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Lucy burns sometimes. Not always - for most of the season she manages a tarnished tan, deep and bronze like a true moisture farmer. But sometimes she burns, scouring red along her back or on her shins or commonly, high on her cheekbones. She's an offworlder after all: everyone knows it, whispering behind their hands when she walks past, her skirts fluttering in the breeze and red and bronze smearing her skin.
It's something that the esteemed Captain Solo notices instantly with a smirk when she appears outside the door of the Millennium Falcon that day, she can tell, after Ben and the Sand People, and god, Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen. It's probably the sob that's already bubbling in her throat each time she remembers that distracts her from Captain Solo's narrowing eyes, flicking between her and Ben and Ben and her, and well, she doesn't care what he's thinking. She wants to leave now.
She'd burnt that day though - she'd gone out early into the morning suns, when both Tatoo I and II were high, high in the sky, when she'd taken Threepio to find Artoo - and well, yes, with all the things that had happened afterwards, she'd barely noticed the burning on her face and her hands again. Now, though, she's painfully self-conscious: and for the first time, not just of her offworlder singed skin - but of her tatty skirts, and her tangled, half-braided hair, her dirty fingernails, her dust-smeared feet and broken sandals, everything down to the scrape on her elbow. The Millennium Falcon is all shine and space, wrapped up in a dodgy exterior, cleaner than she.
Lucy curls into herself on the Falcon. She feels so silly - she's finally in a ship off the blasted planet, a ship with a Wookie, a ship that could go 0.5c past light speed, and she knows she called it a piece of junk, but she'd been so embarrassed by Ben and Captain Solo it's arguable she didn't mean it. Or she did. But they're off now, and she should be more excited, but she's just tired, tired and kind of sore, burnt shins pressed against cold panels and eighteen years of her life speeding behind her.
She thinks of Biggs, Biggs and Camie, Tank and Fixer and - she probably shouldn't do that. She scrambles up, determined to help, or understand, but Captain Solo stops her before she can even get out of the seating area - a hand pressing against her shoulder, another cruel smirk on his face. He's probably thinking something about girls and ships and she holds her tongue, determined not to lash out, because there's a princess to save. Her eyes zone in on his hand on her shoulder, golden brown and she thinks of the backs of her hands, bright red and hidden bronze, and itches to bring hers up to compare them.
Captain Solo has dark hair - hair like the shade under high-piling rocks. His skin is paler than hers, but his eyes are just as dark as some of the Tatooine natives and she wonders briefly if pilots can tan in space. She wonders if the princess will have paler skin than Captain Solo. Lucy reckons she will do, but with as dark hair, if not darker - the holo had been grainy, but the princess' beauty had clamped itself around Lucy's heartstrings and tugged, so she doesn't think she's far off.
He's still got his hand on her shoulder, and Lucy realises Captain Solo's probably said something of varying importance. He sneers at her when she doesn't reply, and the Wookie roars with laughter, and Ben appears over Captain Solo's shoulder to take her to wash up. Captain Solo's eyes are narrowing again, eyeing the lightsaber on Ben's belt, flicking between her soft face and Ben's kindly smile when she pulls herself up and slides around the tabletop.
Her red fingers twitch at the tension in Captain Solo's jaw. Lucy knows the princess will be kinder, when she rescues her, won't mind her dusty skirts or coarse skin. Won't be thinking she's a little girl who can't handle the suns, let alone the whole of space, like Captain Solo. Won't be wondering if she's man enough to train as a Jedi, like Ben, however well he means.
She burns sometimes, because she's an offworlder. But she tans, too, deep gold like the desert, Threepio and the buttons adorning the Millennium Falcon's dashboards. Don't underestimate her.