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Chapter Text

Biggs landed before Luke did. He always had, even when Luke won the races through Beggar's Canyon; Luke was too fond of victory laps. He spent as much time in the sky as possible, and while Biggs loved it up there, after fearing for his life so intently he preferred to be on the ground.

It meant he got the first view of all the cheering, the veritable fireworks that the ground crews were already setting off as he brought his X-wing in to land. Pilots who had been grounded swarmed up to him to clap him on the shoulder, sympathise with his hit—was he injured? How was he feeling?—but he waved them away. It didn't take much effort: one minute and forty-three seconds after he landed, Luke's X-wing swooped in as well, as smooth as a swallow with as much joy in its flight, closely followed by the barbaric heap of scrap metal that had saved him.

It meant Biggs was left alone other than by the ground crew who wheeled up the ladder to his X-wing. Even they seemed impatient to go and greet the hero of the hour, though elation and the sheer relief of being alive had made them charitable. They stood there for a few minutes while Biggs sat in his cockpit, the top still firmly closed, twirling his helmet in his hands. He could hear the sounds of jubilation, but they were muffled through the thick transparisteel. His thoughts were louder.

How had this all gone so wrong?

He hadn't been meant to see any of these people again. They were meant to be dead.

At least Luke wasn't dead. The destruction of the Rebel base by the Death Star had seemed a foregone conclusion, so Biggs had worried little about that. He'd worried little about this entire assignment, in fact: when Lord Vader had contacted him to inform him of Princess Leia's escape and how the Death Star would track her to the Rebel base, since Biggs had failed to acquire him those coordinates, he'd viewed it as an easy job. He just had to make sure he was on the roster for pilots who would go up, then during the space battle he'd do everything he could to stop them from succeeding. There wasn't much he could do, but there shouldn't have been much he needed to do: the Empire's victory was assured.

He hadn't counted on Luke's presence.

Stars. He'd always known Luke would worm his way into trouble no matter the situation. That didn't mean he'd anticipated this.

R5-9N, the astromech he flew with for the Rebellion, chirped at him indignantly. She wanted to get out. Biggs nodded and put aside his helmet. "Alright, Arfive, I got it. I got it." He popped open the cockpit.

The ground crew had left; the ladder next to the X-wing was unmanned. Good. He didn't want to talk to anyone right now. He climbed down alone and operated the machine to get R5 out of the astromech socket himself. It was a dull, meditative task that let his mind keep racing.

Luke was supposed to be on Tatooine, helping his uncle with another harvest. He'd just seen him on shore leave, before Vader had shipped him onto the Rand Ecliptic to partake in the orchestrated mutiny there. Biggs had hardly been here long—he wasn't cut out to be a spy, so he'd been so looking forward to going back to just pointing and shooting for the Empire, instead of all this underhanded sneaking around that reminded him too much of home. Then Luke had rocked up here, and Biggs was freaking out about keeping him from getting shot down over the Death Star because Luke had never flown in space before, let alone keeping Luke alive and untainted by Rebel association when the Empire swept in for its final victory. Now, Luke had destroyed the Death Star, Luke's mysterious smuggler friend who'd upset him so much when he left had shot down Lord Vader, and Biggs's only contact in the Empire might be dead.

If Lord Vader was dead, that was it. No one in the Empire would be able to vouch that Biggs was still loyal.

Now what? Did he stay with the Rebels? He'd have to stay for now, of course, he needed to figure out why Luke was here and convince him to leave with him when he left, but after that? He couldn't go back to his father's farms on Tatooine. That, he refused to do.

The suction crane clamped around R5's dome and lifted her out. Biggs wasn't an expert at this, and she got more than a little banged up in the process, but she seemed too relieved to be out again and away from Biggs to complain. Once her wheels hit the ground, she beeped in acknowledgement—not in thanks—at him and zoomed away.

R5 had been assigned to him when he joined the Rebellion. Biggs didn't have a droid of his own and hadn't dared to bring an Imperial one, since Rebels were often wary of even reprogrammed Imperial droids for the first few years of their service, but he did wish he'd been assigned a droid with a smaller personality. Pilots weren't meant to know the location of the base, in case they were captured and revealed it under interrogation. Their droids held the coordinates inside them and programmed all the jumps back to base, and they had self-destruct mechanisms built in so tightly that if someone even tried to access that information without the appropriate codes, it would go up in flames. R5 didn't know her pilot was an Imperial—Biggs didn't think so, anyway—but she'd definitely got shirty with him when he tried to weasel that information out of her.

Over by the ships, Luke was shouting something. The droid he had, it was coming down smoking, and Luke looked distressed. Of course he did. Biggs wondered how long Luke would take to realise that this was war, and it was better that the droids got hit than the people they served.

The crowds were dissipating now, moving away. He strode out of the hangar, out of the temple, and into the hot, humid atmosphere of Yavin IV. This would take some thinking about.

Luke was getting a medal inside. Biggs had gone in to watch the ceremony—it would have been suspicious if he hadn't—and wondered at the uneasy feeling he got watching how Luke and that random smuggler embraced. When had they met? It couldn't have been too long ago, but they seemed so close—why? Was the smuggler after something?

He slipped out the back where he could, in the middle of the thunderous applause. Of course he was proud of his friend for the impossible shot. But he couldn't be proud of a reckless fool for putting a permanent target on his back.

Once the Empire got wind of this, they would kill Luke. If it had been anyone else in their sights, Biggs would have loudly declared that they deserved it.

He marched to the top level of the temple, where the roof opened out onto the sweltering, humid air. Vines curled around his ankles when he slung his legs over the side and looked out over the jungle canopy.

His Imperial-issue comlink was in his hand; he rolled it between his fingers almost unconsciously. If Vader was alive, he would comm Biggs soon. Biggs was his only personal spy in the main Rebel base. After a fiasco like this, he would have to call him. Even if it was only to demote him, or even kill him for his failure to see the Rebels destroyed, it would at least provide an answer.

"Biggs?"

He started and put the comlink away. When he turned, he already knew who it would be—he'd know that voice anywhere—so he forced a smile onto his face. "Shouldn't you still be celebrating? I'd have expected you'd be up all night partying."

"Nah, I'm not in the mood." Luke sat next to him, casually swinging his legs over the edge as well. Biggs panicked—Luke didn't know the roof as well as Biggs did—but Luke's unconscious grace got him through everything, from rooftops to Death Star trenches. He didn't lose his balance.

"Not in the mood?" Biggs tried to tease. "You're a hero."

"And what about you?" Luke asked. "We survived. You're not a stranger to partying either."

"Yeah, well." He didn't have an answer for that. "I just…"

"It's not your fault, you know."

Biggs looked sideways at him. Luke couldn't know what Biggs was upset about, but the words felt too close to be total coincidence.

Luke continued, "You were hit. You had to pull out of that trench."

Oh. Right. "You almost got hit," Biggs said, fury rising in his chest again, "you didn't have to keep flying without cover, if it wasn't for that smuggler—"

"If I hadn't, the Alliance would be dead."

"You just got here! Is that worth your life?"

Luke said nothing. Biggs got a sinking feeling in his gut.

He tried to change the subject. "Is that a new jacket? It looks good on you." The yellow was far too stylish for anything Owen could have bought Luke, but if Luke had managed to convince Beru…

"Oh." Luke reached to feel the fabric of the sleeve. "This isn't mine. Han lent it to me. Well, gave. Chewie said I should keep it."

"Han gave it to you." Biggs fought to keep his tone neutral. "How long have you known Han?"

Luke furrowed his brow. "I don't know—a few days? Space travel's confusing."

"It is." But— "A few days?"

"Yeah. It's been an adventure and a half."

"I bet. You gotta tell me all about it." Luke was staring at his feet, though, frowning, so Biggs tried to cheer him up. "Your aunt and uncle'll be so proud of you. I know Owen's a big stickler for not getting involved, but still, what you did—"

"They're dead, Biggs."

The hot, humid night chilled. "What?"

"Uncle Owen. Aunt Beru. Even Old Ben Kenobi, they're—" He swallowed. "The Empire killed them all."

"You mean the Hutts killed them?" Biggs frowned, mind racing. That was what happened, on Tatooine. The Hutts came in with their thugs and blasters and took what you didn't want to give. You knew that and fought back where you could; you did what you needed to survive.

Where they could, the Empire stopped them. If the local authorities could be bothered, that was. Biggs's goal in life was never to see that dustball again, but he still had plans to appeal to Lord Vader at some point and see if he could get some competent management for the sector, for the sake of everyone he left behind.

In the meantime, Tatooine's residents just had to fend for themselves in a hostile desert. They always had.

"No, I mean the Empire killed them."

"The Empire doesn't kill people." Luke shot him a look, and Biggs hurried forwards. "Not on Tatooine—the Hutts—"

"They were looking for the Death Star plans," Luke said bitterly. "They were being held by two droids—the droids I came here with. Uncle Owen bought them to help with the harvest. While I was out with the droids, the troopers tracked them to the farm and executed Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru on the spot." He wrapped his arms around his torso. "Burned them alive."

For a moment, all Biggs could do was stare. The Empire didn't do that—no, that wasn't true. He knew as well as any other soldier the protocol for how to treat Rebel sympathisers: without mercy. Trials slowed you down when you were trying to get a job done and had irrefutable proof as it was. But Owen Lars, for all his complaining, had never been a threat to the Empire. Sure, he'd been sceptical; Beru had been disapproving. But they were the sensible sceptics: they had never done anything drastic about it.

And now they were dead anyway, because of some trigger-happy stormtroopers who took the whatever it takes protocol to the point of barbarism. And Luke had done something drastic.

How had he got off the planet?

"Old Ben Kenobi?" Biggs asked, remembering what Luke had said and only now processing it, before his tact caught up with him. "Oh, suns, I'm sorry, Luke—I'm so sorry—"

"I'm going to tear the Empire down," Luke whispered. Biggs's heart thundered in his chest. Revenge would cool over time, wouldn't it? Luke's anger was always bright and hot, but it flared and vanished quickly; it didn't persist. He forgave. "I won't let them do this to anyone else."

But his heart didn't forget.

"Well, you're in the right place," Biggs tried. "Where do you wanna start?"

Luke looked down at his knees. His legs kicked below him, in the jungle darkness. "Vader," he said.

This got worse and worse. "You're gonna take on Darth Vader?"

"You've heard of him?"

"Yeah! He's a major military figure! You haven't?" But the Lars farm had never had consistent holonet access or news. And even where Biggs's did, Huff Darklighter had always told his son that Vader was just a myth to scare idiots into mindless submission. Funny, considering what Huff had expected from everyone who worked on his farm.

"Old Ben told me about him. Leia too."

Well, Princess Leia was bound to have a poor opinion, but Kenobi…

Luke reached for his belt and unhooked something. Biggs had noticed it earlier and passively clocked it, but in the way that someone who doesn't recognise an item just notes its existence and moves on. When Luke cradled it in his hands, a sudden familiarity came to Biggs, and he had to keep his eyes from widening.

"He killed my father," Luke said. "As well as Ben and my aunt and uncle."

"Are— are you sure? He's a high-ranking Imperial, it's unlikely that he personally—"

"He was in charge of the operation to recover the Death Star plans. Leia told me. And she told me that he was the one on the Death Star who killed Ben in front of us." Luke's voice was hard.

"But your father?"

Luke wrapped his hands around that item in his hands—metal, cylindrical, with odd knobs on it—and held it up. It was a hilt, Biggs knew with a sinking dread. Lord Vader carried one of those.

When Luke lit it, it buzzed louder than any of the tropical bugs in the night. Those tiny insects flocked around the light, fuzzing its brilliance for a few brief seconds before their corpses rained down, and when Luke realised the death it was causing, he deactivated it.

"He was a Jedi," Luke said.

"He was a navigator on a spice freighter."

"Uncle Owen lied." The words were the key to unlock every door Luke had shut between himself and his grief. Biggs watched him crumple, bending over, cradling the lightsaber to his chest like it was a child. "They both lied. I— I remember Aunt Beru hinting, sometimes, she had more stories about my father than Uncle Owen ever did, but neither of them ever said anything."

"It must have been to protect you," Biggs soothed. That was what his father always told him, anyway, when he lied or was cruel to him. Owen was probably the same.

"Of course it was to protect me! But they never told me. I'm an adult, and they never told me—and now I can't ask them if they were ever going to tell me at all."

Biggs hadn't seen Luke cry in years. He was smart enough to know that tears only ever made things worse in the desert, especially with Fixer, and Biggs wouldn't always be there to save him. His uncle had reinforced that pretty thoroughly as well.

They're a waste of water, Biggs remembered Owen sternly telling Luke one day, when the speeder the two of them were working on had collapsed suddenly, and Luke had shoved Biggs out of harm's way but been hurt in the process. Beru had kissed his broken leg, and Owen, uncomfortable as ever with affection or intimacy, had held his nephew in awkward arms and patted his back. You're tough—get through the danger and the pain and let yourself feel it later. We spend water on the dead, Luke. We don't spend it on the living.

"Did you bury them?" Biggs asked.

Luke's eyes were still swimming. Biggs had done his training on a dozen Imperial worlds with the oxygen needed for blue skies and human habitation—Arkanis, Lothal, Coruscant, Montross—but he'd never seen skies that were that shade, the right shade. He nodded, but then shook his head.

"I tried," he said at last, voice raspy with snot. "I didn't— the homestead was burned."

"No shroud or water."

"No shroud or water." Luke bowed his head again. "No funeral."

Biggs leaned over and crushed Luke against his chest. His tears stained his shirt. Pressed so closely, the lightsaber still in Luke's lap jabbed, cold and metal, into Biggs's side. It was an unwelcome reminder.

"We should go back. Give them that. Now."

"What?"

"You need to give them a funeral, Luke." Biggs's mouth was running without permission. He didn't want to go back to Tatooine. There was too much to confront. And he doubted Luke did, either. But he needed to buy himself time, he needed to get Luke away from the Rebellion before the Empire's crushing judgement came down on all their heads, and— "Eventually, your name will leak to the Empire as the destroyer of the Death Star. You want to get home while you can still travel free."

Luke wiped his face. "Travel free?"

"You'll be a wanted man, Luke," Biggs said, his voice breaking. "All Rebels are—but you especially."

"We'll protect him."

Biggs jumped. Luke didn't look surprised. He just turned, smiling—Biggs thought for a moment that he hadn't managed to make Luke smile at all this entire conversation—at Princess Leia as she came up onto the roof behind them. She seemed to glow like some judgemental angel, still in her ceremonial white dress.

"I know you will, Princess," Biggs said carefully. She and Luke had been acting as closer friends than Biggs had ever seen Luke have, even if they had only known each other for a few days maximum. But Luke was smiling, so he pushed it aside. "I'd like to request leave for both of us. To hold a funeral for Luke's aunt and uncle."

For a moment, he thought he'd have to explain who they were, what had happened. But Princess Leia just nodded. Of course she already knew. She and Luke must have talked a lot while running from Lord Vader, ferrying stolen data tapes through hyperspace, and committing a thousand other counts of high treason.

"I'll talk to High Command and make sure they authorise it. I came to look for you," she addressed Luke, holding out her hand. He took it and stood up. Biggs's arm fell back to his side. "There's still some induction tasks we need to run through with you—including assigning you a bunkroom."

"He can room with me," Biggs said immediately. "My roommate—"

"Yes." She nodded sadly. "I'm sorry to hear about Lieutenant Porkins."

Luke's head snapped to Biggs. "Of course." His eyes widened. "I'm here blubbering about my aunt and uncle, and you just lost so many of your friends—"

"I knew him for a few weeks," Biggs dismissed. "They were your family. I wish I'd had an aunt like yours." He fought to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Luke nodded, smiled at him weakly in thanks, then turned to follow Princess Leia back down into Rebel halls.

Biggs waited until their footsteps had long since faded out of earshot. He stared out at the jungle, listened to the humming of the night, the raucous partying still going on below.

"Kriff," he said. His hands tightened on the stone until his knuckles went white.

He punched the stone. Again. Harder. His knuckles began to bleed. He stood up, legs shaking, on top of the roof, and shouted to the night.

"KRIFF!"

What the hells was he supposed to do with this?

What was he going to do?

In his pocket, something began to buzz. Biggs took it out and stared at it. It was his Imperial-issue comlink, that he'd put away when Luke came up.

"Kriff," he said again, weakly. Then he accepted the call.

Lord Vader's breathing was raspy, insofar as the comm actually managed to pick it up. "Agent Darklighter."

"Yes, my lord. You're…" Biggs trailed off. He didn't know how to say you're alive? without implying that he'd considered, even for a moment, that Lord Vader could die. "I am honoured to receive correspondence from you." Even that sounded stilted.

Lord Vader was silent for several long seconds. It took Biggs a while to realise it was because he was struggling to speak. Had his vocoder been damaged? "You are still with the Rebellion?"

"Yes, my lord. They don't suspect me at all. They're still busy celebrating the—" He swallowed. Should he say victory? "—battle."

"Tarkin was foolish and overconfident. Let them celebrate. It will only make them overconfident in their turn."

Biggs nodded. "Am I to stay here then, my lord?" This mission was only meant to be a short one. Lord Vader had promised that—he just wanted a pilot loyal to him in the Rebel ranks for this short period, probably because of the Death Star's completion.

"You will remain my spy, yes."

"Can I not serve you more efficiently… elsewhere…?" He shuddered off at the sudden cold that pinched the back of his neck, even across the distance.

"No. I have a more important task for you."

Biggs leaned forwards. At least if it was specific, he'd have a purpose. Something solid around which to plan. "Of course, my lord."

"The pilot who destroyed the Death Star was strong with the Force. Very strong. I need to know their identity."

