloping arms, then shook his head, muttering mostly to himself.
"Ruffian. What does... Leia... see, in him?"