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The worst thing about Rey isn’t her recklessness, or how much she pesters. It’s her confidence. In Luke, in the Resistance, in herself, in Ben. Confident the weather won’t kill her and the nuns will get over her and the porgs aren’t carnivores. Makes Luke want to scream, honestly. In his worst moment, he wonders what expression she’d make if he told her what Sister Bekko did when he broke the plum-glazed bowl she was so proud of. He’d almost been in tears before the nun walked over his marigolds. So fucking unnecessary. He might be clumsy, stubborn, and ignorant about plants, but he knew a slimo when he saw one.
Wedge was the one who’d made nice with Bekko. He pulled the shards out of her dustbin, melted down a pair of gold cufflinks he knew he’d never wear again, and stuck the pieces back together. Then he let Sister Bekko fuss over the handiwork, and how clumsy his husband was, and how it looked like it was going to rain, finally, and how she worried about her grandchildren, off on Takodana, Ocahont, Uhaul. Of course she understood why they left, of course she did. But now the youngest caretaker was her daughter Chagoi, and none of the nuns had great-grands born on-world. So what would become of this old island when they were gone, she didn’t like to think. Did the world have no place for old things anymore?
He'd finished telling Luke about the conversation with a shrug and a sad smile, cupped his jaw and kissed him. “What’d you catch today?”
⁂
“You’ll make yourself sick if you stand in the rain at this time of year, Rey.”
She shrinks into the doorway and eyes the rain suspiciously. “Is it poison? What times of the year is it safe?”
Luke shakes his head. “It’s fine. Ach-to hasn’t got anything to pollute the rain, as far as I know. But getting cold isn’t good for us humans, and it’s almost winter here.” He remembers leaving Tattooine for the first time, and seeing trees on Yavin. How much taller they were than he’d expected. But he’d seen some trees before then, has a dim memory of playing peek-a-boo with Mom and Uncle Ben in a forest somewhere. And there were pictures, on the datapads of the little farmers’ schoolhouse. Rey, he’d pieced together, had not only lived on Jakku (the galaxy’s armpit), but had subsisted hand-to-mouth the entire time. He’d asked about her parents at one point—weren’t they worried about her? Wasn’t it time she went home? The pain, edged with fury, on her face told him everything. She made up a bland lie, but he knew Jakku. It was a wonder she wasn’t a corpse bleaching in the sun, or trapped under a Hutt’s thumb, or running her own gig of exploiting younger kids. She was ignorant, starved for intimacy, and she did. Not. Give. Up.
She wouldn’t be a Jedi, she’d be something new. And she was going to be great.
If he has anything to say about it, she was going to be warm, too.
“Here, put this on.”
She unfolds it, looks quizzical. “Is this…a blanket with a hole in it?”
He scoffs. “It’s a poncho. You wear it. Leaves your arms unrestricted, and you don’t have to worry about losing buttons. They’re cool!”
“’Cool,’” she repeats, smirking.
“Don’t sass me, young lady! I’m not having you catch your death on my watch.”
“Thank you, Master Skywalker.” She gives a little bow, in a surprisingly handsome, loose motion that reminds him of an old apprentice, a young Mirialan woman who closed her machine shop to train. He was always having to talk her out of things—levitating a basket of oranges to impress a townie girl, giving Ben a tattoo. Sometimes he succeeded. Sometimes Wedge did. Sometimes she got away with it and all they could do was laugh.
She’d died spitting in Ben’s face.
“Rey!” Luke yells at her descending back. She turns, her face illuminated briefly by a bolt of lightning. “Be careful on that path, it’s slippery!”
⁂
“Is that a poncho?”
Luke shrugged, leaned against the doorframe of the Hoth base mess hall. “Well, yeah.” He tilted his face up to meet the pilot’s gaze. “Why? Like it?”
The pilot laughed. “You look like a stripper doing a bit about a doe-eyed Bantha herder who got lost.” He brushed past Luke, cheerily waving goodbye over his shoulder.
