Screaming because like a year ago I came on here and posted asking if anyone knew of a specific fic because I couldn't find it and I thought I had bookmarked it and people responded saying they'd look out and that it sounded good and they wanted to read it to. Only for a year later for me to be going through my own tabs on my own phone and finding the fic waiting right there for me on the last chapter I had read 🤦
Anyway it's called "Deciding Factor" by planningconquest on Archive of our Own
Barnaby had been in and out of a lot of churches in his time, most of them build out of decommissed rec centers or the gutted remained of another demoninations building, the largest which looked more like a stadium than what he thought churches were supposed to look like. He’d toured alot of them while abroad for his various projects, dragged along by curious cast mates to St. Peter’s and the Hagia Sophia mosque, and a dozen synagogues.
The truth was, he didn’t have any use for them other than admiring the art work and attending various services as his parents tried to find which religion would make him more marketable. He’d only ever found use in the Astronauts Prayer, and that was only before his stunts.
A few people were seated in the pews, the candles dark and lights off with the only light streaming through the heavy clouds and stained glass. A few conversations fell silent as he walked past, knelt outside the pew, and shuffled in. He needed somewhere to sit, somewhere quiet and almost warm.
The cruel thought that it was actually easier to be the only person in the lighthouse chased Sam every time he set about preparing a meal or cleaning up after the only muddy pair of boot prints. He wasn’t chasing down his father or taking his nearly catatonic mother tea.
Lonely, yes, but no more so than when his parents lived. There were simply less bodies to move around, and Sam shied away from his personal thoughts whenever he considered them.
In an effort to avoid thinking, he worked, scrubbed, and cleaned, until even the stubborn stains in the lighthouse washroom were gone, and he’d fixed the mailbox. He was just thinking about re-painting the door when he caught sight of an unfamiliar figure wandering down the nearby stretch of rocks. Picking over the stones, occasionally bending down to observe them, the man only looked up when Sam got close enough to clear his throat pointedly. Dressed in slack rolled up to his calves, a sweater that had seen far better days, and a sagging hat, the face that turned to Sam brimmed with life and charm.
Dark eyes slipped over Sam in a considering gaze that nearly sent him skittering back. “Lighthouse keeper.” The deep tenor of his voice striking an unfamiliar chord with the shorter man. “Have you come to frighten me away?”
“True enough.” Tucking his hands into his pockets, Hector moved back to give the man a measure of privacy. “I’ll leave you to your dead, Captain.” It wasn’t exactly a retreat, but he’d never been comfortable around so many ghosts. He was sure at least two of them were from this century mixed in with the crowd.
Owen Lars is press-ganged into the Imperial Navy. He serves as a pretty low-level fella aboard a few vessels and he's basically held hostage and can't go home. All this while, Luke is growing up and he and Beru think he's been killed. (They know he wouldn't just leave them)
Luke and Beru run afoul of some traders and escape off-world with Obi-Wan who has no idea where Owen is but starts training Luke. Beru joins the rebellion as a pilot.
Owen gets transferred to Vader's ship and manages to survive despite the odds. His name is familiar to Vader and he has no idea what to with it. He doesn't get a long with Piett. Still, he goes along bitterly and grumpily (making friends with clone troopers) when Luke drops onto the scene.
Instead of doing his duty as an officer, Owen defects like a boss, steals a bunch of stuff, and in the middle of the defection drops the bomb on the bridge crew and Vader.
"Did you think I wouldn't recognize my family? My own brother?" Owen glares at the holo of Vader. "And wouldn't Mom be ashamed at what you've become?"
In an operatic irony turn of events, Vader doesn't know about Luke yet; so the Sith Lord is chasing his rebellious brother across the galaxy. No one is sure if he wants to kill him or not because the dramatic reveal kept scuttlebutt busy for weeks.
Vader catches up with Owen, learns about Luke, and defects too.
Palpatine is eventually turned into garden mulch, and Owen and Beru retire blissfully to a little cottage on Alderaan.
"I want you to join me for dinner." The scrape-scrape of a knife and butter on the bagel paused. Across the breakfast table, Atlas gestured with the buttery knife; first at the table and then the both of them.
"We're eating breakfast," Atlas explained.
"The society is hosting a dinner. We are invited."
"Which society? Wait, is it the Ring of White?"
"No."
"The High Table?" Now Atlas was speaking through a mouthful of crumbs, his grating lack of concern for his own comportment sticking a fork into every one of Gold's nerves and tangling them up.
"No."
"The Watchers?'
"No."
"Then?" Atlas paused, swallowed, and gulped down orange juice. "Who the hell could it be?"
"It is a society dinner," he managed. "We are invited because I am."
"A member of high society?' Atlas asked, picking up the other half of the bagel.
