Summary not available.


by obaona

A/N: Written for Gabri. (Actually to be kind of mean.) She also corrected one bit, 'cause she's a lovely person even when I'm being mean.


His breath fogs the pane, creating tiny patterns of crystal too small to see – a sheen of white against the steady pinpricks of stars. He inhales again, too sharply, and pain radiates from his hip all the way up to his neck. His body is twisted in the cockpit; he’s surprised he still has any pressurization.

He doesn’t meditate. His focus keeps slipping, and he thinks, it’s too late if you’re already drifting. The Force is silent.

He inhales slower.

“No, I actually always pictured our first night together as being like this,” Luke quipped.

Mara, awkwardly pressed against him in the bunk meant for one, pinched him in retaliation.

He reaches out, but there’s nothing but the Force. It holds him, quietly, but there’s no urgency.

He tries to look away from the stars, to see a panel, hoping to see something lit, some kind of beacon he can activate. Something. It’s blurry, but he knows he has to try; it’s a pounding in his mind, coming from within not without. He wonders if it’s that little voice inside his head that tells him when he’s being stupid. The voice that Mara put there … more than anyone else, anyway.

But there’s no light, and the stars are blurring.

He ran fast, fast like he was flying, holding the toy spaceship above his head, quiet because Aunt Beru was napping, imagining the noise, the roar, the excitement … It was so real when no one else was about, so cool. He could see it.

He ran right smack into Uncle Owen, and fell over on his side. Uncle Owen wasn’t even pushed back, and he blinked down at Luke.
I’m dead, Luke thought, staring up with wide eyes.

Then Uncle Owen laughed and picked him up. “Not many spaceships around here, Luke.”

Luke blinked slowly, meeting Uncle Owen’s level gaze. “But – we have a landspeeder!” The joy of realization, of something close.

“Only when it’s working.”

He tries to gather focus to himself, to hold to an awareness of his own body, so he can sleep, needing little to survive. But it’s hard.

“Stay with your wing, Six,” Luke ordered.

He doesn’t hear a ‘yes, sir’, but a cut-off scream.


“Were you always looking at the sky?” Leia asked, and Luke turned to her, surprised. Her face, luminous in the starlight, showed only curiosity, not judgment like Yoda’s might have.

“I suppose,” Luke said. “I can’t remember a time when I didn’t, but memory narrows with time.”

Her expression was wistful, but he didn’t ask why.

Everything is slowing,

Her smile had never seemed intimate until they became lovers, until they married; the curl of her hair when wet hadn’t seemed like a great secret. But then it was his, she was partly his. He shared her, her thoughts, her presence in the Force.

but he’s not sure if it’s the work of the Force. Maybe it is either way. Something wet and warm is rolling down the side of his head, but he can’t wipe it away; he can’t move. It trickles into the corner of his mouth, and it tastes bitter like blood.

Han guffawed when Luke spit the drink out. A few people in the bar looked their way briefly, but quickly lost interest.

“Told ya you couldn’t handle it, kid.”

He’s calming. Any sense of urgency that had lingered from the voice inside is fading. He thinks, detached, he’s sort of glad it’s like this, quiet and peaceful.

Mara never talked in her sleep. But sometimes when she thought he still slept, when he almost was still asleep, she’d whisper, “I love you,” as if his dreams needed to know that, too.

The fragments of memory spiral outward.