Too late, Luke sputtered: “who are you callin’ ‘doe-eyed???’” The pilot was just laughing at him, and of fucking course that was when Han walked up. Han did what Han always did when it came to Luke. He pushed his hair back, exasperated, and then leaned in close and offered to beat up a nerf-herder. Luke declined. This time.
The pilot showed up outside Luke’s dormitory door that night.
“Here, space cowboy. I guessed on sizes. Try them out and I’ll go swap anything that doesn’t fit.”
Luke took the bundle of warm clothes hesitantly. “Did Han put you up to this?”
The pilot just looked confused. “Who? Oh, the princess’s latest rogue. Nah, this is just me. Can’t have your ass freezing off with nothing warmer than a poncho. Terrible waste.” He smiled, and Luke softened.
“I don’t know your name.”
“Oh!” The pilot put out his hand. “I’m Wedge. Wedge Antilles.”
He had very sparkly eyes.
⁂
“Did you always know you could use the Force?” Rey asks in between mouthfuls of chowder. Luke laughs and shakes his head. “When did you figure it out, then?” she persists. “When you and the general were children, did you figure it out together, or…”
“We didn’t know each other then. We were raised separately. When our mother died, I went to relatives, and she went to our godparents. We were…4? 5?” He drags a piece of bread through his broth.
“Oh! So you met again as, what? Teenagers? Adults? Wasn’t it odd?” And Luke can’t stop laughing at that.
⁂
“Enjoying yourself?” Wedge’s warm hands on Luke’s waist, his breath uneven.
Luke rolled his eyes. “Wouldn’t have invited you in here if I didn’t think it’d be fun, Antilles. Don’t get cocky.”
Wedge whispered directly into his ear: “too late.” Luke gasped, mock-scandalized, and smacked Wedge’s thigh in “retribution.” Wedge licked the spot directly behind Luke’s earlobe, making Luke pull away instinctively, squeaking with delight. He fell off the bed. Wedge stretched out and helped him back into a sitting position—on his lap.
“You,” he told Luke, “are so cute. Is that a Jedi thing? Purity of heart: try it today for soft lips and oversensitive skin.”
Luke snorted so hard he could remember it 30 years later. “More like—oh, that’s nice, keep doing that—throw everything into tearing down the Empire and don’t make out with anyone for forever. See how intense it feels.”
Wedge hummed into Luke’s neck. “Who’s the last person, then? No, sorry, you don’t need to answer that if you don’t want to.”
But Luke was feeling soft and warm in his core, and Wedge had these eyes. And besides, sometimes a man’s gotta talk about the weird shit in his life. “It’s been a couple years. I kissed Leia. Or she kissed me, really.”
Wedge stopped and stared at him. “Are you serious?”
“It was before we knew we were related. She was trying to piss Han off, and I was…there.” He shrugged, embarrassed he brought it up.
“That must feel…odd.”
Luke buried his face in Wedge’s curls. “You have no idea.”
Wedge rubbed his back soothingly. “Couple years, you said? What about someone you were actually with, then? Been awhile?” His voice was light and gentle, and Luke didn’t seem to be able to stop blurting shit out. He didn’t even have an excuse of alcohol, though once he knew what he was about to say, he wished he did.
“Nobody since Biggs died.”
He felt the rise and fall of Wedge’s chest, and then he was pulled into a tight hug much more about comfort than seduction. “Shit. I’m so sorry.” They were silent for a while, until Luke took Wedge’s fingers and kissed them. Wedge brushed Luke’s hair out of his eyes. “Baby, were you even 20 yet?”
Luke felt the question under the question, raised his eyebrows. “Not quite. Why?” And it was Wedge’s turn to look embarrassed by the direction the conversation had taken. Under Luke’s scrutiny, he inhaled as though lining up a blaster shot.
“Luke, are you a virgin?”
Luke wordlessly climbed off Wedge’s lap in favor of leaning against his bunk’s headboard and making damn sure his sort-of boyfriend could see every inch of how good he looked. He was wearing velvet, for crying out loud. “Ya caught me, Antilles. You’re here to pop Skywalker’s cloudberry. I mean, if that’s how you want it to go. This hand—” he waved his mech “—can go all night.” And Wedge giggled, kicked his boots off, and kissed Luke’s stomach where his shirt had slid up. The jolt of warmth Luke felt in his whole body when Wedge’s warm breath passed over his dick was something every one of his nerve endings remembered with crystal clarity 30 years later.
