Work Text:
“Alright. Hold still—and now put your arms through. See, there you go.”
Grogu’s eyes, wide and gleaming with wonder, look down at his little frame, reflecting the strange metal rings that make up the shirt. They glitter like the surface of a spring in the high-afternoon sun. Youthful and fresh, yet simultaneously they carry a weight of something ancient, perhaps borrowed from the earth from where they came, or by the method of their make.
Luke watches, silent and patient as the child opens his mind to the feelings that begin to bloom in his little heart. He feels them easily through their own fledgling connection—a gleam of pride cloaked in soft layers of remembrance… and longing.
He is certain then that he has made the right choice.
“Yes, you’re right,” Luke encourages. “You look so much like him.”
The nebulous echo of Ahsoka’s words is not lost on him, but somehow, they feel utterly right to say. Grogu coos, preens under the praise like he has throughout his brief training—that has nonetheless been so very valuable, and has brought the child to confidently stand by this decision.
Somehow, something clicks into place for Luke, then. An immense state of trust settles in him—in his instincts. In the Force.
This is not a mistake.
“A bit windy, maybe.” He reaches for the discarded, tattered robe and pulls it into his hands, wonders as he runs his gloved fingers over its materials if he shouldn’t learn more about mending and making garments.
(While this child is leaving his care soon, the path he has set out on tells him that there will, without the shadow of a doubt, be others.)
“Let’s put another layer on, hm? It’s cold out where you’re going.”
Space. Vast expanses of nothingness and bright stars and systems, thousands of parsecs away. The cockpit of a spaceship only warms so much. Grogu reaches more easily and helps pull the robe over his tiny frame, now protected from the elements as well as grave danger.
When they first arrived, Luke had carried him from the ship.
Now, there is no need. In the short time they’ve spent together, he has grown much—and now makes his own leaps across the bamboo-forest floor, and into the x-wing while Luke lifts the astromech into his place (all the while ignoring his colourful complaints regarding the sudden change of plans, and his delegated chauffeur responsibility).
“Alright then, buddy. You’re all set. R2 will keep the system locked—but please don’t touch anything. I need all the shifts and knobs right where they are. Do you have any idea how hard it is to come by good parts in this part of the galaxy?” Grogu whines, a little indignantly perhaps, but echoes his agreement in the Force as he settles down, only his perked ears betraying his pulsing excitement.
I guess our time’s up, little one.
Luke gives the child a final, encouraging smile, and tells him with his whole heart, “May the Force be with you.”
Grogu looks at him, and a careful question nudges against him then.
See you… again?
“Perhaps you will.”
For he has no doubt that if the Force wills it, that his path is to once again cross with Grogu and his metal-clad protector, this is not a final goodbye.