Chapter Text
Darth Vader entered the room and dropped a clatter of machine parts in front of Dr. Aphra, where she'd been sitting cross-legged, working at fixing a droid. "Put this together. You will need it at our destination."
"Sure, Mr. Lord Vader," Aphra muttered, diverting her attention from the droid. Her quarters on this little ship were cramped; the larger berth was reserved for Vader and whatever weird apparatus he used when he slept. Or meditated? Maybe he didn't sleep. Maybe that part of his brain was so papered over with magic and computer parts that he didn't have to. "Whatever you say, your excellency, Vader, sir."
"A 'yes' would do."
"I'm working on it. That's a 'yes.'"
Aphra knew how to politely address Vader. She pretended to forget, because she liked having wiggle room in how she could speak and behave. It kept some of the terror of this guy is going to try to murder me soon at bay.
She did like Vader. It was a feeling she tried not to analyze. Aphra was in the business of big, cool, deadly mechanical things, and Vader checked all of those boxes. If he was going to get her killed on the job, there were worse ways to go.
Besides, if and when he did try to kill her, she had some contingency plans.
She rifled through the pile, quickly assessing what kind of device this was. A gun, with some weird parts, and some fiddly little - hang on -
"This is a handheld proton gun," she exclaimed. "An experimental Tarkin Initiative prototype that never went into full production. Where did you get-"
She cut herself off as Vader turned his head towards her. Sure, Aphra. Run your mouth off. Ask the murder boy where he got the weapons that were made by his dead murder boyfriend.
"You will need it when we reach our destination," Vader said coolly.
"Which is where, again, exactly?"
"Do not pry."
Everybody knew about Vader and Grand Moff Tarkin and the relationship they'd had. Most people thought it was gay and weird, but Aphra wasn't going to judge; she was pretty gay and weird too. And she'd noticed how often Vader's secret resources, like that bloodthirsty little pair of droids, came out of Tarkin's projects. Aphra was a rogue military archaeologist and erstwhile arms dealer, and in that line of work, Tarkin was the guy who'd commissioned all the really cool shit.
It was kind of funny, imagining Vader dating a guy like that. Vader was practically half droid. He had such pretty lights and switches all over him. Aphra could understand the urge to take him apart and see how he worked. If not for the whole mortal terror thing, she could have mistaken it for a good idea herself.
She separated the components of the proton gun into piles and started piecing them together. Vader didn't leave. Aphra was used to that by now. Sometimes he swooped in, gave orders, and dramatically swooped back out; other times he stood in one place like this, lost in thought.
"I get it, you know," she said, to fill the silence. "The whole revenge-quest thing. I've had people I wanted to avenge. Blam blam, blow 'em up, serves 'em right. For most of us, that's a dream, but you're strong enough to actually make it happen. I'm on board."
Vader crossed his arms. "Is that what you believe this is?"
"Are you saying it's not?" She clicked a few more components of the gun together. "I know I'm not supposed to pry, but some things leap out. You've got your droid army, you've got a power base of your own, so the next question is what you want to do with it. And aside from fending off your weird cyborg rivals, we've pretty much been doing one thing. Tracking down that pilot kid who blew up Grand Moff Boyfriend."
Vader visibly twitched. "Do not call him that."
As long as Aphra worked for Vader, the greatest threat to her life was the wrath she would face if she messed up a mission. The second greatest threat was her own big mouth. But Aphra had long ago learned that she couldn't stop herself from mouthing off if she tried; so she didn't bother trying. Besides, if he murdered her for talking, at least she'd die feeling the adrenaline-fueled hilarity of whoops, went too far that time, instead of the icky sinking feeling of real failure.
"Sorry, O Great Lord Mr. Vader. Totally understandable, though."
Vader's voice was cold. "I did not hire you to second-guess me, but to obey my orders precisely. You do not need to understand."
"Sure thing, sir Vader. Just like I don't need to know what this proton gun's for. Not like we'll be landing in parts unknown and having to use it today." She clicked the last few parts into place and paused to admire her handiwork, turning it over in her hands. It was in pristine condition; she'd barely even had to dust its components off. But who knew how it would handle? This model had been discontinued for its erratic performance. For all she knew, maybe they needed something erratic right now.
Vader crossed the room to the window and stared out at the stars.
"This is not revenge," he said, more to the window than to her. "It began as that. But it transpires that there are other goals. Older. When we find Luke Skywalker, revenge will not be our objective."
"Really?" Aphra played idly with the proton gun's settings, flicking it from kill to kill more to absolutely shred everything and back again. "Up to you, boss. But don't you think, uh, Tarkin would have wanted a little revenge? As a treat?"
Vader's hand tightened into a fist, and for a second she was sure she'd really gone too far. She held her breath. Then she decided that if Vader was going to choke her, there was no point starting the process for him. Aphra breathed. She flicked the gun's settings back and forth with nervous fingers.
"He would roll in his grave at the current plan," Vader said at last, lower than ever. "If he had one. But he will not be the first person I have had to disappoint."
He turned and swept out of the room without looking at her. Aphra sagged back against the wall and let out a sigh of relief, which was not nearly the first since Vader recruited her, and which she was sure would be far from the last.