⁂
Rey’s serving herself tea, smoothing fingers respectfully over Luke’s amber-colored glass. “Milk, Rey?” Luke hoists the bottle encouragingly. She shakes her head, almost flustered. “Let me know if you change your mind. That harvest’s on the bitter side.” He watches her sip, flinch, and suck it up. He tuts. Even small luxury does not come easily to her, and he is absurdly grateful to have merely been bored out of his skull at 19. “Here,” he insists, leaning across the low table to add it anyway.
“Oh! Please—I mean. I. Oh, Master Skywalker, I don’t need any.”
“What, not into milk?”
She squirms. “It’s…green.”
“‘It’s green.’”
“…Are you quite sure it’s good to drink? I didn’t know green milk even existed. And I’ve eaten some strange things in the past few weeks. Did you know that on Takodana, people take milk and fruit and sugar and…and freeze it, and then eat the result? Can you imagine? Eating frozen food on purpose? I’d no idea it would taste so good. And there are people who eat meat without cooking it, and pay more for the privilege!” She’s even more animated than usual. He smiles kindly.
“Eaten all of the above and more. It’s good milk. Close your eyes if it bothers you.” Rey screws up her face and sips cautiously. “See?”
“It’s…fine. But I think I’ll keep my eyes closed, if it’s all the same.”
⁂
“Hey, kid!” Han shouted. “What the hell is your boytoy doing back there?”
Luke put a hand to his chest, affronted. “Where do I even begin with that, I swear you suck more than when I met you.” He reflected. “And considering you shot someone at the time, that’s pretty impressive.”
Han stared him down and aimed his finger at Luke like it was a blaster. “If your husband is setting my beautiful Falcon on fire back there, your freaky space magic will not save you. Even Leia will not save you.” Well okay then. Luke left the cockpit for the cabin, where Wedge had uncovered the hotplate to do…something.
It was a little smoky, he had to admit.
“Hey, you,” he said, wrapping his arms around Wedge’s waist. “Watcha doing?”
Wedge frowned at the mixture he was stirring. In a metal bowl, not even a pan, on a hotplate in a junky cargo ship. “It’s supposed to be hot chocolate.” It did look a bit like chocolate, and it was kind of liquid. Luke could practically hear Aunt Beru’s voice in his ear, coaxing him to add a bit of butter and turn down the heat—still a chance to salvage it. He kissed his husband’s throat and gently took his place.
“What burned?”
Wedge, now resting his chin on the top of Luke’s head, grunted. “I spilled some on the hotplate. I’m sorry. I should’ve waited until we were planetside, Han’s got shit equipment.” Luke smiled, and could feel Wedge’s smile above him. “I guess I was expecting Chewie to have insisted on a higher standard of living.”
“Wookies only eat raw food. He’s probably the reason you found a bowl, though. Han lives on rice cakes and Red Bantha.”
Wedge was smiling again. “Fancy.”
Luke stirred milk (blue) into the bowl, longing for a whisk. “Hey, why’d you decide you couldn’t wait for hot chocolate, anyway?”
“Well.” Wedge squeezed his shoulders gently. “You said you hadn’t had any in ages.”
Luke laughed and shook his head. “I meant we should make some when we got home.”
“Sure,” Wedge chuckled, pulling out amber-colored glasses. It was maybe drinkable now, if they were optimistic. “But you only turn 30 once. You deserve a birthday treat on your actual birthday.”
Luke stilled, counted days on his fingers. “Oh.”
“Baby. Are you kidding me.”
“You’re going to have to be the one who remembers anniversaries in this relationship. Sorry ‘bout that. No I’m not. That’s the fun one, you’ll get to be smug and I’ll follow you around like a puppy making sure you still love me.”
