Good Like This
It wasn't supposed to be like
this. Not so good like this.
You know that. You never deserved it. For every wrong act, every wrong thought, for it all and all the rest of the sins laid upon you by yourself. By him. By life. Everyone has those things laid upon them, and so did you, but you never fought it off, and that's your fault.
It's more than forgiveness; forgiveness just means acceptance.
It wasn't forgiveness that made him say he loved you. That he saw who you really were, and that just felt so damn good, how are you supposed to deal with that? You can't, you can't.
You sit in the garden and watch him play with your child, and this smile you've got, you can't stop it.
He's laughing. You like him laughing, and he doesn't do it enough. When he's playful he sings, when he's happy he plays, and when he loves . . . he's everything to you. He's not perfect, but something perfect and good must have given him to you. What else could it be? You were always practical, ever practical and proud of it, and there's no problem throwing that into a black hole now because you know this is the exception; this is a gift. You like this exception.
He picks up Ben and shows him the different flowers. You don't imagine he knows the species and genus like you do, because you're paranoid like that and you have to research these things. He's probably commenting on the color, the design, the beauty. Ah, he glances at you. A slight mental touch, and you smile, and he relaxes in your contentment.
You expected to die in an alley somewhere, when you thought about it at all. A snap of a bond and a corpse, that's all you'd be, and you rather thought Palpatine would mourn the loss of the best operative, but you know that's all self-deception. You knew you'd die fighting; you wonder about that now.
He gives Ben a flower, probably tells him not eat it; toddlers are that way, and you both learned that the hard way. He walks over to you.
"So do I," he says to you, and you look at him.
"Peeking, Skywalker?" you say, but there's no animosity this time; not that it doesn't piss you off at times, but this time, it's all right. One of those exceptions, you're sure.
He wisely ignores your comment; arguing with him can be fun. "I thought I'd die in a bed," he tells me. "With eight grandkids and a boring life to show the galaxy."
You start; how closely was he going along your thoughts, anyway?
"You were being morbid. I could sense it," he says, and you know it was just that he knows you disgustingly well.
"And now? You think you'll die bravely somewhere fighting for the good and righteous?"
He smiles, with a touch of sadness, and you see memories and other things, as you do sometimes: his turning, his nephew, his father. Family and emotion; vengeance, maybe. "I don't know, anymore. Life has taught me uncertainty."
"And living in the moment," you concur. And this moment is wonderful, for all the bad ones in the past, and maybe the ones up ahead, too. You know that's inevitable, anyway; not at all uncertain. If not, it'd surprise the hell out of you.
"That, too," he nods.
You look up at the sky, the same color as his eyes, as your son's eyes. You feel lazy today. No fire, but everything else that lights up inside.
"We could get Han to babysit and make this a better day," he suggests.
You want to laugh, but instead you look at him closely . . . and stretch, very deliberately.
And he laughs.