Biggs's long silence was probably suspicious.

"Agent," Vader warned.

"I don't know his name," Biggs rushed out. "A new guy—a rookie. Red Five, was the callsign." Vader could sense lies, Biggs knew, but he also knew that he himself was a very smooth, experienced liar. He had the experience. "My lord."

"Find his name. Deliver it, and him, to me."

"You want the pilot?" Biggs blurted out. "It was just a lucky shot—I get that you'd want him publicly punished"—and he felt sick thinking about it—"but I can provide you more information than just—"

"That presence was the same presence that accompanied Obi-Wan Kenobi, upon our final encounter. I will have my revenge. Bring this Red Five to me, Agent Darklighter. Those are your orders."

Lord Vader knew—or, more importantly, cared—about Old Kenobi? And he knew that Luke was Force-sensitive?

Biggs hadn't known much about the Jedi, on Tatooine. Clearly, Luke hadn't known anything before Kenobi had told him… whatever he had told him. But Biggs did know that Vader killed them. He didn't rest until he did.

If Biggs delivered Luke to him, he would kill him too.

"Yes, my lord," he said. "Is there anything else you require?"

If Vader noticed his bitterness, he didn't comment on it. That was what Biggs respected about Vader. He could sense anyone's emotions and thoughts, it seemed, but unless they were objectively disrespectful and incompetent, he didn't care. He was above them in every way; he did not have to.

"Relay a message to the Devastator. It will be in a nearby system. My long-range communicator and hyperdrive were damaged, and I require assistance."

Captain Solo had made Lord Vader require assistance. If Biggs hadn't been here to relay his signal, he might have died, lost in the dark nothingness of space.

If Biggs didn't relay his signal, he might still die in space.

Biggs hesitated.

"I am transmitting the message to you now."

He could avoid this whole crisis and save Luke's life now, if he refused. Walk away from the Empire, from Vader, into the Rebellion he was already at the heart of, in order to keep his best friend safe. All he had to do was jam the signal and leave Lord Vader out there to die.

But then who would he be?

Lord Vader had made something of him. His leadership had built Biggs into the man he was. Without the rank and respect the Empire granted, Biggs was once again just a moisture farmer's son, and this time mixed up in a stupid mess worse than any his father could have imagined he would make. Without the Empire, how was Biggs supposed to protect anything—or anyone?

"It will be done, my lord," he said.

Chapter Text

"And I'm definitely not getting paid for this?"

Biggs bristled, but Luke just laughed. As he had every time the smuggler had asked this. "Yeah, Han, answer's the same as when you first asked Leia back on base. You can turn around and drop us off back there whenever you want, but"—Luke leaned forwards to peer at the navicomputer—"we're almost there."

Han swatted Luke's head, and Luke retreated back to the passenger's seat in the cockpit before Biggs could hit Han back. "You've learnt to read that thing too fast for someone who'd never been to hyperspace before they met me, kid."

"He's always been a fast learner," Biggs said.

Luke rolled his eyes, but he was still laughing. He gave Biggs an affectionate look that bolstered him suddenly.

"Yeah, I know. Blew up the Death Star first time in a cockpit and all that. It's annoying."

"You should see me in Beggar's Canyon, Han."

"I really don't wanna." Chewbacca, on Han's right, roared something, and Han waved his hand at him, this time. "You shut up. You don't know anything." Another growl. "I mean it!"

Chewbacca glanced back at Luke and sniggered, and Biggs gritted his teeth. He wished he'd paid more attention in Shyriiwook lessons, but he'd been aiming to be a pilot, not some stormtrooper grunt trying to hold back another uprising on Kessel. Before he could demand to know what he'd said, they dropped out of hyperspace with a vertigo that always made Biggs's stomach flop in what was by now a pleasant, familiar way, and he was staring at an unpleasant, familiar planet.

"Anyway, where'd you want me to drop you, kid?"

Biggs glanced sideways at Luke. He'd sworn never to come back here, not if he could. He'd only gone to see Luke in Anchorhead before infiltrating the traitors on the Rand Ecliptic because he'd known that was the last chance he'd have to say goodbye.

But here he was. This dustball had the gravity well of a black hole. Maybe that was why nobody ever got out.

"Think we can talk Fixer into renting us a speeder in Anchorhead?" Luke asked Biggs. Biggs blinked before he managed to process the question. "Boy, he's gonna be angry to see you."

"Angry to see me?"

"He was always jealous of you, Biggs—everyone was. He thought when you went off to the navy he'd get to go back to being the biggest womprat in the den."

Biggs knew that, of course. Fixer was loud with his thoughts and loud with his resentments. He'd just never really cared enough to process it before. It was a badge of pride: Fixer resented him because he knew that Biggs would get out. He resented Luke for the same reason. Fixer's bitterness was something to laugh at and dismiss, not genuinely care about.

"Yeah, well, try not to brag too much or you'll be his next target, Rebel hero." Biggs cuffed Luke on the back of his head; Luke ducked before it could connect. "But yeah, he'll rent us a speeder just to get us out of his shop. He's an adult. He's got responsibilities to his dad now." Biggs didn't realise the tone his voice had taken until he looked back at Luke and saw a knowing sort of look in his eye. It was jarring enough in his open, naïve face that Biggs frowned.

"I won't brag," Luke promised. Maybe he could tell how much this was affecting him—that Biggs had only suggested this because keeping Luke with the Rebellion was worse. "I've got an interest in not having the Imperials on my tail."

Han snorted. "Yeah, and who'd believe you?"

"They let me fly against it in the first place, Han," Luke teased. Biggs closed his mouth, unsure what he'd been about to say to that anyway. "You know, you'd see what they saw if you let me fly the Falcon—"

"Nope!" Solo changed the subject before Luke could press—very unsubtly. Luke laughed again. "We're coming up on this dustball, so tell me where you wanna go already."

"Let's go to Anchorhead," Luke said.

"Where's that?"

"Other side of the Jundland Wastes from Mos Eisley."

"Great," Han muttered. They were nearing the bright blue boundary of atmo now, but he banked left and skimmed along just outside it, still in space, as he looked for the right place. "Big pile of nothin' to fly over on the way back."

Biggs turned his head to watch the atmosphere, the blue edge to the world, pass by them.

"At least you're gonna pay off Jabba," Luke said. Biggs, trapped in his thoughts, heard it distantly, like when the cockpit of his starfighter closed around him. "You wanna keep running around with a price on your head? I thought you were desperate."

"You've always been the desperate one, kid—" But Chewbacca howled with laughter, and Captain Solo was outnumbered.

They landed soon after. Luke went back to the bunkroom to grab some of his stuff, chatting to Chewbacca. Luke didn't speak Shyriiwook, Biggs was fairly sure, but they seemed to have a system of communication going. He went to follow Luke, but the door to the cockpit slid shut.

"What's your deal?" Captain Solo asked him, spinning round in his chair to look at him.

Biggs could open the door himself—there was a manual button—but Solo was looking at him intently. "What?"

Solo scratched the back of his neck. "I dunno—something just feels weird about you. What's your deal? Luke comes in, you're happy to see him 'cause he's your friend, but then he blows up the Death Star, and you disappear—"

"A lot of my friends died up there, Solo."

"I know, I just didn't really know who you were 'til Her Worship made me come on this mission. Luke talked about you, but you weren't there, and then suddenly you can't leave him alone. And you clearly hate this place." Solo glanced out the cockpit. "Not that I blame you. But what's your deal? Something's bothering you."

"And you're worried why?" Biggs snapped. "Because of Luke? He doesn't need you to take care of him."

"Well—"

"You're a smuggler. Why are you even still here? You're," he reminded him, "not getting paid for this."

Solo's shrug didn't quite hide his frown, and the way he looked away. "I'm just curious about you and the kid."

"What's it matter to you, Solo? You've known him just over a week."

Solo looked at him, hard, then suddenly showed his teeth in a laugh. He leaned back and spun his chair around again. "That's your deal, then."

The door whizzed open. Biggs didn't linger to ask what the hell that meant. He just stormed out.

Captain Solo and Chewbacca flew off less than ten minutes later, thank the stars, and Biggs was alone with Luke. He'd brought his bucket hat off the Falcon and was wearing his usual desert garb again, but he didn't have the flight goggles on his head. Looking at him like this, older and missing the goggles that he'd worn every day for nearly two decades, was nothing short of bizarre.

When a whiff of burning hit Biggs, it came with the realisation that this was probably the same outfit Luke had left Tatooine in—the one he'd seen his aunt and uncle burn in. He swallowed. He was sweating in his spare Rebel fatigues, but at least his clothes didn't smell like smoke even after three washes.

"Wanna go bother Fixer, then?" Biggs forced a smile as he breathed in the hot, dry air.

"If Camie's there she might even try to flirt with you again," Luke joked, falling in step beside him.

Biggs really hoped she didn't.

Fixer was working in his dad's shop as usual. They strode right in and found him underneath a speeder, arguing with whoever was handing him the spanner. It took Biggs a moment to recognise that person as Windy.

"Look, just give me that one, and I'll figure it out—Windy, listen to—"

"Luke!" Windy, ignoring Fixer's grunts, sprang to his feet the moment they stepped inside and strode towards him. "You're alive!"

Luke startled, not expecting that response. "Yeah, Windy, you know me." He punched Windy's shoulder weakly. Windy hovered in front of them both, not sure how to react. Hugging seemed too intimate, but his relief was obvious. "Nothing can kill me."

"What happened? We all saw the smoke from the farm, your aunt and uncle—"

"It's a long story."

"Don't act all mysterious," Fixer snapped from under the speeder. He hadn't come out to say hello to Luke or Biggs yet. "Give me the spanner already, Windy."

The spanner wobbled on the ground and flew into Fixer's hand. He grunted and didn't say thank you. Windy, still staring at Luke, didn't notice anything, but Biggs did.

He glanced sideways at Luke. It couldn't have been anyone else, but… Luke wasn't a Jedi. His father had been a Jedi. Luke couldn't be a Jedi, because that would mean Vader would kill him.

Luke's brow was furrowed, and he was looking at Windy intently, as if trying not to look at the hydrospanner. But his fingers were flicking at his side. It took a lot of effort.

What the hell was he doing? Experimenting? In front of Fixer and Windy, two of the most pathetic, loudmouth kids in town? He'd get himself thrown in front of the Imperials and strung up as a Force-sensitive in no town. They shouldn't have come back—

But they had nowhere else to go.

Windy shifted, realising how intently Luke was looking at him. "I didn't wanna pry!" he said. That was a lie. Everyone wanted to know everything. The moment you did anything interesting, they'd know about it and never let you forget it. They mocked and whispered about kids like him and Luke, but they wouldn't know what to do with themselves without them. "I just— I was on the team that went out, when we saw the smoke! It was…" He shuddered.

"Yeah, well," Luke said, trying to hold himself together, "you didn't even see the bones. The Imperials killed my aunt and uncle. I was out. They burnt down the farm."

"They never done that before—"

Luke's lips twitched. "Apparently we were that important."

"What did your aunt and uncle do?"

"Nothing, Windy."

"Then—"

"We need a speeder, Fixer," Biggs said loudly. "You got one?"

"Yeah I got a speeder."

"You gonna give it to us?"

"How much are you paying for it?"

Biggs sighed. But Windy, inane questions or not, was useful for something. "Luke's family just died, stop being like that. Just give them a speeder."

"You don't work here, Windy."

"Glad you realised that, and glad you got that blasted spanner on your own—"

"We're gonna do a proper funeral," Luke said before Biggs could wade in. Biggs bit his tongue. "I sold my speeder to get off the planet the first time. I can't get to the homestead without a speeder."

"Homestead's probably ransacked."

"You know it's not, Fixer," Windy said. "Fixer, Camie, and I've been doing watches on it. Tuskens haven't come for it yet."

Biggs could tell that made Luke relax, ever so slightly.

"You did get off planet, then?" Fixer addressed Luke. "Great, Wormie. You'll be a right pain in the ass now."

"Where else would I have gone?" Luke snapped. "Not like I could've come here, clearly—"

"Da figured it was the Hutts, and you'd gone back to Mos Espa."

Luke's face went blank. "Back to Mos Espa?"

"Do you have that speeder or not, Fixer?" Biggs demanded.

"No, Biggs," Luke said. Biggs stared at him. Luke's chest was heaving. "You thought I'd gone back to Mos Espa, Fixer?"

"Da thought you'd been taken there, yeah. They were talking about getting together a rescue or something." Fixer still hadn't even bothered to come out from under the speeder. "Back of the shop. Yellow one with the bad paint job and worse engine. You can have it for free if you can fly it."

"You know I can fly anything, Fixer."

"Counting on it, Wormie."

"Let us know when's the funeral," Windy said. "We'll make sure we're there."

Luke managed to fake a small smile. "Thanks, Windy."

Biggs pulled him away before he could get uncomfortable. "Yeah," he said. "Thanks, Windy."

Luke could fly it, of course. Bad engine or no, he was Luke Skywalker, and Fixer resented him for a reason. It made a lot of noise, spluttering like it was about to fall apart, and Biggs grumbled the whole time.

"Had to give us the piece of bantha shit," he said. "No wonder he gave it to us free, must've got it from a scrapyard."

Luke glanced down. "You know our speeder sounded like this when we bought it. Before Uncle Owen let me fix it up."

"Yeah, but afterwards it didn't."

"Still. We'd've bought it."

The desert was no more welcoming than it had ever been, and Biggs had to shade his eyes from the sun, wishing he'd brought more practical clothes after all. But Luke flew fast. Biggs didn't have the time to feel queasy from his nerves when he was too busy feeling queasy because of Luke, so they had arrived in front of the Darklighter homestead before he'd even started to think about what he was going to say.

Luke parked the speeder and climbed out, eyeing the many droids milling about. They polished the dome of the homestead until it shone like a third sun, uncomfortably bright. One of them had definitely transmitted information to his father that there were uninvited intruders on the property—Huff Darklighter was nothing if not territorial—but his father was probably out yelling at farmhands right now, so they had a few minutes to get inside.

Luke hung back, letting Biggs be the one to make the first approach. Biggs scowled, but he did: he stepped towards the door of the homestead and rang the bell. He heard that high-pitched chime echoing throughout the structure, an intimately familiar sound.

What wasn't a familiar sound was the child's wail that followed it. He frowned, glancing at Luke. Luke looked back at him like he'd expected Biggs to know more about this than him.

Footsteps grew closer; the wailing grew louder. When the door hissed open, standing at the top of the stairs was Salla, looking much older than her twenty-five years, bouncing a baby on her hip. Her dark hair already had a few bleached streaks—from the sun or from greying stress, Biggs couldn't tell in the shadows of the entryway.

She peered at him. "Biggs?" She still sounded young, though even her voice was slightly croaky. Her smile, though, had always been tired. "It's good to see you."

Biggs raised his hand to the back of his neck, suddenly hyperaware of all the things Luke had teased him for when he'd last come to Tatooine, before Luke was a war criminal: his fine offworlder dress, his neat hair, his cape. His father had dismissed them when they last met, but it was Salla's opinion Biggs cared about. "I know I didn't send advance warning—"

"And Luke!" Salla's gaze moved past Biggs to alight on him. "I was sorry to hear about your aunt and uncle."

Luke coughed. "Thanks, Salla. And—congratulations."

"Congratulations—oh." She bounced the baby almost absentmindedly. It reached out a hand to grab one of her buns, but that was knotted firmly on top of her head. Biggs had seen Tatooinian hairstyles survive sandstorms intact. Perhaps a baby's interest was more insistent, though. "Thanks. This is Cliegg."

Luke raised his eyebrows. "Like my grandfather?"

"Huff insisted. You remember how much they always got along." The baby's interest was indeed more powerful than a sandstorm: the plait unrolled in his tiny fist, and Salla winced at the tug he gave it.

"He'd be honoured, I'm sure." Biggs knew Luke didn't remember much of his grandfather—he'd died when Luke was a few years old, and all accounts said he'd never been the fearsome farmer he once was after Luke's grandmother had died—but there were memories, nonetheless. "May we come in?"

Salla laughed, glancing at Biggs. "Well, he lives here—"

"Not anymore," Biggs muttered.

"—and you're a neighbour, so of course. Are you…" She paused, picking her words as delicately as she picked flower arrangements at the market. "Are you here about your aunt and uncle?"

Luke nodded. "I want to give them a funeral, but I don't have the resources anymore. Biggs said you could help."

She nodded and admitted, "I miss your aunt. And your uncle—they were always respectful." Salla's expression darkened; she and Luke exchanged a look of sympathy. Biggs felt slightly left out.

Salla was an ex-slave. Biggs didn't know what had happened to her, or how she'd got out, or even if his father had helped her at all. All of Biggs's hard-learned charm had always faltered when he ran into the circumstances they'd met under, but the Larses—and Luke—had the experience with that backstory to know what she needed them to say.

"Yeah." Luke shifted. "I'm glad to see you're well." He stepped forwards to offer baby Cliegg his finger. Salla shot him a grateful look when Cliegg, fascinated by this new, pink digit wriggling in his face, stopped grabbing her hair. "Both of you."

"I am too," Biggs added, too late to be natural.

Salla didn't mind, though. "Come in," she said. "Your father will be back soon."

On that, they were able to exchange sympathetic looks.

Huff returned soon after Salla commed him to let him know Biggs was there—if she hadn't, he'd have come storming in demanding to know who was intruding on his land. He was paranoid like that.

"Biggs? Where the hells are you, I—" He paused in the doorway to the kitchen, squinting at Luke. "You. Skywalker."

Biggs felt his hackles rise, but Luke smiled blandly at him. "Hi, Mister Darklighter."