"Yes, your dinner skills are...acceptable when you try, and you are an excellent conversationalist. Doubtlessly from your occupation, so it will do." Atlas rolled his eyes. Gold ignored him. "A dossier of the guests will be in your room by this afternoon. Look over it."
Atlas paused, tilting his head to the side in an over-exaggerated motion that forewarned a headache-inducing conversation. "I want you to start saying 'please'."
Not for the first time, Gold was struck by just how bizarre the young man was. "Come again?"
"Please and thank you, and I want you to use them." Atlas scraped the knife over his plate, the edge digging into the delicate porcelain.
"Atlas." He started. "This is a business transaction."
"This is a business transaction where you have all of the civilian and legal authority over someone who can't fight back. I'm an orphaned teenager, no one is going to stand up for me if you decide to become a shit-tastic parent."
Gold felt his jaw clench. "I would not abuse my authority."
"You already have," he pointed out. "You can't even say please or thank you, how can I expect you to do better on other things?" It made sense, far too much sense; and Gold waited. Atlas wasn't exactly making a production in layering the lox, but it still meant something. "I'll stop you before you insult me by pointing out that I am young and you don't need to be polite because I'm young and I should expect it. I'll even stop you before you point out that you're...technically," he looked pained. "My father and that fathers get to do whatever they want because of society or some bullshit...but you don't."
Gold couldn't imagine his father tolerating any measure of back-talk, and he would have been up and across the room to box the younger man's ears if he'd ever made demands like this. It showed an impressive amount of courage...and that Atlas had a backup plan. The criminal hedged his bets, covered his tracks, and schemed with meticulous attention to detail.
"Please and thank you?"
"It's simple, it's easy, and goes a long way. Your para-military group might be used to orders and officers, but I'm not. I never will be."
Gold wondered what his father would think of that statement. How his mother might have reacted to the confrontation. It made sense for Atlas to make his home life more comfortable, but it was a strange place to start. Since the teenager had already knocked down his two points of defense against the idea, he didn't have many choices left. Not that he agreed with the teenager, he was more than a little confused, and extremely annoyed.
Still, he hadn't made general simply as a joke."Very well. I agreed to your terms." Atlas blinked in surprise, further insulting him. "Please read the dossier, and give me any information you have."
"I will read those files since you asked so nicely." Pushing from the table, Atlas stood carefully. His ankle was nearly healed now and he was gamely testing its strength. "When is the dinner?"
"Tonight."
"What the fuck!"
"Language," he corrected. "Atlas."
"Gold, I don't exist for your schedule!" Outrage, he reached for something to throw. "I have a conference call with people in a dozen different time zones. Do you have any fucking clue how hard that is to arrange! I can't cancel last minute! We've already postponed it three times. Last time it was because of a baby. A society dinner is not good enough."
"I've already accepted!" Gold told him firmly.
"And since neither of us is having a baby, I'm not going to cancel. Tell them that I fell again or something. Don't spring things on me last minute! Damn!"
"Language," Gold blustered for some measure of control in the conversation.
"I have a life too," Atlas explained tersely. "If you want this to work, you need to communicate with me...properly."
Gold swallowed down his anger, treading unfamiliar territory. Atlas was a criminal, but he was also his son. There were responsibilities and expectations, and if he caved now... "I will tell the organizers that you are not well enough to attend a dinner., and that I need advance notice if one is to take place."
Atlas' shoulders loosened. "Thank you." He retreated from the dining room, limping carefully. Only when he was gone, did Gold turn to his butler.
"Thoughts?" The man didn't like either of them, so his judgment was probably safe.
Looking well like a stuffed frog, the butler blinked. "He is a young, impetuous man."
"I am his father." The words tasted like molten lava in his mouth. "I am a general."
"Yes, sir." Gold turned, waiting to hear the rest. "He will not always be a young man. He may not always be...your son."
"May not." A clever choice of words, a caution against the furious pride thundering in his chest. Atlas was below the legal age and could do whatever he wished when he reached it. Gold's influence and authority wouldn't hold out forever, and it was already flimsy enough. The polite fiction of their familiar relationship would crumble.
Perhaps there was a man, far more soft-hearted and kinder than Gold, who would see this request as odd. A father with gentle hands and words, to whom such things were natural and he didn't wrestle the ghosts of a hundred generals in his ear while carrying the legacy they'd created.
He had taken Atlas to effect change on the world, so he could at least start with himself.
#$#$
for further context - https://www.tumblr.com/planningconquest/721668684089802752/writing-prompt-s-you-the-worlds-greatest-villain?source=share
and here-https://www.tumblr.com/planningconquest/722340798524522496/writing-prompt-s-the-local-superhero-is-also?source=share