Wedge settled one of his big, warm hands on Luke’s chest, over the mark of a particularly close call. Luke suddenly wished he hadn’t married Wedge after all. Fuck. One of these days Luke would finally bite the dust, and then someone would have to light his funeral pyre, and now that was going to be his husband’s job. Never mind what Wedge said, about being just as likely to die first. Luke had been in dogfights with the man, and he didn’t believe anyone alive could shoot Wedge out of the sky. So Luke had shackled someone into being a young widower with a target on his back, and he’d done it to someone who saw a free half hour between being shot at and sweet-talking their way through a checkpoint—and used it, not for a sorely-needed catnap, but to cook for Luke.
“Sweetheart. Oh, sweetheart, you’re crying.”
“’M not.”
“Yeah, you are. C’mere, c’mere, forget this mess, let’s just spoon until we get to Crait.”
“I love you so much I can’t stand it.”
⁂
“Master Skywalker, I brought you something.”
“Please tell me it’s sweet, sweet death.”
Rey huffs, but cuts the sound off halfway, replacing it with a genuine sound of concern. “Master Skywalker, are you ill?”
He drops his hand from his eyes and scowls at his mech arm. “If only it were that simple. No, I’m afraid I’m malfunctioning.” Rey lights up.
“But that’s what I brought you! Tools, from the Falcon! I noticed you were a little twitchy yesterday, and I can help, or I can just give you the stuff.” She helps, in the end, mainly because he can’t do it one-handed. An old stretch of wiring had corroded, leaving the connection that allowed his elbow to bend unreliable. Rey is quiet, focused and steady. She gives him a tune-up when they’re done, makes sure screws are tight and hinges oiled.
Luke spaces out a bit while she does. He’ll never get used to other people poking around inside his arm. Whatever it is she tweaks, it’s a good move. He stretches, and it feels easier. He reaches out his hand to help Rey to her feet, but she’s already standing. Children and their rubber bones.
He’d planned on taking the long path uphill, but now he’s existential. He’s so old and can’t get himself out of his head, and Rey’s so young and can’t seem to get Ben out of hers. Part of him is terrified for her. She can’t—she can’t—just solve all her problems by making friends with people. Another part really just wants to see if she can manage it. But Luke thinks about Ben, and about the people he’s killed. He’s had ten years—more—of friends. Friends and uncles and parents and more. That boy’s got a sliver of selfishness in his core, like a collapsing star. It started as self-preservation, but now it’s turned to malice. And every day, he twists the knife a little more, and buries that splinter a little deeper. Now it can’t be pulled out without taking his whole heart with it.
Wedge’s memorial stone has a family of porgs nesting on it this year. Luke tries his best not to disturb them. It’ll need a good cleaning when the fledglings are on their feet, but in the meantime, he’s just glad they’re comfortable.
IN LOVING MEMORY
of
THE REBEL
WEDGE ANTILLES
dis-Connix
mar-Skywalker
b. 3254 Corellia
d. 3308 Ach-to
Son of
RAYMUS & BLUE
Husband of
LUKE
Kind & Brave & True
Beyond it are six others, for his dead apprentices. He’d done his best with their inscriptions, but he hadn’t known parents or birthplaces for all. He was pleased he’d been able to give them proper stones, at least. Tall, narrow, and smooth. Still better, he’d found stone on the island marbled with a soft purple. Pretty, against the green, green grass.
“You had a husband. You had a husband?”
The wind is cold, but the sun is warm. Luke touches the stone with his palm, embracing its heat like he’s a snake sunning itself.
“He was a good man.”
Rey tilts her head to the left, puckers her forehead, and then tilts her head to the right. “So are you,” she says, with finality.
Luke’s hand begins shaking suddenly, so he pulls it away from the stone, and curls it toward his chest. He wonders what she picked up on in his voice. He wonders what, exactly, he’s feeling now.
“Wedge,” he says, “carried a harmonica in his pocket, and he always remembered everyone’s names. He smelled like honey, and liked to knit.” It feels important, that someone else know these things. None of it fit into a formal memorial statement, which makes him think the custom needs reworking.
“I wish I could have met him.”
“He would have liked you.” Oh. There it is. No taking that back.
Rey turns her face away, to hide her smile.
⁂
“I wish I’d died in the fire,” Wedge said.