"Skywalker," he responded. He was a tall man, with a beard and moustache the same shade of black as Biggs's. No silver, despite the harsh suns. He didn't work much on his own farm anymore, not since he bought up so many that it only made sense to hire farmhands to farm it for him, but also Biggs knew he dyed it every week without fail.

Despite that, his hair was a mess: bushy, wiry, his beard scruffy in a way that Salla must hate kissing. Biggs unconsciously touched his own moustache. It was well-combed; they'd never take him seriously in the Empire if it wasn't.

"What happened to your aunt and uncle? The Hutts finally lose patience with Owen's games? I told him, there's no mercy out there for insolent—"

Luke gritted his teeth, but before Biggs could step in, he said, "The Empire did."

"Empire? Owen wasn't stupid enough to fool around with them, was he?"

"We didn't think so, but the stormtroopers were looking for some droids, and we happened to buy them."

"Is that it?" Huff frowned and shook his head. "They're getting pushy. They'll be encroaching on us soon—I'll have to watch what water shipments I send to the garrison, make sure they're satisfied." Salla grimaced, but just bounced Cliegg some more. Huff looked back at Luke. "Sorry for your loss."

"Thanks."

"I assume that's what pulled you back to Tatooine." Huff glanced at Biggs, a little disdain in his eyes. They were eyes that Biggs shared, and he hated it. "I'll send you comms every day for three months explaining how much I need my son to help me coordinate the harvest instead of risking his life cavorting with Imperials in some meaningless war, but the moment your friend's stand-in parents die—"

"I came back for a meaningful reason, Father."

Huff rolled his eyes. "I try to protect you, and this is what I get. You'll grow out of your high and mighty ideas one day." He glanced at Cliegg and smiled, cooing gently. "Better hope your brother hasn't picked up your inheritance in the meantime."

"He's two months old."

"Eight months, now," Salla said quietly. Biggs tightened his lips into a thin line. She turned to Huff. "The boys are looking for help hosting Owen and Beru's funeral—Luke had to leave the planet when he found them dead, so could only do a quick burial there and then."

"You left the planet?" Huff asked Luke. "You couldn't get to Mos Pelgo if you tried."

"I left the planet," Luke said, smiling blandly.

"Where the hells did you even go?"

"The Rebellion."

Huff tensed. "Don't joke about that, boy. You want to bring the Empire down on me?"

"He's not joking," Biggs cut in. "We—"

Huff glared at him. "We? You're an Imperial. You've given yourself ridiculous dreams, but you're my son. I know they're not that ridiculous."

"Tough. I defected. I joined the Rebels, and so did Luke. We're on leave to bury Owen and Beru, and then we're going right back there!" The irony of his own words wasn't lost on him.

"Going back to waste your time and risk your life some more, then—"

"As opposed to what?"

"As opposed to honest work for someone else!"

Biggs scoffed. "You've never done a minute of honest work in your life. Much less for someone else."

He expected the slap. He dodged it, and Huff's hand slammed into the kitchen counter instead. His father stared at him, breathing heavily.

"You're gonna get yourself killed, and I'm gonna be out another farmhand."

"I'm glad you're so worried about me."

"This is for your own good. You're gonna die—"

"I'd rather die with Luke than live with you."

Huff sucked in a breath and raised his hand again.

"You don't have to do that!" Luke interjected.

Huff turned to glare at Luke. "Did I ask for your opinion, Skywalker?"

"You don't have to do that," Luke repeated. The conviction was there again, stronger.

Huff lowered his hand. "I don't have to do that," he agreed. Biggs and Salla exchanged a look.

"You can leave us all alone. There's no point."

Huff nodded, a little bravado entering his voice again. "Suns know that I can leave you all alone. There's no point."

"Yeah, that's what we'd prefer," Biggs bit out.

Whatever effect Luke had cast over him, it didn't cover Biggs's sass. But Huff still didn't hit him.

"It's a good thing you're not my only son," he spat at him. Then he turned around and marched out.

Salla winced. "You don't have to provoke him, Biggs."

"I do."

"It only makes it worse for all of us." She glanced at him sideways. Guilt was slow to fester, but fester it did, cocooning in his chest.

Luke passed a hand in front of his face, looking suddenly exhausted. "I'm sorry for this, Salla."

"You couldn't have done anything about it, Luke," she reassured him. "I'll talk him around. Even if he's not there at the funeral—I doubt Owen would have wanted him there—we can put up some funds to help you."

Luke smiled. "Thank you."

"I'm proud of you." Salla looked at Biggs, then, her dark eyes warm. She was only a few years older than him, but wiser with pain and experience and compassion. "Joining the Rebellion? That's brave. You're doing the right thing." Luke ducked his head, flushing. "Genuinely. How did you get involved?"

"You're not gonna believe it," Luke mumbled.

Salla laughed at his expression. "Try me."

The story of the Death Star was one out of this galaxy. Biggs wouldn't have blamed Salla for scepticism, but she nodded along as Luke told it; she trusted Luke. Biggs's story was plain in comparison, but he was glad he didn't have to tell it just yet. Baby Cliegg caught his eye and smiled widely. Biggs couldn't smile back.

All he could do was stand there, Salla's words washing over him, as he processed that she would be proud of having a Rebel stepson.

Ultimately, the funeral wasn't hard to arrange: Tatooine's traditions had always been simple. The most difficult part was digging Owen and Beru up again—an unpleasant task, but not uncommon, considering the plenty of times masters killed slaves and disposed of their bodies before their loved ones could pay their respects.

Bodies didn't compose in the desert the way Biggs had heard they did on other planets. Dry sand sucked the moisture out of them and could preserve them, their flesh dry and unrotting on their bones, for years. Myths abounded of stories of incorrectly buried corpses being dug up by the elements during the shifting of dunes under a stormy sky and flung into their old homestead. Shrivelled husks of bodies, long dead but animated by the unnatural power at the heart of the storm, chattering and cackling at the door while their relatives looked on and screamed.

Biggs's father always scoffed and dismissed them as just that: myths. But Salla helped them source the plants, water, and even rare soil that traditional Tatooinian graves would be packed with, to help the body decompose. Desert cacti and other plants would be planted over the graves, both to consume the nutrients from the bodies and grow strong, but also for their roots to hold together the sand when the nightmare storms came.

They held the funeral the next day. At sunrise, Luke and Biggs rose and drove out to the empty husk of a homestead that had once been the centre—and limits—of Luke's galaxy. Biggs let him wander through the charred and empty halls a little longer, lingering over the rooms that had caved in and filled with sand, then they set to work digging Owen and Beru back up. Luke hadn't buried them deeply, before—he'd been in shock and needed to run—and they were lucky there hadn't been a sandstorm since then. The bones were still where they'd left them.

And bones they were. Biggs didn't know what he had expected—maybe he'd expected nothing at all. He'd avoided thinking about it. Luke had told him that Owen and Beru had burned to death, that he'd found them at the doorway as if they were fighting to escape, but the nausea in his gut had stopped him from slowing down to really process what that meant. Their flesh had been incinerated. The only thing left for the desert to consume was their bones.

When they dug them up, they shone ivory in the suns' early morning light, tinged with gold and scarred with black soot. Looking at them hurt.

"I don't know whose are whose," Luke admitted quietly, stopping to lean on his shovel like the moons had rolled onto his shoulders. His bucket hat was low over his forehead; a bead of sweat slid, uninterrupted, down his cheek. "I probably could have figured it out, but everything happened so fast, and now they're lost in one jumble—"

"Would they have minded?" Biggs replied.

A tear slid down Luke's cheek, cutting through the trail the sweat had left behind. "No. They might've liked it."

They wrapped all the bones in one shroud. It was one that Windy's mother had donated—Genya had been close to Beru and privately started making it herself when she heard the news, even before she knew Luke and Biggs had come back—and was dyed a cheerful blue, the colour of the sky. More importantly, the colour of water: silver threads ran through it, simulating the shimmer of moisture on the vaporators. Luke wrapped the bones in it tightly and tied it in a bow at the top, like a gift.

It meant the space of the grave was smaller than Shmi and Cliegg's next to it, since it didn't span the full length of the human body, but Biggs and Luke had been digging for a while as it was, so that was a mercy. Luke gently placed the bones in the pit and tilled the sand back over it, watching the shimmer of the shroud get soaked up by the dry dust.

Biggs swallowed harshly and took the blue milk Luke offered him, offering Luke the gourd of water in return. Luke took it, but they both let themselves quench their thirst before they flung the water over the grave. There was no flesh to decompose—the fire had done that for them already—but tradition was tradition. They always spent water on the dead; it was the highest honour they could bestow.

The sand grew damp and clumpy, darkening to a yellow-brown Biggs hadn't seen since he'd been on shore leave from the Devastator on Scarif, and stood on the beach beside a bafflingly vast sea of water he could not drink, watching it foam around his feet and be gobbled up by the sand. He knelt down now and shaped it with his hands as he had then: then, it was to marvel at the feeling of wet sand, an anathema; now, it was to clear a few small holes, each about a foot deep, above the grave.

As the next of kin, Luke buried the first plant. He'd gone to the Marstraps' hydroponics farm without Biggs and without credits, but he'd come away with a cactus bigger than his torso, nearly poking his own eye out as he loaded it into the speeder. Now, he sank it into the largest hole, shaping the sand to hold it steady once he let go, his hands scratched and sunburnt already. It wasn't flowering yet—it wasn't in season—but it would soon. Biggs went next, planting some of the smaller grasses and blossoms that Beru had cultivated in pots around the homestead. Just the sweet smell of them made him feel safe. By now, it was high noon, but a vigil was a vigil. Tatooinian funerals lasted all day; the hosts stayed there and worked, and visitors would help them where they could.

So, they sat in the sand and waited for the suns to dip below the horizon again, pitching the rough, weatherworn shelter that Fixer's father had tossed at them so they could wait in the shade. Luke murmured to himself and his aunt and uncle in Huttese—Biggs wasn't as proficient in the language as he used to be, having spent so much time trying his best to speak High Galactic Basic in the navy, but he knew what he was saying. A long requiem of funeral poems, dirges, songs, confessions, griefs, regrets. He switched between them before they were complete, like he couldn't bear to hold them through to the end. Watching him mutter, caught in his own thoughts like some esoteric monk, Biggs thought of what he'd done to his father earlier.

It had looked like a Jedi mind trick.

Granted, Biggs didn't know anything about the Jedi that Luke hadn't told him, other than the fact that they were evil, and the Empire had been right to wipe them out. But Luke had told him about Old Ben tricking those stormtroopers into not arresting them and mentioned that he was training himself to try to be able to do something like that. To be able to help like that.

Biggs had dismissed it as thoroughly as he'd dismissed Luke's comment that he knew (more or less) how to use the laser sword at his waist. Luke was a good pilot and a good shot. He was a good luck charm. But he wasn't a warrior, regardless of how many people he'd killed in one battle. He wouldn't become a Jedi, simply because he couldn't become a Jedi—that would be too dangerous. Biggs was the one who had always protected him.

But then he'd made Huff Darklighter back off with only a few firm words.

Luke clearly wasn't a mind-reader like Lord Vader yet, because he didn't respond to Biggs's turmoil. He just kept muttering to himself. Biggs couldn't do anything except sit and listen and wait for others to join them in their vigil.

No one came.

By the time the light turned bloody, Biggs's lip was sore from sneering. No one had come. He should have expected it. They all had very important work to do—work they couldn't bear to interrupt, even for this. Of course they hadn't come.

When Tatoo I was nearly gone and Tatoo II was crimson, Biggs stood up and took down the shelter. "Come on, Luke," he said. "We need to get back before total dark."

Luke shook his head. "We have another fifteen minutes or so before total suns-down."

"No one is coming. Your aunt and uncle would want you safe more than they want another fifteen minutes with you."

In another eerie move that threatened everything Biggs believed in, Luke frowned, tilted his head, and pointed to the horizon. Biggs looked, already knowing in his chest what he would see. Luke's premonitions had been cool when they were kids, a fun bit or trivia or coincidence that kept them safe. Now, they chilled him.

A flock of speeders emerged out of the mauve haze on the horizon. As they grew closer, much faster than Biggs had ever seen respectable, easily spooked folk like their neighbours fly, the roar of the speeders bounced deafeningly across the dunes. They sputtered to a halt next to the homestead, sending waves of sand in Biggs and Luke's faces, burying their plants just a little more.

"Skywalker!" Fixer's father barked. "Hope we're not too late? Your uncle wouldn't mind it—your lot were never the most punctual either, eh?"

Biggs whipped his head to look at Luke. That was because the Lars farm was far out of the way from Anchorhead, and they always had to work long hours, Owen making sure Luke worked the longest—

To Biggs's surprise, Luke smiled. "No," he agreed, "I doubt he would."

Fixer's mother knelt next to Luke at the grave and buried their plant—a cactus that was in bloom, bright red blooms—in the next free space. The others followed: the Marstraps, the Starkillers, every other family with kids their age who had laughed with Owen in Anchorhead's pathetic little cantina or pushed past Beru on market day. Salla stepped forwards with a spindly spider plant—even Salla was late. Biggs gaped at her in shock and betrayal, but she was too busy giving Luke a quick, tight hug to notice. Her dark hair had fallen out of its neat bun again, messy and unkempt and full of dust.

They were there long past suns-down, planting their offerings and chatting and laughing. A lot of the offerings were cacti—"Survivors!" one person said, "Like Owen. Prickly, too"—and their spines bristled blood red in the last rays of light before only their dark silhouettes remained against the dark sky.

Luke, more patient than antsy Luke Skywalker had ever been, entertained everyone offering him belated blessings, and even gave a good show of sincerity. Biggs tried to be there for moral support, like he had all day, but eventually he couldn't stomach it and turned away.

The laughter and well wishes rang in his ears. They were ultimately—as everything on Tatooine was—too little too late.

It was long dark when it finally wrapped up. Salla didn't offer them a place to stay, but Windy's father did; Luke turned him down, thankfully. Biggs didn't want to spend another day on this planet. They all headed back to Anchorhead like an armada, the moons almost bright enough to see by without lights, so if one good thing came out of this, it was that Biggs didn't have to worry about Tuskens jumping them in the middle of the desert. Biggs drove; Luke commed Han in the meantime, asking him to come and pick them up.

Han was annoying, as always. "Sorry, kid, gimme a few more hours to wrap it up. Jabba's being… recalcitrant."

"He's trying to squeeze more money out of you?" Luke guessed.

"You bet. I'll pick ya up around midnight your time."

They'd been awake since before dawn, but Luke didn't complain. Biggs wanted to, but Han hung up before he could.

"We can find someone to host us 'til then," Luke said, yawning. He glanced to the left, where the low voices of various families chatting around them floated towards them on the breeze. "Probably."

Biggs said, "I have a better idea."

Beggar's Canyon looked even more alarming at night, with the silver light of the moons barely illuminating it at all: it resembled a gaping maw. Luke raised his eyebrows as they approached, but to Biggs's relief a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "I'm good, Biggs, but even I'm not gonna fly it in the middle of the night."

"Nah, Luke, I don't have a death wish either." Biggs brought the speeder to a halt right in the centre of that opening, as far into the dark chasm as he dared, and leaned back. "I just wanted to come here. Memories."

"Of beating Fixer and embarrassing him in front of Camie?"

"Of knowing we were good enough to make it." Biggs's smile faded. "You know how many Imperial-trained pilots could take on Beggar's Canyon and win? Not many."

"Didn't feel like they were all that bad when they were shooting at me."

"They're not bad," Biggs said. "Especially those ones—Vader's personal pilots. They're the elites of the Empire. Black Squadron." Biggs's squadron. "You're just insanely good."

Luke ducked his head, shaking off the compliment like he always did even as Biggs could see pride warming his smile. "It was an instinct," he admitted. "Obviously, I'd never flown out of atmo before… I didn't know what I was doing. It just came naturally."

"You fly like you were born there."

"I've got no idea where I was born. Maybe I was."

Maybe he was. Maybe Luke's Jedi father and mysterious mother had been on a ship gunning through hyperspace when he was born, and in his first moments he'd breathed in recycled air, felt the thrum of the engine chatter his toothless gums, felt the ripples of spacetime shift around him, and the song of it all had been singing at the back of his head ever since. Biggs realised he didn't know. Luke was a Jedi's son, with a Jedi's powers. Luke was a Rebel hero. Biggs hardly knew him at all.

But no. The way Luke turned towards him, still hiding his proud smile, was imprinted in his memory more intently than his own father's face. Beggar's Canyon loomed in front of them, but it had never seemed scary with Luke there. Luke had always been extraordinary—he'd always been someone too big for this small, insignificant life, someone who would escape it with Biggs, who he could see the stars with.

"I was afraid," Luke admitted.

Biggs tore his eyes from Luke and glanced at Beggar's Canyon. "When you threaded the Needle?"

"No. Well, yeah, I'm not an idiot, but—" Luke swallowed. "I thought you were gonna die over the Death Star. Vader's wingmen nearly took you out."

They hadn't, because Biggs had transmitted the safety codes just in time. Whoever that had been flying there—he bet it was Yularen, that woman was military born and bred with the accuracy to prove it—had aimed to damage him just enough to get him out of the battle, so they could close in on the pilot. Biggs had acquiesced and fled.

"I didn't."

"You almost did."

"So did you! You took heavy fire at the start—"

"I was fine! I was always gonna be fine. But you—"

"Luke," Biggs said, leaning in close. Their faces were inches apart, Luke's irises pale and clear as moons in the unusual light. "There's no one I've ever trusted to fly with like you. There's no one I've ever wanted to fly with like you. We're a team."

"We're a pair of shooting stars," Luke murmured in response, glancing down from Biggs's eyes to… to…

Their lips pressed together. Biggs leaned forwards, Luke leaned forwards, and they kissed, eyes closed, in the shadow of the thousands of flights through the Canyon they'd taken over the years, together.

Biggs's hand moved to the back of Luke's neck. Luke shifted, until he was perched between the seats, his knees knocking into Biggs's as Biggs slid his other arm around Luke's waist and held him there, eyes closed. The heat and reassuring strength of his body against him was familiar in a thousand different ways; now it was familiar in a new way. He smelled like sweet desert flowers and sand—like safety and home.

After an intimate eternity, Biggs pulled his face away, hyperaware of every inch of skin pressed together and the frantic jumble of two pulses racing. He breathed heavily and let Luke kiss his cheek.

Shit, he thought, staring over Luke's shoulder and into the abyss. Shit.

Chapter Text

By some miracle—a miracle that was Luke getting into the pilot's seat rather than Biggs, and flying on instincts that Biggs simply didn't have—they made it back to Anchorhead without incident, despite how dazed the both of them were. Luke kept shooting him awkward glances out of the corner of his eye, which made Biggs stiffen and want to curl into a ball before his cheeks ignited like two midnight suns. He didn't; he had more self-control than that. Instead, he smiled that trained, confident smile he was used to sporting, and Luke nearly crashed the speeder.

Biggs looked back down at his lap. But when Luke tentatively reached out a hand to him, he took it and entwined their fingers together. He could feel the pulse in his fingertips and in Luke's wrist; they tangled together like comets in unstable orbits.

He let out a breath.

Practically speaking, there was no use in denying this. He could feel in his gut that his feelings hadn't changed, and although he knew he hadn't always had that buried urge to kiss his best friend, he couldn't really look back and pinpoint when it had appeared. It seemed older than the Battle of Yavin. Older, perhaps, even than Biggs going to the academy. Which complicated things, because if he had recognised it then, rather than requiring such intense, unusual trauma to shake his feelings up enough for these ones to rise to the surface, things would have been a lot simpler.

Might have been a lot simpler. Perhaps, if they'd flown hand-in-hand, rather than just side-by-side, then, he could have convinced Luke to come to the academy with him, damn what his controlling uncle demanded of him, and Luke would have ultimately given his loyalties to the right cause. But perhaps not. Luke had chosen not to apply then, under Owen's pressuring; romance might not have changed it.

Nonetheless, daydreaming that it might have meant Biggs didn't have to confront the further implications of this for now. Lord Vader still wanted the name of the pilot he intended to hunt down and execute. There was no way that Biggs could justify giving it to him now—and, really, had there ever been in the first place? What sort of a friend was he, to need a kiss to confirm that hesitation in him?—but he owed Lord Vader everything. He owed him answers, at the very least.

Luke stopped the speeder outside of Fixer's garage and left it around the back. They'd all already said their goodbyes after the funeral, and clearly even Luke didn't want to have to go through that ritual again. No one really stole anything in Anchorhead—at least, not anything as unreliable and cranky as that speeder. Everyone knew what a pain it was to fly.

So they walked instead, hand in hand, to the blank patch of desert on the outskirts where Captain Solo had dropped them off. The Falcon wasn't there yet: it was ten long minutes before they deigned to show up, in which they let go of each other's hands but still stole glances and smiles from each other. Every millimetre of skin that had touched Luke's itched like it was breaking out in eczema.

When Solo finally showed up, at least he wasn't obnoxious as he usually was. He barely looked at Biggs, instead hovering awkwardly at the top of the ramp and glancing at Luke. "How'd it go?"

Luke swallowed. "Well," he said at last. The buoyancy they'd been enjoying drained away like helium into the atmosphere. "A lot of people showed up."

"Not until suns-down, though," Biggs said bitterly.

Luke squeezed his hand. "They had work," he reasoned. Biggs supposed he had to reason that; the other implications were too painful. Owen and Beru had given their lives to this community. "They did what they could."

"And so did you," Solo said. "Are ya ready to go back now?"

A teasing note entered Luke's voice as he climbed the ramp, leaving the sweltering desert night behind. Biggs scrambled to keep up. "Are you actually gonna take us back to the coordinates Leia sent? I thought you were going on about abandoning us as soon as you had the chance."

Solo shrugged and gestured towards the cockpit. "Chewie won't let me leave you here stranded. Says it's cruel. I say he's a softie, but—"

Luke laughed and shoved him. "Yeah, right."

"—hells only know that you can't take care of yourself!" Solo shouted after Luke. When Biggs reached the top of the ramp, Solo turned back to him. "Well. You can. You could join the Empire again and—"

"Excuse me?" Biggs snapped. Fear hammered in his chest at the knowing look in Solo's eye. "Join the Empire?"

Solo put up his hands. "Hey, just saying! I've got out of a fair few scrapes like that before—I knew enough still about stormtrooper protocol to pretend to be one of them who'd just lost his platoon. They get you in the shuttle, then you take over the shuttle, and off ya go."

"…you were an Imperial?"

Solo wrinkled his nose. "We all get desperate."

"I'm not going to join the Empire again," Biggs said. It was what a diehard Rebel should say. But maybe it was too on-the-nose, because Solo paused and gave him a look.

"Alright," he said. "Are you gonna let me pull up this landing ramp or what?"

The hyperspace trip back to the Rebel base was too short. Biggs spent the whole thing in his bunk—he and Luke were both exhausted—listening to the creaks where Luke shifted above him. Luke was fast asleep, if his breathing was any indication, but Biggs had never known him to be this restless a sleeper before. He was a farm boy: he got up early and went to sleep early, and he dropped off like sand over the canyon walls when he did. Hard work did that to you.

Now, he tossed and turned and tsked in his sleep. Biggs was the opposite: he lay stock still, unmoving, utterly and inexorably awake.

There was nothing he could do but think the same thoughts, over and over and over. Nothing had changed since the Battle of Yavin, except everything. He should have known how much—and exactly what—Luke meant to him, but going home had only consolidated that. Going home reminded him how precious he was.

Tatooine had never been safe. Biggs had once told Luke that he only thought Tatooine was boring because he'd never left—Tuskens, Jabba's men, and now trigger-happy stormtroopers made the desert as hostile to human life as the twin suns and the sandstorms did. There was a reason Huff was so cruel, Owen was so gruff, and Fixer was so bitter: they all had the desert's law written into their DNA and looked out for themselves accordingly.

But perhaps it had been safer. Perhaps Fixer, Camie, Windy, and all the others Biggs had spent his life scorning had it right. Staying at home and never doing anything meaningful with their lives might have been the safer option.

Of course, he didn't actually believe that. He never could have. But delirious ideas were characteristic of the truly desperate.

Princess Leia was there to greet Luke when they landed. Biggs didn't feel the same twinge of jealousy as they embraced that he had before, as Luke ran out to hug her, blatantly, in the middle of the hangar of Home One. That was, he realised, what he'd felt when he was so annoyed at Solo—at least at first.

"How was it?" Princess Leia asked sympathetically. Biggs just caught the tail end of the question as he proceeded down the ramp.

Luke gave her a gentle smile. "It was good," he said. "It helped a lot. How was the Alderaanian vigil?"

Princess Leia tightened her lips. "It helped a lot too," she said quickly. Biggs wouldn't have noticed the lie if he wasn't very well-trained in noticing Luke: he spotted how Luke frowned, zeroed in on it, and put a hand on the princess's shoulder.

"I wish I could've been there," he said.

That seemed to help, if only because Luke's stance relaxed. Biggs couldn't tell if Princess Leia's had. She was as inscrutable as a sculpture of white alabaster, like a princess already long dead and immortalised in halls fallen to ruin. All she said, returning the gentle smile, was, "I wish I could've come with you too."

"You'd hate Tatooine," Luke teased.

"Maybe." She linked arms with him. "But I don't hate you."

"I'm glad to hear it." Luke glanced around the hangar. It was a small, quiet one. Biggs had noticed that the moment he came down the ramp. "What's happening here? How has it been settling onto Home One?"

"Chaotic, of course. We lost so many pilots that we're restructuring the squadrons altogether." Luke nodded solemnly, but the princess led him farther towards the door. "Which is actually something we wanted to talk to you about."

"How can I help?"

Biggs jogged to keep up with them on Luke's other side, a half-step behind so he didn't interrupt, but close enough to listen intently to the conversation. Structure of military systems—that was the sort of information ISB loved.

"Come with me," Princess Leia said. She glanced back at Biggs. Inscrutable though she was, the amused look she gave him pierced him to the core. "Both of you, in fact. I want you there too, Darklighter."

"What about Han?" Luke put in.

She gave the Falcon a dismissive look. "He can decide what he wants to do next on his own."

"Yeah, but how's he supposed to justify his decision to stay without you ordering him to?"

To Biggs's surprise, she laughed. "He'll do his mental gymnastics in some new way, I'm sure."

Where Princess Leia took them turned out to be a briefing room with several pilots already crowded around a holotable, including an older, grizzled human with several scars across his face. Princess Leia took her position near the head of the table, as always, and Luke followed her, so Biggs was left feeling exposed, a little too close to the older man. He didn't recognise him, but they didn't exactly have many senior pilots on Home One who had escaped Yavin IV—he'd probably been working with another Rebel cell.

Wedge and Luke exchanged a glance and a smile, their camaraderie quick but thick, forged from being two of the few survivors of the Death Star trench. The pang that Biggs had thought was protectiveness—Luke couldn't get too attached to the Rebels, or he'd never get him out of here—but realised was jealousy sprang again in his chest. Being able to recognise it meant he could calm down a little easier.

He glanced around the table. There were a few others there he recognised—and, awkwardly, who recognised him—and a few he didn't, who must have been pulled in from smaller Rebel cells. Elyhek Rue was trying to fade into the background as always despite his bright red hair, oblivious to Biggs's presence with his gaze fixed on Narra and the holotable. Wenton Chan, posture straight and helmet under his arm, gave Biggs a brief nod of acknowledgement but didn't speak. Biggs appreciated that. He hadn't been very kind to the other pilots of Red Squadron in the hours leading up to Yavin. He'd been so sure he would never see any of them again, and he'd been so stressed by the hype and Luke's sudden appearance that he'd withdrawn, grown snappish. Some of the pilots with better things to do had clearly brushed it off as pre-battle stress, but others hadn't.

Col Takbright was giving him the side eye under his dark hair, which honestly was to be expected. Biggs had never called him Fake Wedge, the nickname Puck—now dead—had tormented him with for months before. But then Col had started going on about a stupid farm boy talking about womp rats, and Biggs had condescended to him until it just slipped out. Col was an angry person by nature. It was why he'd joined the Rebellion, but it made him dangerous for Biggs, now. Bren Quersey tightened his lip when he saw Biggs as well, but Biggs was less worried about him. Quersey was quick to anger, but quick to cool. Col wasn't.

He was in hot water. He couldn't bring more attention to himself.

He cleared his throat. "While we're all here," he said into the silence. "I'd just like to—uh—apologise. Right before the battle, I said some—uh—cruel things. I shouldn't have. I was tense, about to fly, and—"

"We were all tense," Col said, eyes narrowed.

But Wedge waved him off. "We get it, Biggs." Luke, Wedge, and Biggs were the only ones here who'd actually flown at Yavin; there hadn't been enough ships, and the others had been passed over. They had been given more slack temper-wise than the others, though perhaps sitting and watching everyone die had been worse. Col had seemed to have gone through hell and back.

But he also seemed to have made up with Wedge after that long resentment over the nickname, so at Wedge's comment, he glanced at him and shut his mouth. Instead, the grizzled new commander cut in.

"That's a good sentiment, pilot. Let's clear the air from Yavin before we move forwards. Anyone else got anything to say?"

No one stepped forwards. Luke slipped his hand into Biggs's and squeezed, which just made Biggs's heart pound in a whole new way.

"Good." He glanced sideways at Princess Leia. "Is this everyone?"

Leia pursed her lips. "This is all we could get."

"Then we're damn short."

"We're trying to up recruitment. Imperial defectors have been piling in since the news about Alderaan dropped." Her throat bobbed as she said Alderaan, but otherwise there wasn't anything in her face that betrayed her grief. Biggs wondered how someone could be so heartless as to not react when that happened to their home, but perhaps she was being as iron hearted as the Imperials she despised. He would have called it impressive self-control, if he hadn't known that most Rebels were driven by irrational rage.

The commander grunted. "So long as they fly well, I'll take 'em. Alright." He raised his hands and looked around the table. "You've figured out why you're here. You boys are the only surviving members of Red Squadron. My name's Narra, I've been commanding a squadron with the Calamaris for the last six months, but the princess called me back to reform Red Squadron. Now is the time for the Rebellion to strike the Empire again: it's still reeling from the blow we dealt it."

He looked up and, to Biggs's surprise, nodded directly at Luke. "Skywalker destroyed their toy. He got to do that because the rest of us did our jobs. I'm asking you all now: are you gonna do your jobs when I tell you to? And do them well?"

There was a chorus of yeses. Luke's was the loudest of all. Biggs lagged behind, his Y coming when other Ss were just hissing out.

"Good." Narra leaned forwards and looked around, and Biggs took the chance to examine him in more detail. He was utterly nondescript: short, greying hair, a wrinkled face, and grey eyes that confronted you like a permacrete wall before your speeder rammed into it. "All of you are talented pilots. Some of you"—he nodded at the ones Biggs didn't recognise—"will have been brought in from other cells because of those talents. You'll have a place on Red Squadron—"

"Rogue Squadron," Princess Leia said.

Narra glanced sideways at her. "Apologies, boys, the princess is right. We're changing the name to Rogue Squadron."

"After Rogue One?" Luke asked quietly. Biggs took one look at the starry-eyed look on his face and looked away. Who'd told him about those guys? Rebels rebelling against other Rebels and causing even more damage because of it. But Luke would find the idea romantic, he knew.

"That's right, Skywalker."

"High Command would like to honour their sacrifice," Princess Leia said, "and acknowledge our own mistake. We'll continue the fight they started."

Everyone around that table nodded solemnly. Biggs swallowed.

"Skywalker." Narra looked at Luke. "You'll be my second. I've seen your simulator scores—I'm impressed."

Luke blinked. "Sir, I don't have experience with command." He glanced at the others. "I could do it, but any of these men would execute it just as well as me."

"I know they would. But this is about politics." He looked at Princess Leia again, a little more reluctantly this time.

She folded her arms. "You destroyed the Death Star, Luke. You need to be in a visible position of authority for us to keep the hero narrative going."

"You won't get any special treatment, that's for sure," Narra promised. "You don't have any experience now. You'll learn fast, or I'm abandoning this whole thing."

Luke looked nervous, glancing around the other pilots, but nodded. "Yessir."

"That'll put a target on his back," Biggs said suddenly. "The Empire are already out for his blood, and you're using him in a propaganda campaign? They'll kill him—"

"They kill all of us, Darklighter," Col cut in, watching him. "That's what they do."

"I don't want—"

"Leave it, Biggs," Luke said.

Princess Leia pinched her lips. "Rest assured we don't intend to throw Luke to the wolves, Lieutenant Darklighter."

"Clearly—"

"Leave it." Luke jabbed him with his elbow. "I won't let you down, sir."

Narra looked between Luke and Biggs briefly, eyes narrowed, before looking away. "I'm sure you won't," he said. "The rest of you—stay sharp. If Skywalker falls like Darklighter's so concerned about, it'll be any one of you next."

The joke didn't make anyone except Luke relax.

"The princess's given us enough X-wings for you all. We're heading out now to do some manoeuvres, see how you boys work as a team. Skywalker, take the same wingmen you had during your Death Star run, for familiarity's sake. The rest of you, form up however you want."

They glanced at each other. Chan and Quersey nodded to each other, and Col grimaced at Rue. The newer pilots quickly decided between themselves as well.

One of them was watching Luke. Short hair—military cut—with a thin moustache and sharp cheekbones, he looked familiar, in a way Biggs didn't like.

"Alright. Let's go."

On the way out of the briefing room, Biggs stepped between Luke and the new guy's gaze. Whatever was going on here—new pilots, new squadron, new orders—he didn't like it.

"You can't do this," Biggs hissed to Luke just before they reached the hangar.

"Shut up, Biggs." Luke's voice sounded harder and older now than it had in years. "I'll have to."

"You—"

"Into your X-wings!"

Luke jogged towards the X-wing Narra waved him to, where that blue R2 unit was already waiting and beeping happily to see him. Biggs glanced up at the ship beside him, saw R5, and blanched. He wasn't sure how much more interaction with her he could take.

"Darklighter."

Princess Leia's soft but unyielding voice called him back for a moment. He turned around. She stood in the door to the hangar, watching them all, frowning.

"Your Highness?"

"You're protective of him," she said. "Han told me."

"Solo doesn't know—"

"I also have eyes."

Biggs shut his mouth.

"I care about him too," she said. "Don't let yourself order him about because of it."

Biggs ground his teeth. "You give all of us orders, Your Highness."

"That's my job. You're his wingman. Your job is to protect him, not stop him. And not sabotage his chances."

"It was a valid concern!" He clenched his fists. "If the Empire finds out—if Vader finds out—"

"I am intimately familiar with what happens when Vader gets his hands on you," she said coolly, "and Luke knows more about that specific experience than I'm willing to share with you." Biggs wondered if she was a uniquely distrustful person, or if Solo's dislike of him had rubbed off on her. "He knows the risks. He's already destroyed the Death Star. There's already a target on his back." She softened her tone. "You can't prevent that."