“Don’t say that!”
“Shush. Don’t act like watching me die isn’t driving you insane. Do you really think this is better? Smoke inhalation chipping away at me every day?”
Luke turned away. “I wish. I wish you hadn’t followed me into exile, I wish you didn’t get hurt, I wish you weren’t at the school to begin with, I wish I didn’t marry you. I wish you were safe, somewhere nobody could hurt you.”
Wedge put his arms around Luke. “Nobody can hurt me here.”
“You shush, I’m hurting you right now.”
“I don’t mind a whit.” Luke made a noise of protest. “Shut up. Cross my heart, Luke.” His voice (and Luke’s heart with it) broke. “I expected us both to be dead before we turned 35. All I can feel now is joy, honey. I can’t believe I get…well. I have such a hot nurse.” He nuzzled his freshly-shaven cheek against Luke’s bearded one, kissed his eyelids. Luke gathered Wedge in his arms and tried to shut up his own mind.
It was good, in a lot of ways, living on Ach-to with Wedge. In happier circumstances, it would have been a nice way to retire. A little house, wacky-but-pleasant neighbors. They cooked simple, wholesome food from scratch, practiced long-rusty skills of pottery and music. They had never before had the chance to learn what the other was like relaxed for more than a brief reprieve, what they were like when they got bored not in the context of waiting for a fight or message or rescue. It was different, but it was nice. They became intimate in ways new to them, a result of knowing that there was no risk one or the other would have to leave on short notice. It became a love without urgency.
But the x-wing stayed parked on the beach, just in case. He would not sink it until Wedge returned either to civilization, or to the force.
Towards the end, when Wedge’s lungs started giving up, there were days when Luke sat in bed with him from sunsup to sunsdown. They read, talked, played games, or just held each other quietly. Luke’s heart felt more whole during those months than at any other time in his life. He knew exactly who he was and what his place was. He had exactly one mission, with no possibility of failure: be with Wedge. Just be here, now. He would gladly have hung in that moment forever, loving and feeling loved, with simple, freeing, fatalism.
Nothing lasts forever.
⁂
Luke cleans the house, makes sure it sparkles as much as stars do without light pollution, like on Tatooine, like on Ach-to. He leaves his handful of potentially useful dishes and such on Sister Chagoi’s doorstep, wrapped in his prettier dishcloths. He put up his memorial stone yesterday, when he realized what he was going to do. If he leaves his body without some effort at proper rites, Wedge will tease him about it for literally all eternity.
HERE LIVED
THE JEDI
LUKE SKYWALKER
dis-Amidala
mar-Antilles
b. 3258 Polis Massa
d. 3311 Ach-to
Son of
ANAKIN & PADME
Husband of
WEDGE
He tried; then he died
⁂
“Do you know how to waltz, Luke?”
“Mmmm, from all those classy Tatooine balls?”
Wedge grinned. “I have every confidence you can tell me about Tatooine’s best balls.” Luke swatted his shoulder lightly. “C’mon, baby. I’ve been dancing in the streets every day since your dad killed the old bastard. Let me dance with you, now that you’re here.” And since when had Luke ever passed up an opportunity to get his boyfriend’s arms around him? So they go—one, two, three, one two three.
“Why, Mr. Antilles, you dance so beautifully.” He fluttered his eyelashes.
“Why, Mr. Skywalker, you are so beautiful.”
Luke turned beet red. “You know. If it wasn’t so damn nice, I’d be annoyed you’re so much better at flirting than I am.”
Wedge kissed him gently. “I’d say you’re doing just fine.”
Luke smirked. “Your standards are low. Lucky I’m cute.”
The teenagers with sound equipment on a balcony overhead change the music to something up-tempo, and Luke shows Wedge how they danced on Tatooine, feet fast and eyes locked. “And remember to leave room for the force to flow between you, ‘cuz Mrs. Pachelbel is chaperoning, and she’s a real hardass. We can play tonsil hockey in my speeder before I drop you home, don’t worry.” Wedge laughed and played along, but when the song changed to something good for shaking ass, he tucked their bodies together and rested his thumbs on the high points of Luke’s hips.