"If they never learn his name—"

"Ships leak everything. Oxygen, cooling fluid, heat." She waved her hand around. "But warships always leak secrets. He'll find out. What are you gonna do when he does?"

That felt like a question too intense and intimate to be a coincidence. There was something about the way Leia was watching him, like he was an open book to her. She reminded him of Luke.

Biggs turned away, clutching his helmet. "Fly at his side."

He almost missed her quiet, "Good."

They were working on manoeuvres for hours. First in space, getting used to being close to each other and using the ships—R5 was still irritatingly uncooperative with Biggs's desires; he really hated flying with her—and then in the simulations. By the end of it, Biggs felt like every one of his internal organs had been bruised by the g-forces and staggered back to the bunkroom he'd been assigned to. He shared with Col Takbright; Luke shared with Wedge. Biggs had been annoyed about that, but one look from Princess Leia told him that was intentional. No one wanted to be in the bunkroom next to a room shared by a couple.

Col was out chatting to Wedge—and Luke, which made Biggs want to stay, since Col had been so dismissive of him and of Tatooine before. But he had clearly changed his opinions since Luke had destroyed the Death Star for him, so Biggs let it go. Col seemed suspicious—or possibly just resentful—towards Biggs, anyway. No need to make it worse.

He shouldn't have burnt his bridges like that.

The moment he returned to the bunkroom, he flopped onto the bunk and stared up at the bottom of Col's bunk. His body still ached, but his head ached more. Stress had, delicately, laced nausea through his gut.

This would be fine. Biggs could defect? He could just never go back to Lord Vader—that, or he could stay here, as a spy, but make sure that Luke kept escaping the Empire's wrath. Luke had already managed to escape the Death Star. Surely—

Halfway through taking off one of his socks, his comlink buzzed. His Imperial comlink.

The bottom dropped out of Biggs's stomach. He scrambled to his feet, almost slipping on his other sock, locked the door, put the comlink on the ground, and knelt. Then, he finally accepted the call.

Immediately, a pressure closed around his throat. The hologram of Lord Vader that sprang from the comlink was hardly a foot tall, but a force yanked Biggs high into the air. His head collided with the ceiling; he was dropped, briefly, then caught again. His nails bit into the soft skin of his neck, as if he could claw Vader's metaphysical grip off of him with his bare fingers.

"You have failed me," Vader thundered.

"My lord," Biggs choked out. His words were limited; there was only so much breath left in his lungs to form them. "How… may… I…?"

Disgusted, Vader threw him back. Biggs wheezed and massaged his throat, scrambling back onto his knees and bowing his head. He couldn't allow himself the luxury of sitting back to gasp for breath; Vader was still there, still waiting.

"I don't know what you mean, my lord," he choked out, throat burning.

Vader spat, "Skywalker."

Biggs stopped trying to breathe. His throat, screaming, went dry and cold. "My lord—"

"Another spy in the Rebellion found his name. You have been useless."

Another spy in the Rebellion. Of course there was—he couldn't have been the only one—but, "I couldn't—"

"You will bring him to me, Darklighter. Within the week, or your life is forfeit."

It crossed Biggs's mind to wonder how Vader intended to carry out that threat. His heart rate skyrocketed: again, if he wanted to, he could defect for real. He was in the Rebellion. He could join.

But his father's face flashed in front of his eyes. He imagined abandoning Lord Vader and the noble order he sought to build, and knew, still, he could not abandon that.

Where did that leave him?

"The other spy—"

"Is a spy of the Emperor's. I was forced to intercept his transmission to keep Skywalker's name from him. Before he can inform the Emperor of this, you must bring Skywalker to me."

The Emperor? The word sent a disc spinning in Biggs's head. Lord Vader had only ever been loyal to the Emperor, his own mentor, before. It was the perfect system: a benevolent leader, with loyal followers who would do what was necessary to make sure everything was done, and the chance to make something of everyone who dedicated themselves to it.

Why would Vader want Luke before the Emperor could find out?

"Do you intend to kill him?" Biggs whispered.

"What?"

"Luke. Are you gonna kill him?" His heart sped up even further. Luke had said that Vader had killed his father. Was this it, then? Vader wanted to kill Luke personally, and Biggs would have to do it, or defy him…

"That is no concern of yours."

Biggs rocketed to his feet, glowering down at the hologram. "It's sure as hell a concern of mine! Luke is— I—" He felt that hand close around his throat and pre-emptive tears pricked his eyes. "Please. My lord, you can't kill Luke."

But Lord Vader's grip on him didn't tighten. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, his cape rippling. "You know Skywalker," he observed. Biggs thought that had already been pretty obvious, but his lord would often state the obvious, as a way of drawing people into traps. "You are attached to him."

He didn't care. He sprang the trap. "We grew up together—near Anchorhead, on Tatooine—I've known him all my life. I thought he was gonna join the Empire but then his aunt and uncle were killed by overzealous stormtroopers, and I found him here, after you sent me here, and he destroyed the Death Star because that's what the Rebels told him was the right thing to do. He's my best friend."

"You are in love with him." Vader's mechanical tone buzzed with disdain.

"I will give you the Rebellion, my lord. I am loyal. But I cannot give you Luke." He fell back to his knees, to make it clear that he was begging. Lord Vader hated people who debased themselves, but perhaps… He had favoured Biggs before… "I won't let you hurt him."

Vader studied him, pathetic at his feet, a little while longer. Biggs could feel his pulse in his head.

At last, Vader said, "I have no intention of killing Skywalker. Bring him to me, and he will not be harmed."

Biggs jerked his head up. "My lord?"

"Force-sensitives as powerful as him are rare. I do not care that he destroyed the Death Star. Emperor Palpatine does, which is why I have no desire for him to find out the pilot's identity. You will bring me Luke Skywalker, and I will train him to use his power to his full potential in service of the Empire."

"You want… you want Luke to join you?" He blinked. "Luke thinks you killed his father. He used to want to join the Empire, but after his family died he's too angry—I've tried to think of ways to change his allegiances, but—"

"Do not discourage his anger. His anger will serve him well. And his loyalties will not be a problem once I explain the truth of the lies Obi-Wan Kenobi told him."

Biggs swallowed. "So—Kenobi lied? Luke's been manipulated by the Jedi?"

"That is what the Jedi do. I have no intention of letting a powerful apprentice be lost to their poison. Bring him to me, and you will both be safe."

"Y—yes!" Biggs actually smiled. "Yes, my lord. I won't let you down."

"I will be waiting. You have one week—any longer, and I will start to doubt your loyalties again."

"Never. My lord, I am loyal."

"Then bring Skywalker to me. And kill Palpatine's spy before he succeeds in transmitting more compromising information." Vader leaned forwards. "For Skywalker's sake, as well as your own."

The tasks swelled in front of him, tailwinds disrupting the previously smooth sailing of consignment to a life in the Rebellion. Biggs decided never to tell Lord Vader how close he had come to betraying him like that—but, he feared, he wouldn't have to. This was Lord Vader. He would know.

How was he to kill a spy, when he didn't know who that was? Except… he might. He thought of the strange new member of Red—now Rogue—Squadron, watching Luke like a hawk. He nodded to himself.

And how was he to kidnap Luke? Luke trusted him. How could he override that?

But he knew he was thinking about it wrong. Luke trusted him. That was exactly how he would manage to kidnap him.

He bowed his head and felt the burdens settle on his shoulders like a cape. "It will be done," he promised, "my lord."

Chapter Text

The new guy was named Locke Koroban, which was the fakest name Biggs had ever heard. His scoff upon hearing it, however, got him in trouble, as Princess Leia fixed him with a look.

"Is there a problem, Lieutenant Darklighter?"

Everyone was looking at him. This was their second briefing in as many weeks, and this was not the sort of subtle, stay-in-the-background behaviour that a spy was supposed to engage in. But honestly, Biggs had already had to explain to Vader what was taking so long—his own cowardice was—and he didn't have the patience to be careful.

Biggs swallowed. "You said that Koroban would fly with Luke on this mission?"

Princess Leia's mouth formed an oh as she looked at him, eyes hard as diamond. He felt exposed in the same way he did whenever Luke called him out on what he was thinking or saying. But whatever she saw when she scanned his soul like a status report, she didn't diagnose him with anything in front of all his colleagues, which was all he could ask for, really.

"Yes, Lieutenant Darklighter."

She did, however, come to talk to him later, when his colleagues had all dispersed. At least he knew someone in the Rebellion was professional, then.

"Darklighter," she called when everyone filed out at the end. A few of the boys sniggered, though her tone wasn't admonishing.

Luke raised his eyebrows but gave Leia a smile that she returned and squeezed Biggs's hand. "I'll meet you outside." To Leia, "I'll see you in the mess hall!"

"Save some of the sweets for me," she said graciously. But as soon as the door shut again, her eyes hardened again to that diamond-stare. "What is this about, Darklighter?"

He crossed his arms, wondering why he felt like an apprehended child again. She wasn't treating him like one—just like a superior checking in with her pilots to make sure everything was going well—but when Narra had filed out of the room, the dismissal in his gaze had been deeply familiar from another time, another man. Tension had his gut hostage, and it wasn't even wholly to do with the fact he knew he was acting pretty kriffing suspiciously.

"I don't know what you mean," he tried to say casually, though his stance would give him away to any moisture boy, let alone a trained politician.

"You know we're flying in different pairs each mission to build rapport between the teammates. What's your problem with the current line-up?"

"Nothing."

"You have no problem with the current line-up?" She tapped her datapad. "Only because you've been switching out your missions for two weeks to fly with Luke. Luke's Narra's XO and he's new. He needs to be more familiar with the squadron than anyone other than Narra, so you should stop hijacking his missions to spend more time with him."

"He—"

Her voice softened. "It's a war. I know you're worried. But I know Luke has raised this concern with you, and so has Narra, so I'm doing it now."

For a moment, Biggs wondered if Luke had asked her to do this—had confided in her about his concerns. Because he was concerned—he had told Biggs that, and made it clear he didn't appreciate being coddled—but only that Biggs didn't trust him. Or that Biggs was paranoid. Or worried. Both Luke and, apparently, Princess Leia were convinced that this was the reason, and Biggs was simultaneously grateful for and despised it. If they couldn't flag his suspicious behaviour for what it was, how could he trust them to weed out Koroban as a spy?

"That's not it," Biggs said truthfully.

Princess Leia raised her eyebrows further, as if she could sense the truth. "It's certainly a part of it. Leave it alone. Let this find its place. We don't have time for our sorrows or sentiments."

"But we have time for hope?" he bit out. "You're always preaching about that and expect me to give up sentiments?"

"We all need our hopes. But you let yourself be ruled by fear and suspicion. If you don't pay attention to that and figure out how to trust your fellow Rebels, you won't be any use to the Alliance," then, like she sensed Biggs's scoff pre-emptively, "or Luke. Leave it alone, Darklighter. If you're that scared, talk to one of the Alliance's psychotherapists, and they can help you handle it. But Luke is going to fly with Koroban first thing tomorrow morning, because that's what leaders do, and you're going to take your day off instead of taking on more unscheduled flights."

"Because that's what soldiers do?" Biggs said bitterly.

"That's all any of us can do," she corrected. "Dismissed, Darklighter."

Biggs went straight to the simulators after their meeting. In the pods, he let the simulated g-forces tear through him until the physical ache they left behind deafened the ache Princess Leia's words had left, and the increasingly shrill buzz of his nerves. Lord Vader was almost certainly getting impatient with him—again. He needed to deliver Luke soon, and he needed to get rid of the spy soon.

It was hours before he crawled out again. The night cycle on Home One was in full swing, so when he went to the mess hall it was empty of any organics. The droids behind the counter trundled up to serve him something even more rubbery than Salla's overcooked convor eggs, and Biggs sat alone at one of the long, empty tables and chewed it until it was tasteless, nutritional sludge in his mouth. Footsteps made him glance sideways. He paused.

Koroban stood in the door.

Another bland mouthful of gunk fell out of Biggs's mouth onto the plate. Koroban noticed him, gave him a shy, polite nod, then went up to the counter and nodded at the droid as well. When he sat down, it was opposite Biggs, close enough that Biggs felt the hairs on the back of his arms ruffle at the air movements.

"You're with Skywalker, right?" Koroban asked at last, chunks of food in his mouth muffling the sound.

Biggs didn't know what that was supposed to mean, but whatever it meant he would always answer in the affirmative, so he nodded.

Koroban finished chewing his food and actually swallowed before speaking, this time. "What's he like?"

"Excuse me?" What sort of unsubtle espionage was this? He knew that he for one had gone around asking about random, suspicious things when he was new to the Rebellion, but… really? If this was the Emperor's spy, he expected better.

The lack of subtlety just put him on edge. Maybe Koroban—or whatever his real name was—knew, and was trying to either keep an eye on Biggs or throw him off the scent.

Koroban made a noncommittal noise with his mouth. "Y'know. As a person. To fly with. I haven't had the chance yet, and he's the Hero of Yavin—I wanna know what to expect. You seem to know him really well."

"I do."

"Care about him a lot."

"I do."

Koroban took another bite, as if the food on his plate was appetising, and munched, spraying out his next words. "How long have you known him?"

"Since we were kids."

"What should I expect, then?" Koroban swallowed again, glancing down at his plate suddenly. He reached for the knife and fork he'd so far been neglecting and, almost self-consciously, cut the food into flabby little snippets, bite size, and then smaller and smaller.

"Why do you want to know?" Biggs challenged.

Koroban looked up from his mincing project and gave Biggs an awkward smile. Kriff him, it transformed his face. He looked pitiful. He looked nervous. "I'm new as a pilot—worked in comms before this. You used to fly with the Empire, right? I… don't wanna make any rookie mistakes. I haven't flown in an X-wing out of atmo before, and… well. Embarrassing yourself on a one-to-one mission with the guy who destroyed the Death Star?"

"Devastating," Biggs drawled.

"Yeah." Koroban looked down at his food again. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bother—"

"Luke is new too. He's talented, but he's new. Don't put too many expectations on his shoulders—that might crush him."

"Did he fly with the Empire as well, then?"

Biggs's words died in his throat. "No," he said finally. "No, he's never done that. He came straight from Tatooine."

"Tatooine?" Koroban grimaced. "There? That's just a dustball."

"We were both born there," Biggs said stiffly.

"Yeah, but you learnt to fly with the Empire—how did he learn to fly? He'll have different strengths and weaknesses to us, won't he?"

The word weaknesses zipped through Biggs like a laser.

He was talking to a spy. He was talking about Luke to a spy.

"Yeah," Biggs said. "He might."

Koroban smiled shyly again. "I'll keep an eye out for them, then. We're flying in what," he glanced at the chrono, "one standard hour."

They were. Biggs had faffed the night away worrying and stressing and spilling Luke's secrets to a spy. And now Luke would fly with him in one standard hour, and—

What? What did Biggs think would happen?

"Hopefully it goes well."

"No."

Koroban creased his brows. "What?"

It took less than a second to yank his blaster from his belt and nail Koroban in the chest. He slumped into his diced, minced food. The bang seemed to come a few seconds after, as if Biggs had watched the shot from a great distance. The shout came even later.

Biggs snapped his head up. Wedge stood in the middle of the room with a tray of food, staring. He must be an early riser: the night cycle lights were only just starting to pinken in a simulation of dawn.

Like Luke, but Biggs squashed the thought. Luke wasn't here—yet. Wedge was.

"Darklighter," Wedge said, "what—"

Biggs yanked up his blaster, and a flash of conscience made him set it to stun. Wedge slumped to the ground, his tray clattering behind him.

He looked at the chrono. Less than an hour, now. Koroban wasn't going on his mission with Luke. Good; he might have used it to hand him in, or leaked the coordinates to the Emperor, or…

The pieces slotted together in Biggs's mind.

Less than an hour to hide two bodies. Based on the strength of that stun blast, Wedge would be out for an hour, maybe an hour and a half if he were lucky. He and Luke should be out of here by then, and then they would never come back.

That bridge had burned. Biggs just had to carry the torch a little further.

"Biggs!" Luke greeted when Biggs entered the hangar and kissed his cheek. "Come to see me off?" Then he took in Biggs's full flight suit and rolled his eyes. "I've talked to you already—"

"I know," Biggs said. "And so did Narra and so did the princess. This is the last time, I promise. Koroban isn't feeling well, so he agreed to switch."

Luke creased his brows, and for a moment Biggs panicked that he'd caught him in his lie. But affection was a powerful drug. He nodded.

"You got that on holocam, Artoo?" he called, teasing.

R2-D2, from his place already in the socket of Luke's X-wing, beeped his affirmative. Biggs rolled his eyes. R5 wasn't here, which should make this easier for him—but just as he thought it, she rolled into the hangar, beeping in confusion.

"Good thing that Koroban was gonna borrow your droid for this mission anyway," Luke said affectionately. Right. Biggs had forgotten about that. "Alright. She knows the coordinates—get in and we can leave."

They did. Biggs still couldn't override R5's safety features to find the coordinates of the Rebel base, but he could do it to find the coordinates of the mission they were going to. He hacked into the navicomputer, ignoring her shrill protests, and submitted them.

All he had to do was wait.

They dropped out of hyperspace over a blue gas giant, Luke voice on the comm spelling out everything Biggs needed to know about the mission.

"…potential site for a new base, since they don't want us knocking around Home One forever. This planet is remote enough it doesn't even have a name, but some of the moons are habitable to humans and humanoids, so we're just meant to land and check it out… wait." Biggs heard Luke tapping something, R2 warbling. "Are you reading this?"

"What?" Biggs, heart in his throat, let R5 run a scan on the surrounding area. There was the planet, there were its moons… "I don't see anything."

"Something's here. On the other side of the planet."

"I don't read anything."

"Trust me, it's there. Artoo and I are trying to get a clearer reading, the atmosphere is interfering with our signals and whatever it is, it's trying to hide from us." Biggs swallowed—both at the fact that Luke had figured out the trap so quickly, and that this was just more evidence of his Jedi powers.

Vader had said that he didn't want to hurt Luke—he wanted to train Luke, convince him to join the Empire—but doubt infected Biggs's heart. What guarantee of that did he have? Lord Vader was an honourable man, to the extent that anyone could be honourable and still effective in war, but Luke was stubborn, and this was a massive risk—

"It's…" Luke's shock forced him to trail off, fear tinting his voice, and Biggs knew that he had to put his doubts aside. It was far too late for them. "It's the Devastator."

Despite everything, Biggs sighed. It had been a long hyperspace trip, and he knew that the Devastator had a much higher class of hyperdrive than their ragged X-wings did, but there had still been the risk that the Devastator wouldn't get there before they did.

"What?" Biggs asked, trying to keep up the pretence. He didn't sound very convincing, he knew, and his relief must be blaring through Luke's sixth sense; he was flying close enough alongside Luke that he saw him give him a sidelong glance through the cockpit. But Luke had bigger issues right now.

"Prepare for the jump to hyperspace, now. I'll take emergency route Aurek and you take Besh. Arfive, we'll meet you at rendezvous point Thesh, alright? Artoo and Arfive, calculate our routes. Biggs and I'll handle the flying."

Luke would have been an excellent leader in the Rebellion, Biggs thought. Princess Leia had made a good choice, after all.

"Biggs?" Luke's shout over the comms woke him up. Luke was already shooting away from the planet and the Star Destroyer behind it, the TIEs tumbling out of its belly like baby spiders out of their mother. "Snap out of it—come on!"

Belatedly, Biggs shook his head, grabbed the controls, and flew after him. Luke was flying for the part of the system furthest from any moons or planets, to give R2 an easier job for the hyperspace jump. Biggs swallowed and made to follow, hoping against hope that—

A TIE fighter screamed past him, and Biggs had to roll to avoid it. Good. If they were already after him, then it wouldn't be long until Luke was surrounded as well.

This was Black Squadron. Biggs should stop worrying and let himself be captured.

He pulled out of his roll just as quickly as he'd leapt into it, the TIE on his tail screeching over him. R5 yelled, trying to take control from him, but he kept the controls locked on manual. The TIE fired on him, and he dove to the side again to avoid them—towards where the Devastator was creeping towards them, around the planet.

"Biggs!" Luke's voice cut through the instinctive panic that came to any pilot who risked being hemmed in. "Check behind you"—Biggs took the hint and dodged just before another spray of lasers raked across his back shields—"I'm on my way, I promise."

"No, Luke! Stay out there!" It was what he was meant to say, right? "Jump to hyperspace when you can—"

It was too late, even if he'd meant the words. TIEs reached Luke like swarming ants, and whatever Luke had been about to yell over the comms was cut off abruptly. Biggs spared a moment to watch Luke on his scopes, gaped, then twisted his neck to stare at him out of the cockpit.

They'd guessed which was the Death Star pilot.

Biggs had cried with joy when he'd been promoted from Grey to Black Squadron on the Devastator; he used to watch their training sessions, in awe of their clean, quick flying, the sheer skill they had refined until it was sharp as a blade. Now, two or three pilots swooped around him almost lazily—they weren't trying, with him. They knew they didn't have to. Biggs couldn't have broken out of this cage unless he was willing to risk severe bodily harm and crash into them. A few shots splattered against his shield, but they were almost insulting afterthoughts. He could feel them doing what he was doing: staring at Luke.

He had twelve pilots on him at once. Biggs gaped, mouth dry, as one dived straight at him, trying to drive Luke into the net of other TIEs swarming around them. Luke let his ship hang in the air as they dived, still… still… A few dozen metres from impact, he shot out of the way, accelerating faster than Biggs had known X-wings could go. Biggs's mouth dropped open. The diving TIE staggered into their fellow pilots, and they scattered, reforming just in time to catch Luke's tail wind.

The hail of fire had Biggs's hand tighten on his joystick—which was good, because that was when one of the TIEs pursuing him decided to have their own fun and fired. He flipped forwards and shot as far ahead as he could; the TIE directly in front of him swerved to avoid a direct collision, and Biggs arced around to the left, but his exit closed in front of him as they reformed. They matched his inertia and kept moving, moving forwards—

Right towards the gaping mouth of the Devastator's hangar.

"Biggs!"

Biggs looked over his shoulder. The TIEs were still hot on Luke's tail, close and neat like a banner streaming behind him. He dived behind the moon, and they followed; one, two, three had the foresight to duck around the moon and come at him from a different angle. Biggs lost visual contact with them, and never regained it. He spotted debris sparkling in the moon's atmosphere, though.

R5 unhelpfully informed him that they were ready to make the jump to hyperspace. Biggs glanced around. That was useless; there were too many people knotted around him to have a hope of that, and the Devastator being right there made his stomach heavy. But R2 would have told Luke the same thing. Luke was not trapped, and he was ready to jump. The TIEs couldn't follow him there.

"Biggs," Luke said, sure enough. "Biggs, we need to jump—can you get clear?"

Biggs swallowed. Was this what would happen? Luke was a good pilot; he'd known that. He hadn't known he'd be good enough to evade the trap. If he left, he would return to a Rebellion where Biggs was known as a murderer and traitor, and Biggs would be left to answer to Vader—

Except Vader was here. He'd launched from the hangar and was flying, spinning, barrelling straight at Biggs. That TIE Advanced, with the curved wings and the squint-like cockpit, was unmistakeable.

"No," he choked out. "I can't."

This was it, then. Luke would escape, Vader would just shoot him out of the sky and have done with it, and everyone would be back at square one—except Biggs, who would be dead. He instinctively made to roll away, dive out of Vader's flight path, but the TIEs boxed him in, and Vader's bolts tore through his shields like they were skin—

Crimson flashes bloomed on the back of Vader's ship. His trajectory buckled and swerved, and Luke dived behind him, smooth as an arrow trailing his banner of pursuing TIEs. He hammered Vader with all the force his cannons had, Vader's shields shimmering and flickering with the heat of it, and Biggs's heart leapt.

Luke hadn't left.

Of course he hadn't left. He was Luke.

And it meant—

Vader spun around, ducked beneath Luke, and let Luke soar right over him. Once he was behind, he fired again—but not at Luke. Slightly to his left. Luke swerved right, towards the hangar. The TIEs on Biggs's tail picked up their pursuit as well.

There was no point in resisting, or even pretending to put up a fight. Vader was in the battle, Luke had given up his chance to leave, and there was only one way this would go. Biggs let them shepherd him into the hangar and came down hard, skidding along the floor and barely avoiding a collision with the other ships stationed there. The TIEs came in more gracefully behind him. Their landing was almost smug.

Biggs didn't care. While R5 shrieked and went into lockdown mode—something Biggs should probably prevent, come to think of it, if Vader wanted to use her knowledge of Rebel rendezvous points and coordinates, but R2 would be coming too anyway—he twisted around to stare out the hangar door.

They hadn't tried to engage the tractor beam on Luke, but it was clear why. He was difficult to track even with the naked eye, and Vader on his tail was just as blurred. The dozen TIEs that had been on Luke before had fanned out, ready to intercede if needed, but clearly it was not. Luke might be giving Vader a run for his credits, but still no gambler would bet against him.

Luke was that much slower. That much less agile. Shots hit him over and over, while he got half as many shots on Vader, and Luke's shields were of a lower grade.

The spark and fizzle as they burned out made Biggs's heart stop.

But Vader stopped firing, thank the stars. He still didn't want Luke dead. Instead, he just zoomed towards him, and Luke turned to flee, and there was only one place left for him to go. When he hit the hangar, it was a testament to Luke's reflexes and R2's control that nothing went up in flames.

Biggs's heart, slowly, started beating again.

The TIEs, one by one, landed again, settling neatly in their places along the outside wall. Vader came last and spent the least time on landing. He had hardly touched down when he opened the cockpit and leapt out, not bothering to wait for a ladder. His cape flared behind him. His boots landed with a thud.

Biggs craned his neck for a glimpse of Luke's face, but it was turned away from him. Luke fixated on Vader, the back of his neck gleaming with sweat. As Vader came to a stop directly in front of Luke's cannons, he stared at Luke, and Luke glared back.

He reached for the controls. The cannons glowed and boomed as they prepared to fire—and Vader raised a hand. Their barrels twisted, turning in on themselves, and the shots collided with Luke's own wings instead. They crackled, bent, and burned.

A tech pushed a ladder up to the side of Luke's X-wing. Black smoke belched and curled up towards the ceiling, but even with that risk to lungs and limb, it took a long time for Luke to climb out.

Chapter Text

Luke was still shaking with rage when the stormtroopers who'd escorted them out of the hangar deposited them in a set of nondescript officers' quarters. Biggs glanced sideways at him, wondering how the hell he addressed this. He'd spent so long trying to get here, he had no idea how to handle it once he had.

"How did he know we were coming?" Luke bit out.

He was next to the ladder that led to the top bunk, his left hand gripping a rung so tightly his tendons strained. His other hand ran through his hair, occasionally closing in a fist and yanking, as if the physical pain would snap Luke out of this nightmare.

"He— no. Forget that. He must have a spy in the Rebellion, but we'll have to puzzle that out once we've escaped." He closed his eyes and took a breath. "There's a stormtrooper outside the door right now. I might be able to get the door open, then you could try to wrestle them to the ground—"

"How'd you know there's a stormtrooper outside?" Biggs hadn't expected to have to deal with Luke trying to escape once Vader had captured him.

"I can sense him."

"Alright. Alright. And how would you get the door—"

"Han's been teaching me some tricks."

Of course he had.

Luke cast him a look. "Come on. We can't just sit here."

Luke never could sit still. Biggs shook his head. "I don't know how you're planning to get us out of this, Luke."

"Well, I don't either, not yet, but—" He cut himself off. "Vader's coming."

Biggs had noticed it was getting colder in the bunkroom, but it wasn't until Luke said that that he put it together. He swallowed. It was time, then.

"I hate him so much," Luke burst out. His face was gleaming with sweat, Biggs noticed abruptly. His shoulders were shaking, still. Rage and fear and it couldn't just be fear for himself. Guilt panged in his gut. "How did he catch us? Who told him where we were going?"

The door hissed open, and Vader stepped inside.

Biggs swallowed, then licked his lips. He glanced up at Vader, who suddenly seemed much larger than he had in his memories, then back at Luke, who seemed insubstantial as a dusty beam of light. His stomach seized. Vader's gaze snapped to Luke, almost hungrily, but Biggs stepped between them in an abrupt, useless urge to defend Luke for at least a little while longer.

"I did," he admitted—quietly enough that he irrationally hoped no one would acknowledge it.

Luke's gaze had immediately cut to Vader, anger already contorting his face, but Vader's overwhelming presence didn't quite disguise what Biggs had said. A moment later, he whipped his head towards him. "What—"

"Agent Darklighter," Vader boomed. "I will speak with you outside."

Luke's jaw drop was audible. Biggs bit down on his nausea, turned his back on him and, with a "Yes, my lord," he left before he had to answer to this.

"Biggs?" Luke asked. His hand brushed Biggs's back and burned like a speeder left out in the noonday suns. Biggs flinched, and Luke yanked it back with another tiny gasp. But when the door shut—and locked—behind him and Vader, Biggs heard it again, muffled: "BIGGS!"

Vader looked down at him. "Come. We will debrief elsewhere."

Biggs nodded, because it wasn't like he could do anything else, and just followed Vader down the hallway. They were higher on the ship than he had realised, and as they passed a viewport, he realised they must be just above the bridge. It wasn't hard after that to guess where Vader was taking him: his private wing of the ship started just around the corner from the quarters the troopers had shoved Luke and Biggs in, and Vader's code cylinder let them through.

Vader stopped, finally, in a large room that hosted his hyperbaric chamber. Biggs had made many reports to him while he was standing here, but he hadn't been here in person since… since he'd first been assigned the mission to spy on the Rebellion.

"Your speed in carrying out your mission left much to be desired," Vader bit out. "But you have succeeded, at last. Explain to me all that has happened."

"Yes, my lord." There wasn't much to explain; he'd spent the majority of the last two weeks waiting, panicking, and then acted less than a few hours before. But he tried to make it sound planned—like he'd been switching with other pilots to keep Luke in his sights, to build a precedent for it, and that he'd killed Koroban at a calculated moment.

Vader listened the whole time. He did not move. He did not nod. Biggs forced down his nerves, ignored the cold, and finished with a salute.

"Through your incompetence in leaving a witness alive, you have ensured you can never return to the Rebellion," Vader observed. "You should have killed him too."

Biggs swallowed. He considered lying, but— "There was the risk that they would be found. I was not going to alienate Luke further by killing his close friend."

"And was that for practical reasons or for personal reasons, Agent Darklighter?"

Biggs's words dried in his throat.

But Vader didn't wait for his self-flagellation. "You are fortunate, then, that I do not require you to return to the Rebellion. You will never go back. Instead, you will assume a new role."

At least that sounded promising. Biggs had indeed feared that Vader would send him away from Luke the moment he had Luke in his grasp, but at least he knew that Luke wasn't being further radicalised by the Rebels. "Anything, my lord. As a pilot—"

"You will not be a pilot."

His heart sank again.

"You will stay here and serve as my son's bodyguard. Ensure that no harm comes to him—through his own actions or others'—and ensure that he does not escape."

Biggs blinked, but kept his head on, kept his face blank. A son? Had Biggs impressed Vader that much with his haphazard, stitched-together plan? If Vader had a son who'd been kept so thoroughly a secret, it was a secret many must have died for.

"Yes, my lord," he said, mind whirring. Was he adopted? This likely wouldn't be the most interesting job, and he'd have to brush up on his hand-to-hand combat, but—

"You will not be the only security. Stormtroopers will take care of physical threats." Biggs bristled for a moment. "You will be the familiar face that helps him… adjust." That sounded like a threat. "And oversees his mental wellbeing. To ensure he does not attempt to escape."

Biggs had to blink a few more times before all of that clicked into place. This time, he couldn't stop his mouth from dropping open, but he managed not to exclaim or stare. Vader ignored it.

"As the Devastator currently lacks more suitable quarters and secrecy from the Emperor is paramount, you will remain in your current bunkroom. When needed or called on, I will come to collect you both or send an officer to do so. But you will not allow Luke to enter a room without your knowledge. You must be with him, always, if I am to rely on you."

Biggs nodded, swallowing at some of the implications of that. "Yes, my lord."

Vader paused and looked at him, hard. "Within reason."

Biggs relaxed, but that hard stare remained.

"Until now, his safety has been the only reason you have ever defied my orders." Vader levelled a finger at Biggs, close enough it seemed to be pointing straight at his throat. "Ensure that remains the case."

He nodded. His shoulders were so stiff he thought his muscles would cramp any moment. "Yes, my lord."

"Then come." Vader turned and strode for the door without bothering to ensure that Biggs was following. "He must learn the truth, or he may escape before the cycle is out."

Biggs wondered if he'd hallucinated the sliver of pride in his voice.

Vader left Biggs standing outside with the stormtroopers while he stepped in to talk to Luke. Biggs was silently grateful he didn't have to witness that scene. The "Biggs?" he heard just as the door opened and Vader stepped in, followed by the angry roar and what sounded like a thud, was enough. The door shut, silencing their argument, and Biggs sagged against the wall opposite.

The two stormtroopers standing guard looked him over then looked away. He gave them a curt nod.

The urge to sag against the wall was strong, but Biggs shook his head and pushed himself upright again. Vader could come out at any moment; he couldn't let himself seem like he was slacking, even if he desperately wanted to. What had he stumbled into? No—what had he been a part of, this whole time?

Luke was Vader's son?

It would explain why Vader had been so angry to learn that Biggs had kept the secret from him. And why he'd cooled down so quickly when he realised it was to protect Luke—why he wanted Biggs to keep protecting Luke so fiercely. But where had that come from? Luke's father was dead. Vader had killed him.

According to Kenobi.

Biggs stared at the floor. So, Kenobi had lied. That shouldn't be a surprise: it was one of the first things any Imperial ever learnt about Jedi, if they did end up learning about them. The Jedi were evil and manipulative, and they lied. But this Jedi had been Old Ben. He'd pottered around Anchorhead in his dirty, dusty robes and snuck children pieces of fruit when they were hungry. He'd rescued Windy and Luke from krayt dragons in a sandstorm.

…he'd rescued Luke from krayt dragons in a sandstorm. Windy had been collateral.

It was always Luke he'd smiled at first, when they were messing around in the market. Owen had always dragged Luke away.

Had he been grooming Luke to grow up into the Jedi he wanted the whole time? Had he always intended to manipulate him into killing his own father? Was that why Owen had hated him so much, had tried to keep him away?

Biggs suddenly regretted, with intensity, how he used to scorn Owen. He'd thought Owen had just been another father figure trying to hold their child back. He'd always been inventing lies to keep Luke on the farm, just like Biggs's father did, except Luke was a better person than Biggs and the Larses had less money than the Darklighters, so the lies worked. Biggs had thought Owen just wanted to keep Luke stranded on Tatooine out of spite.

Well, Luke wasn't on Tatooine anymore. The moment Owen was gone, the Jedi had done this.

Biggs wished he could apologise.

There was a shout and another thump. Biggs snapped his head up to see the door to the room rattle, then still again. He grimaced, shifting, just as the stormtroopers did.

"Sounds dramatic," he tried to comment. They ignored him.