They shared a bottle of something rose-colored and smoky-flavored, passing it back and forth. “What’s next, do you think?” Luke asked, stroking Wedge’s hair.
“Um. I think we’re about to get really bored, which’ll be nice. Your sister will convince everyone to reconstruct the galaxy peacefully, and Han will become a stay-at-home dad. Chewbacca will run a not-for-profit to help displaced children. Lando will find a nice boy and settle down to open a teashop. C-3PO and R2-D2 will ask you to officiate their wedding. Mothma will adopt a lot of dogs. And Amilyn is going to become an ethics auditor and live in a remote chalet with a revolving assortment of devoted lovers.” Wedge downed a swallow of whatever they’re drinking. “Or some other asshole is going to seize power and we do this for another 30 years.”
“Yeah, right.” Luke kissed Wedge. “What are you going to do next?”
Wedge was silent for so long Luke thought he didn’t hear the question, but then Wedge squeezed Luke’s left hand between both of his own. “I’d like…I’d like to go where you lead me. All the rest is just incredibly optional, compared to that.”
Luke laughed. “Well I don’t plan on getting a new gang of fighter pilots together, so wanna try that one again?”
“Not what I meant.”
“You mean…oh. OH!” Luke inhaled sharply. “Wedge. That’s an unbelievably stupid and wonderful idea.”
“Yeah, I know. I just. I was going to ask, even before we knew this thing was going to end. I don’t know what’s happening next, but I want to die holding your hand, if at all possible.”
“I might not be the easiest husband in the world, you know. I’ve got a lot of responsibility and expectations and that kinda Dewback shit. It’s gonna be uncomfortable and dramatic, and that’s all I can guarantee.”
“Oh? Why, are you a Jedi or something? I had nooooo idea. C’mon. I’ll follow you to the ends of the galaxy, if you feel like holding my hand.”
There was a ring involved. Wedge had had it for months. He remembered it was in his pocket two hours later, by which time his pants were on the other side of the room from Luke’s finger, which was resting on the back of Wedge’s neck as they kissed through a post-coital fever of emotion.
Luke lost that ring in a swamp somewhere, followed by three replacements. Wedge, for his part, lost eight separate wedding rings during the course of their marriage. They placed private bets on who would lose the next one, and where. Each time, the man who had not lost the ring picked a new one out wherever they next got a chance, and half-jokingly proposed again. Luke doesn’t remember what all of them looked like, now that he’s sitting on the cliff with all his energy draining out of his body. But he remembers what they said to each other, each and every time.
“I’m always at your side. In spirit, when my body cannot be with yours. In war, when we cannot be at peace. In pain, when we cannot be in joy. In all seasons, I will show you my love.”
And he turns his face to the two suns, so like the sunset of his childhood, and smiles at the soft arcs of twin rainbows stretched over them. And he lets go.
⁂
“He died? Baby, how is that the best you could come up with?”
“Oh. I see your point. Luke Skywalker: Hilarious. Fashionisto. Great at shouting. Face like a god.”
“Quite right. Much more suitable. No need to trouble future generations about you saving the galaxy repeatedly. Come here, I know we’re glowy particles but haven’t gotten to kiss you in literal years.”
“I was so stupid when I was alive, I don’t think I ever told you just how much I love you.”
“One time you came home covered in dried blood, and the medic couldn’t get you to sit still until I came. Because you had gone to my house, my childhood house that the empire torched, and gathered seeds from the flowers that had overgrown it. Golden poppies, and bleeding hearts, and striped tulips, and silver peonies, and honeysuckle, and blue roses, and kniphofia. And you took those seeds and put them in an envelope, and you had to be sure I had it before you’d let them give you anesthesia. And you didn’t tell me, but you’d filled more than a dozen of those envelopes, and we planted a new one every time we moved. They’re still growing, my family flowers, at old bases and little safehouses. At the training school. Ach-to. My darling, I knew very well how much you love me.”
“Well. That’s nice. But I was going to tell you I’d have damned myself twice over for dat ass.”
And Luke isn’t sure the Force even works like this, but he’d swear their laughter is sunshine.