Luke was Vader's son.

How had Owen ended up with him in the first place? The answer there was probably the Jedi, too. Biggs ground his teeth.

Would this, at least, endear Vader to Luke? Ben had lied to him. And it was pretty obviously with the aim of turning him against his true father and the Empire he fought for. Luke would be able to see that, surely. They'd both grown up on Tatooine. They both knew what a lawless world could look like, when the reigning Hutts didn't care except to exploit you, and there was no order of which to speak. He might be an optimist, but he knew that there was evil in this galaxy, like the Jedi, and people like Vader and other soldiers of the Empire were needed to stamp them out.

The way those stormtroopers had lit Luke's family on fire.

Had they been the evil in this galaxy? Biggs pictured Beru, her bun loose after a day working on the farm, slowly taking Luke's fingers in hers to trace Aurebesh letters on their crackly old datapad. The spectral taste of her blue milk cheese hovered on his tongue, before it soured with disgust.

Biggs leaned a little harder against the wall, lifted the heels of his hands to his face, and pressed his eyes. Held them there for five, four, three, two, one. Then he exhaled and looked up again.

They would figure this out. Biggs would figure this out—Luke trusted him to, so he would have to. The Empire would be everything they needed, because it had offered Biggs everything so far, and surely it could not stop now?

It didn't even matter what they would figure out. Vader always got his way. No matter what. Whether that was a good or bad thing was irrelevant—but it was a good thing. It had to be.

No wonder Luke was such a good pilot.

No wonder Ben had wanted to brainwash him so badly.

No wonder the Rebellion had appointed him as a leader.

And no wonder Biggs had immediately grown so loyal to Vader. He reminded him of his best friend. He was everything Luke could—and would, Biggs told himself sternly—become.

After a few more minutes, the door flew open, and Vader breezed out. Biggs looked up, but that mask was inscrutable and gave nothing away. He walked as intentionally and aggressively as ever; if he was storming away in anger, or simply had something else to attend to, Biggs couldn't tell.

But the tilt of his helmet left no misinterpretation. Before Luke could try to follow, Biggs slipped into the door and let the stormtroopers lock it behind him. The bunkroom really was tiny, now that Biggs had seen the room which held Vader's hyperbaric chamber and glimpsed his wider quarters, and he wondered if that was why he had been so rankled that he didn't have more appropriate quarters in which to keep his son and heir.

The and heir section was tacked on automatically in his brain. Biggs scowled. It was something his father would say.

Despite the diminutive room size, Luke was pacing valiantly, his hands moving like droids gone haywire. Biggs had a moment's relief as Luke's back was turned to him—then the door slammed, he spun around, and looked Biggs in the eye. He was crying.

Biggs's throat closed.

Luke raised a finger to point at him. "You're an Imperial?"

His pointing finger, too, was so much like Vader.

"You knew that," Biggs said slowly. He sat on the bottom bunk, keeping distance between them, but trying to find a way to show that he was calm. Peaceful. "I told you—"

"You told me you were defecting. You told me you were a Rebel."

"That's what I told everyone. I was a spy. Vader wanted his own eyes and ears in the Rebellion."

Luke looked at him in disgust. Disgust was worse than anger. It made Biggs shrivel. "I was so happy to see you when I got there."

Peace was a lie.

"I was horrified to see you!" Biggs snapped. "Yavin was about to be destroyed! My mission was about to be over, the Rebellion gone. I could go back to being a pilot with no remorse, and maybe go back to Tatooine to visit you occasionally until you went to the Academy and joined the Empire as well! It was hell to see you show up—I thought you were gonna die!"

"I didn't," Luke bit out.

"I know that now!" Biggs bent over, hands raking through his hair, chest heaving. "You destroyed the Death Star and made everything so much more complicated! You forced me to stay with the Rebellion I was desperate to leave! I was stuck there because of you. But I didn't care, because you were still alive!"

"You knew I always wanted to join the Rebellion. I told you that. When you came back to Tatooine, talking about the Rand Ecliptic—was that a lie?"

"Yes." Biggs deflated. "I had to lie to everyone about it. I had to sell it."

"You didn't have to lie to me!"

"Yes, I did, I knew you were interested in the Rebellion, you've got a mouth bigger than a meteor, and I—" He cut himself off.

It didn't matter: Luke caught what he had been about to say. "You couldn't trust me?" He laughed. "You couldn't trust me?"

Biggs couldn't answer that.

"What did you think would happen? Did you think I'd go through the same brainwashing that you did if I went to the Academy?"

Biggs opened then closed his mouth again. "It's not brainwashing," he tried. Yes, he'd had his mind changed by it, but that had been natural and necessary. His own naïve fancies about the Rebellion had been childish yearnings to grow out of.

But what was he supposed to say to Luke about that? Calling him childish—

"Not brainwashing," Luke said, sounding uncannily like Captain Solo. His eyes narrowed. "Right. So, you've always been like this?"

Biggs fidgeted. Luke was a kriffing mind reader, wasn't he? Not as good as his father, or he'd have clocked Biggs long before this, but good enough that apparently, now the truth was laid bare in front of him, he could look deeper. He could fillet his soul with a glance and he had the nerve to glower at and judge him for what he found.

Biggs let him glower. It was far worse when he sighed.

"Is it childish to trust someone, Biggs?" he asked.

Yes. It was. That was what Tatooine taught. They could get up again if they fell, they could keep going, they could gracefully brush it off, but the desert was harsh and cruel.

"You should have known that," he said.

"You should have been better."

Biggs surged to his feet. "This has been for you!" he shouted. "You're the Death Star pilot. Do you know the bounty on your head? Do you know how much I've worried? Vader told me to give him your name, and I refused. I wasn't going to let him hunt you down, kill you…"

"Then what changed?"

"I—" He took a breath. "Vader wanted to train you. He said he knew you were a Jedi, but he didn't want to hurt you."

"And you trusted him?"

"He's my commander! I serve him!"

"He killed my father—"

"He is your father."

Luke narrowed his eyes at him. "Yeah, as I just found out. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know." Something had been building in the air then, something with murderous intent, and Biggs nearly cried from relief when it bled away. "I learned when he took me out of the room just now. I didn't know before. But I trusted that if he said he wouldn't, he wouldn't hurt you."

"And that's why you betrayed me?" Luke's fists clenched. "I came back for you."

"What?"

"I could've escaped. I'm a better pilot than you, I was a better pilot than all of them, and you know it." He pointed at the wall. "I could have jumped. I could have escaped. But I didn't."

"I know."

"I tried to rescue you."

"Then maybe you shouldn't have."

Luke looked at him, mouth opening and closing. Biggs waited for him to agree, but he didn't. Even when he was this angry. He just let out another stifled cry and turned away.

"I wanted to protect you," Biggs said. "The Rebels kept putting targets on your back—"

"I know you wanted to protect me," Luke replied tightly. "It was kriffing annoying in the Rebellion. Here, it's…" He trailed off.

"I love you," Biggs said.

Luke huffed his disgust. "I know that."

They stared at each other for a while, Luke's gaze unwavering. That was odd. Luke was forceful, but he was restless. If he was trying so hard to stay focused on Biggs—specifically, on his anger at Biggs…

"I'm sure your father loves you too," he tried.

Luke's glare rivalled the suns, and its intensity proved Biggs's suspicion right. "That's none of—"

"I trust him. He's a good leader. The Jedi stole you from him. He's your father, and you should—"

"He was the one in charge of looking for the droids, remember?"

Biggs went cold. He sat back down on the bunk, hard. "I remember."

"Vader didn't kill my father." He took a breath. "But he did kill my family."

"That…" He didn't know what to say to that. "That's what happens in war." He cringed immediately after the words left his mouth.

"'That's what happens in war'?"

"What is wrong with you, Luke?" Biggs shouted. "Your father is a great man. You hate the Empire, but you'll see that—he's powerful and loyal and—" Luke's glare was difficult to think under. "I wish I had a father like him!"

Someone who was prepared to protect. To teach. Someone who did their duty.

Luke scoffed. "You already do."

Biggs was on his feet before he knew it. Luke was smaller than him, but it was harder than he had expected to slam him against the wall by his collar; he was stronger than the last time they'd wrestled. He pushed back with vitriolic force, both of them panting, but Biggs still managed to pin him against the gunmetal grey wall.

"Don't," he said, breathless. "Don't you…"

Luke headbutted him. Biggs cried out, reaching for his nose. Blood tangled in his moustache. Luke took the chance to wriggle out from his grip and back away, hands up for a fight. Biggs raised his fists in return.

After a moment, staring at each other, they both stopped and lowered them.

Biggs was his bodyguard. What was he doing?

He sat back down on the lower bunk. This would be his bunk anyway: he'd have to be able to tell and act quickly if Luke was trying to make a break for it. Luke would be on the top bunk, which had always been his preference at sleepovers so that might mollify him—a thought that Biggs entertained for half a second before realising how kriffing stupid it was.

He wanted to leave. He wanted to punch a pillow, or let Luke punch a pillow, or separate so either of them could blow off steam. There was a chasm between them.

And yet, when Luke climbed the ladder to lie in his bunk, staring at the ceiling, they were less than a metre apart.

Biggs nursed his nose until it stopped bleeding. Then he lay down on his own bunk, not bothering to take his shoes off yet, and listened to Luke calm his breathing. He lifted his hand, so his fingers brushed the underside of the bunk, the slats that separated them. But that was as far as he could reach.

Chapter Text

"Again."

Luke didn't respond. He just kept lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, as a bruise bloomed on his temple where the butt of Vader's lightsaber had landed. Biggs, standing off to the side, fought the urge to kneel beside him and check he was alright. He'd already done that once, and Vader had dismissed him with enough venom to freeze the marrow in his bones.

"Cease being dramatic," Vader said again. "Get up."

He was right: Luke was just throwing a tantrum again, like when he used to pretend to be sick to get out of working on the moisture vaporators or go into school and deal with the likes of Camie and Fixer all day. Biggs had supported him on those occasions—it wasn't like he wanted to get out of the tasks for no reason; they were taxing and wore him down—but now he was just being mulish.

Vader was admired—and despised, by some—for how unflinching and uncompromising he was when he made his decisions. On Luke, that was called stubbornness.

"You nearly knocked me out."

"You should have ducked."

"You shouldn't have nearly knocked me out."

"The Emperor will not stop at nearly. Get up."

Luke kept staring at the ceiling. "You've barely spoken to me outside of yanking me out of the cabin to spar with over the last week."

"You require the practice."

"Am I your son or your punching bag?"

"Luke," Vader said, "if you were a punching bag, I would not have stopped at nearly, either."

Luke turned his head, so his cheek touched the floor, and he was facing Biggs. Biggs tried not to meet his gaze, but that was impossible, and so was looking away once he saw the tears on his cheek. Luke blinked until they weren't in his eyes, at least. Whether they'd sprung from physical pain or other types of pain, Biggs couldn't guess.

"Really?" He still spoke to Vader, but he was looking directly at Biggs. "You show people you love them by hurting them less?"

Biggs shifted.

"Get up," Vader said.

Get up, Biggs mouthed at Luke. Talking won't work. Just get it over with.

Luke furrowed his brow, then frowned deeply, then nodded. Biggs didn't know why he would take his word on this so smoothly, but he didn't want to question it. Luke stood up, shaking, and summoned his discarded lightsaber back to his hand. Its graceful arc was mesmerising, a tiny sign of Luke's power, before it snapped to life, crimson blade beaming.

"Again, then," Luke said.

In the stagnant week since they'd been moved into that cramped cabin, Biggs had not received a moment to himself—by design. His job was to accompany Luke. His job, as Vader kept emphasising where Luke could hear, was to watch Luke. Until now.

After the second training session of that day, in which Luke actually got the drop on Vader and managed to land an impressive hit on his helmet, Vader had complimented him for it.

Vader had complimented Luke many times in the last week, with increasingly cryptic and mocking phrases like the Force is strong with you and Most impressive. Hearing him say, "That was a well-placed blow," left Biggs floundering to try to identify the irony or superiority. Surely, it was there; Vader did not hand out random compliments. But Luke smiled.

Now, they were in Vader's quarters doing… something. Biggs didn't know what. Talking? Vader had dismissed Biggs back to their cabin then walked with Luke deeper into his quarters. Biggs hadn't heard a word they had said.

But, though his mind was spinning, he knew he shouldn't overlook this opportunity to do something himself, for himself. This was the first scrap of privacy he'd had in a week, and it might well be the last he had for a while, depending on how quickly Luke alienated Vader again, or vice versa. He lay on his bunk, wondering if perhaps he could nap soundly for once, without having to worry about every twitch Luke made above him, but sleep never came. Instead, he replayed that training session over and over in his mind, trying to figure out what had bothered him so much about it.

His hand figured it out before his mind did. It reached for his comlink and commed the Darklighter homestead. Several seconds after he'd selected the right frequency, he gritted his teeth, listening to it connect to the galaxy-wide network and waiting for it to be forwarded to Tatooine. It would be late evening in Anchorhead; no one would respond, surely? Salla would be too tired from her day working, Biggs's father ignored all calls he wasn't in the mood for, and—

Someone picked up immediately. "Biggs?"

It was Salla. Of course. She was something of a perfectionist. "Hi, Salla," he said. "I thought I'd…" He trailed off. He hadn't really been thinking at all. They hadn't spoken since the funeral.

She squinted at the holo. "Where are you? The Rebellion looks very dull. I thought there would be more explosions."

Her tone was light, teasing, but he didn't need to be a Jedi to sense the underlying concern in her words. She shouldn't have to mother him, a man barely a few years younger than her, so he cracked a smile in return. "Oh, there's no need to worry about me. I'm safe from any explosions for now."

"You're a Rebel pilot. Don't lie to me."

"I'm not."

"You are. Rebels explode." She said it so matter-of-factly that it turned his stomach. Rebelling slaves certainly did.

"I'm not a Rebel, that is," he corrected. "Which is why I won't explode."

"What does that mean?"

"What does what mean?" a gruff voice demanded.

Salla turned in the holo to gesture Huff over. "It's Biggs—"

"Tell him to stop bothering us unless he'll apologise and come back."

"He says he's safe. He's not a Rebel."

"So, he made all that big fuss for nothing?"

Biggs swallowed. Why had he called her? Why had he called them? They were both staring at him now, demanding answers that he didn't know how to offer in a way that would best satisfy them both.

"I was never a Rebel," he said. "I— I've been working for Lord Vader. He sent me as a spy, and I needed to spread the word so it would be compelling."

Salla's face… fell? It was hard to tell in the grainy image of the holo. She opened her mouth to speak, and from what few words Biggs caught, her voice was flat. "You've been working for the Empire?"

A snort. "And I thought you were a lost cause."

Biggs frowned and exchanged a look with Salla. Huff's arms were crossed, towering over his wife, but his attention was fixed back on Biggs. His scoff was painful across the parsecs, but the strange pride in his voice, alien to Biggs's ears, cut deeper.

"What?" Biggs asked.

"That's better than the Rebellion, at least. You haven't lost your senses completely."

"I—uh— This isn't why I called you." But: "You hate the Empire."

"When they come encroaching on my business and try to undercut me for water prices, yes." Huff rolled his eyes. "But if you're gonna waste your life in servitude instead of making money on the farm, at least the Empire keeps everyone else under control."

"Under… control?" Biggs tried, and failed, to close his mouth.

"With the way you and Skywalker ran around, I worried about you getting me into trouble with them. But maybe the academy was good for you." Biggs's stomach turned. "The Empire makes sure everyone remembers who, or what, they really are. I don't have to worry about crime or beggars nearly as much when I can throw them over to them."

Salla stared at her husband. But he ignored his wife, as ever, and kept talking to Biggs, more cordially than he had in years.

"You refuse to help me on the farm, so at least make sure the Empire keeps all these desperate, thieving scum off my property. I taught you to shoot that rifle for a reason."

Biggs went cold.

He had taught him how to shoot a rifle. He'd been eight years old, and it had been nearly as tall as him, but his father had said he had to do it. He had to learn how to protect the farm.

Biggs had refused. He'd cried. His mother had still been alive then, and he'd turned to her for support, but she couldn't do anything. His father had put that blaster in his hands and taught him to kill first, ask questions later. The Empire had liked that in him.

He knew that Beru had done the same to Luke. But he also knew that that soft, gentle family did not believe in killing first, only when there was no other option. And if Luke had cried and screamed about it the way Biggs had, she never would have forced him.

"You need to look after yourself and your own, or the desert will kill everything. Make sure the Empire looks after us, Biggs."

Talking won't work, Biggs had told Luke. Just get it over with.

Luke had believed him.

The Emperor would not stop at nearly. The desert would not spare you.

Where did these desert truths even come from?

Biggs nodded in agreement, not that his father was waiting for a reply. He tried to say something else, anything else, but he couldn't. So, he nodded at Salla and disconnected the call.

The blue light vanished. He sat, in the darkness of the cabin, and thought.

Talking wouldn't work.

Biggs gritted his teeth. He stared at his comlink, dead and quiet in his hand. The stillness of the cabin held him fixed in place for long, long minutes. It reminded him of the sort of dead quiet that dominated at home whenever his father was in a mood, with Biggs and Salla—and, even further back in his memory, his mother—tiptoeing around him. None of them had ever dared to break the thin ice keeping his anger at bay.

He used to take his T-16 and head to Luke's, then. After a while, Beru hadn't required any explanations. She'd smiled at him, hugged him without asking if he needed it, and ushered him inside for something to eat, telling him to mind the houseplants on the way in. Owen had nodded at him gruffly and not questioned it—not a warm response, but a useful one, when Huff would call Owen asking where his degenerate son was, and Owen feigned ignorance.

Tears pricked Biggs's eyes. Owen and Beru were dead. He would never feel that safety again. All of it—from the kitchen to their houseplants to Beru's soft, warm hugs—had gone up in flames.

The Empire never stopped at nearly. And it certainly never stopped to ask questions.

After he made his decision, he listened closely at the door. No one was coming. Luke and Vader were still wrapped up in their conversation, he presumed, or Vader was monologuing the way Biggs's father used to and Luke was listening to just enough to keep himself unharmed. He had time. That sort of training could last for hours.

Biggs only had the contact frequency because Luke had granted it to him once, when he trusted him, in a casual moment of trying to connect two friends. He still had it, and he had shuffled it away in his memory as he switched to his Imperial-issue comlink, and he typed it in now.

"Who is this?" Princess Leia's tone was sharp, no-nonsense, but not yet cruel. This could be an ally, calling from a cloaked comlink after all. The cruelty came a few moments later.

He cleared his throat. "Biggs Darklighter?"

A sharp intake of breath. "Why did you bring Luke to Vader?"

They figured out what had happened, then. Biggs wondered how quickly they'd concluded that he'd kidnapped Luke, and not that Luke was in on it. He figured he'd ask. "How do you know Luke didn't—"

"I know Luke." She'd known him for a month. Biggs bristled but didn't disagree. "Also, Artoo is here."

"What?" R2 and R5 had been captured by Vader's techs when last Biggs heard from them. Luke had asked after R2 many times since then, and Vader never answered.

"Artoo and Arfive escaped the Devastator on an Imperial shuttle before they could be mined for information. They returned to the Alliance several days ago and have both given a very thorough report on what happened to them."

"Loyal droids," Biggs said idly, throat dry. Vader… hadn't told him this. He must know, but he hadn't told Biggs, or Luke. That wasn't a good sign. Lying to Luke was one thing—he had his hands full as it was—but he was meant to trust Biggs.

Perhaps he just didn't trust Biggs's ability to keep Luke from reading his mind.

"A loyal droid makes up for a loyal pilot in this case. What did you do with Luke?"

"I think that's evident," Biggs said bitterly. But, he noticed: "You care about Luke."

"Naturally. I thought you did too. Unless the stalker behaviour was just to get close to him?"

"Stalker—!" He cleared his throat. "No! I want to help him escape." Her shock left a fleeting silence, and he took advantage of it. "I'm calling you because I care about him, I got the impression you do too, and I want your help getting him away from Vader."

It was the first time he said it. It sent a little thrill through him, not necessarily in a good way. How encrypted was his comlink? Would they be able to hack it? Where would this leave him?

Princess Leia, after her very short period of shock, was less impressed. "Escape? Tell me how he is, where he is, and how to get him to safety."

Biggs swallowed. Her love for Luke was overwhelming, even after so short a time. It was annoying. And just listening to it, jealousy shot through Biggs like poison, at the fact they were so close so soon, the same feeling he'd had when watching Luke and Captain Solo interact. Solo, Princess Leia, the Wookiee, even that blasted R2 knew this new Luke far better than Biggs did. They'd been by his side while he mourned his family and watched his galaxy change before him. Biggs had been far away, disappointing him.

But that just meant he could trust them to do what was best for him. The same way Vader trusted Biggs, except Biggs no longer believed that what was best for Luke was what Vader wanted. What fathers wanted, in his experience, rarely was.

So Biggs told her everything.

He probably told her too much. That stare of hers, even through the heavily encrypted comm that cut off any image, bore into him as if she were right in front of him. Before he knew it, every detail about Tatooine, about his love for Luke, about his expired loyalty to Vader was on the table, and she had the pick of which hand to play.

"This is unexpected," was all she said.

"Unexpected? Don't you have anything else—"

"What do you want from us?" she asked. Her tone was still level. Biggs knew she was Luke's age—born the same day, in fact, something that Luke had laughed at when they realised—but she sounded years older. He wondered if having her planet destroyed had done that to her, or if it came with being a princess. "You understand that you kidnapped our star pilot and murdered another pilot in cold blood."

"Koroban was an Imperial spy, I was protecting Luke—"

"Koroban was certainly not a spy." She sounded so certain that Biggs scoffed, but—"We did a thorough background check after Yavin. You accused us of taking Luke's safety lightly, but our desperation for pilots didn't outweigh our caution. All of Koroban's living relatives work for the Rebellion, and he's been with us since he was of legal age to join. He's as solid as they come—or rather, he was."

Biggs swallowed. "So, Palpatine's spy is still in the Rebellion." Which meant that Palpatine could know, right now, who Luke was and that he had been kidnapped. And Palpatine could trace it back to Vader and claim Luke. "You need to—"

"We're always keeping an eye out. But as you said yourself: secrets leak." Her voice was uncompromising. "Let us handle counterintelligence. We're evidently more effective at it than you are. We will find Palpatine's spy, without you. What are you planning to do?"

"I want to get Luke out of here."

"Because only now you have delivered Luke to Vader do you realise he'll be an abysmal father?"

"He…" Biggs hesitated. "He was a good mentor."

Princess Leia's voice was droll. "No. He was just the best mentor you'd ever had."

"And I don't want Luke to have that, so I need you to get him out!" His heart raced. "Please. Your Highness, I don't know when they'll come back, I don't know how much time I'll have—"

"We cannot break onto the Devastator. The scale of that sort of mission is unthinkable right now."

His heart stopped racing and plummeted instead, finding purchase somewhere near his spleen. "You… can't help?"

"But you can." Her voice grew gentler. "Get Luke off the ship. Anywhere else, barring Coruscant, and we may be able to assist you. But make sure Vader takes him somewhere—somewhere you both know well, perhaps. Then we can send in a task force to get him back."

He forced himself to take a deep breath. He'd bent over almost double on the lower bunk; his left hand, not holding the comlink, was gripping one of the ladder rungs like Vader gripped his victims' throats. After a moment, he released it.

"Are you doing this because he's your friend," he asked, "or because as the destroyer of the Death Star, he's valuable to you?"

"Does it matter?" But her voice was suddenly so flat, so diplomatic, that Biggs knew the answer. He smiled a little, hope an unidentified flying object in his chest. "Both motivations require us to get him back, to trust him, and ensure he survives this unharmed. Is that not enough for you?"

She hadn't needed to specify the unharmed. It made hope's wings beat faster. "It is," he said hurriedly. "I—"

"Contact me when you have a feasible plan."

Before he could try to express the relief ballooning in his chest, she disconnected the call. He slumped back on his bed, shivering. A smile twitched on his face.

After a little indulging in his relief, he squashed it down ahead, leaving his face blank. He didn't want Vader or Luke to suspect what was happening, when they got back. He still lived with mind readers.

But he would tell Luke—soon. When he had a plan.

When he fully had hope again.

It was after the next training session that Biggs got his chance to lay the foundations. Luke wasn't resisting the training anymore—he'd got the hint from Biggs that the fight wasn't worth it—but he wasn't jumping to get involved, either. One didn't have to be Force-sensitive to sense Vader's frustration.

"You are one of the most powerful Force-wielders in the galaxy," he lectured at one point, while Luke got up again. "There is no excuse for this performance. You are resisting the blade."

Luke looked down at the lightsaber in his hands distastefully. It wasn't his own lightsaber—Vader had confiscated that in the hangar, the moment they'd been frogmarched away—and the colour was bloody, a dark, unpleasant shade of red that had even Biggs's stomach recoiling. He wondered what Luke saw in it.

"I don't want this blade."

"Then make your own. You must fight a Jedi, take their crystal—"

Luke rolled his eyes. "I'll go again." He lifted the lightsaber into guard position.

But Vader lowered his. "This training is necessary."

"You've said."

"It is for your own benefit."

"I heard you the first few hundred times."

"Why are you being so stubborn?"

Luke's lips peeled back from his teeth in a snarl. "You think this is stubborn?" he asked. "Uncle Owen would laugh."

"Your kidnapper is dead."

Luke gritted his teeth, ducking his head so his fringe fell in his eyes and discovered the sudden spark of tears. Biggs saw them, anyway. "And I know who did it."

Vader's grip on his lightsaber tightened even further. He strode forwards, and Biggs hadn't seen him strike Luke outside of sparring ever before, but the way he walked was still setting off alarm bells, so he did something stupidly dangerous: he stepped in between them.

"My lord," he asked. "May I… speak to you?"

Vader was brought up short. For a moment, Biggs's throat closed—painfully—and he knew it wasn't his nerves doing it. But Vader looked from Biggs, and the way he was glancing at Luke worriedly, to Luke, and lowered his hand.

"Practise your katas," he ordered Luke. Luke had the audacity to roll his eyes, and Biggs marvelled at his courage. Vader, as Luke had pointed out, was far from Owen in patience or mercy, and a few weeks ago Biggs had not expected that comparison to be so unfavourable.

Once they were outside, in the room where Biggs had always debriefed Vader, he turned on him. "What is it?" he hissed. "It is not your place to interrupt."

Biggs swallowed. "If I may," he chanced, "I have… an idea… that may endear you to Luke."

"Luke is my son. I do not need to win his affection."

He nodded as if he agreed. "But in this case, it would help. He feels like you're an enemy still. How many close conversations have you had with him?"

"Many. You were not privy to them."

Many was a long stretch—Biggs had been asked to leave the room at maximum three times since they arrived so the two could talk—but again, he didn't question it. "Then perhaps actions will speak louder than words."

Vader paused, turning only his head to view Biggs. That sentiment was what had always characterised him as a leader, why Biggs had looked up to him. Many Imperials talked. Vader acted.

Biggs continued, "You keep him locked on the Devastator for weeks on end—that doesn't convince him that you care about him as a son, other than as another asset." Nor did hiding the fact that his beloved astromech was gone, but Biggs shouldn't know that, so he tried to bury that knowledge.

"He is my son. That is obvious."

"Not to him." Biggs worked his next few words for so long Vader almost seemed to turn away. "Is there a way to… prove… how much he matters to you? He can't enjoy his current quarters or confinement—"

"He is confined in his current quarters for the very reason of protecting him. If the Emperor were to learn of his existence, that existence would quickly be made a miserable one." Vader's tone was as monotonous as ever, but weeks of intimate contact were starting to unveil certain hints of emotion. Vader sounded… bitter.

"Will he be there forever?" Biggs tried not to shift on his feet. "Will you have to keep him a secret forever?"

"Naturally I will not. I will kill the Emperor and install Luke in his place. But until then, his existence must be a secret. I cannot compromise on this, no matter what petty rebellions he intends to put up."

Alright. Alright, that was… Biggs clenched and unclenched his jaw. That was a lot to handle, but it did tie in with what he wanted to argue, so he would use it now and process it later.

"He doesn't know that—"

"He does. I have told him."

Right. So Luke knew. No wonder he'd been so out of it. Not that Biggs and Luke spoke much, anymore, despite their close quarters interactions, but Biggs noticed these things.

"Have you demonstrated proof, though?" he asked. "I think… Based on that, there may be an obvious thing you can do to gain Luke's goodwill, prove you're serious about giving him the throne, and prove that you listen to his concerns as well."

"Do not waste my time. Make your proposal or leave. I can sense that Luke is not doing his katas."

Of course he wasn't. "Luke and I are from Tatooine, my lord," Biggs said. Before that spawned more rage from Vader—Luke had mentioned it once before and watched him explode—he hurried on: "We grew up under the yoke of the Hutts."

Vader paused again. Thinking.

"If you want to give him a throne and prove that you care about his personal experiences on that planet, the natural thing to do is destroy Jabba. Show him that one day, he'll be able to do that sort of thing himself, and make the difference he wants to see. That will provide him a target for his training and prove that you are willing to engage with him."

And with his past. Biggs knew nothing about Lord Vader's background, but he knew that Anakin Skywalker had been a slave on Tatooine. Everyone in Anchorhead knew that; no one acknowledged it in polite conversation. If Vader, too, had a vendetta against the Hutts…

"I have no intention of going back to that planet," Vader said.

Biggs hung his head. "Neither does Luke," he admitted. "He wanted to destroy the Hutts, but even in all his daydreams, he knew that no one person was powerful enough to kill them."

"He is," Vader said immediately, with that paternal pride that made Biggs's chest twist.

They looked at each other. Vader nodded once, sharply, then strode past him, back to the training room. Biggs's shoulders sagged.

Small victories, he told himself. The worst was yet to come.

Chapter Text

Biggs managed to dodge explaining things to Luke until they dropped out of hyperspace and Tatooine loomed like the golden orb of a coronation set in the viewport. Luke, sitting dully in the seat of the shuttle, raised his eyebrows as it came into view.

"I didn't realise it looks as bland from up here as it does down there," he commented drily.

"You didn't look at it when you left?"

"No. We were a bit busy shooting down the TIEs chasing us."

Biggs swallowed. "Luke…"

Luke, despite his continuing protests as Vader tried to train him, was getting better and better at sensing when something was up with Biggs. He'd been giving him quizzical looks all week, but now he turned his look on him fully, gaze like searchlights.

Vader was on the other side of the hold. They were surrounded by 501st stormtroopers here to help with the attack. There wasn't anything Biggs could do or say except reach out to squeeze Luke's hand—a gesture far more affectionate than he'd dared to show since learning… everything. Luke accepted it, perhaps because of the sudden shock of it. Biggs retracted his hand rapidly, before Vader could see and take issue, but Luke drew a short breath and seemed to relax, ever so slightly.

"What is this?" he asked, less sharply now, but still firm.

"Your father is making a statement," Biggs replied evenly. Again, he couldn't say anything else. But he had made the preparations. While Vader destroyed Jabba, Biggs and Luke would run. The Rebels would be in Mos Espa to retrieve them.

Biggs hoped.

"So am I," he said, even gentler. "Trust me."

Luke didn't trust him. That was clear. He was a trusting person, but Biggs had violated that. He'd have to mend it.

Mos Espa swelled in the viewport below them, even as the Devastator dropped out of hyperspace above. It would be there to provide backup, if needed. Vader was sure he would not need it. Jabba's courtiers were cowards and scum, he said, who would not fight once the head of the beast had been destroyed. They would scramble to kowtow to their new rulers, instead.

Biggs wasn't so sure—the ambitions of Bib Fortuna were famous—but he couldn't have argued if he wanted to.

Once they landed, everyone in the streets cleared out. The garrison welcomed Vader and the troops, but Vader breezed right past the lieutenant who asked what he had come to Tatooine to enact. It meant the lieutenant's gaze fell on Luke and Biggs, trailing behind with their own accompaniment of stormtroopers. Biggs bristled when he looked at Luke and frowned, but he shouldn't have been so defensive. Luke glared at him, his ire radiating through the Force especially powerfully now that they were back in the sweltering heat of Tatooine, and even a non-Force-sensitive could feel it. The officer averted his gaze like a prince had stared him down.

In a way, one had. Biggs wondered how he was to reconcile that.

Luke glanced around them, though Biggs was still trying to keep his attention on Vader. The streets were emptying of people, the locals shrieking and scattering at the mere sight of the stormtroopers—for the first time, for what should not be the first time, Biggs's heart thumped at the sight. If people ran the moment they saw troopers, when troopers in and on Tatooine were meant to be here to help…

Troopers in Anchorhead had always been lazy, bored bullies, saddled with a position they hated on a hellish planet. They had never been kind. But they should've been reliable and shouldn't have been deadly. The locals—especially slaves, Biggs realised; he recognised the particularly poor make of homespun clothing and the instinctive, eternal alertness, the way they watched for trouble and reacted with a hair trigger faster than those of the freeborn—didn't seem to share that view.

Of course. Mos Espa was the closest settlement to Jabba's Palace, and where much of the domestic economy of Tatooine was located. It made sense that there would be more slaves here than anywhere else, but…

Luke's father—Anakin Skywalker, that was—had been a slave, hadn't he?

That explained why Luke was watching Vader so closely, watching the slaves scurry, and furrowing his brow. He moved forwards, and Biggs rushed to follow, until Luke was at Vader's side.

"Haven't you ever wanted to do something to help them?" Luke asked in a whisper.

Vader didn't seem to need more than that to know what Luke was talking about. "I do help them," he replied. "The Empire is far more stringent in slavery regulations. I improve their quality of life simply by working for the Empire."

"And dealing favourably with the master that enslaved them? You told me, you hate coming to Tatooine, but you've come so many times—"

"Silence. You do not know what you speak of."

"You can stand by and let more slaves—"

"I said silence," Vader snapped. "If you wish to enact change here, I am about to give you the absolute power with which to do that. Do not distract me with petty, forgotten pasts."

Luke's face fell. He shrank back, falling back in step with Biggs. Biggs leaned over. "Soon," he promised.

"What are you going to do?" Luke hissed. "The hell were you even thinking, convincing him to come back here? He doesn't want to help. He just wants to be the person in control, for once." Though Luke's voice wavered slightly. They both knew Vader wouldn't have reacted nearly so sharply if he hadn't already cared.

That was when the troop transports, requisitioned by spare stormtroopers from the garrison, shot past. Under the cacophony of their engines, Biggs leaned in to whisper, "Once Vader is inside the Palace and we're not, we're going to run."

Luke's eyes widened, but he was smart enough not to cry out. Biggs added, before Luke could tear him apart with doubts and distrust, "Leia's coming."

Luke relaxed significantly after that.

The rest passed by in a desert haze. Once the transports stopped in front of them, they climbed in, and were delivered to Jabba's Palace abruptly. Again, the squeals and cacophony of miscellaneous life silenced when Vader strode forwards to pound his fist on the door. A droid shaped like an eyeball, presumably Jabba's doorman, shot out to inspect him.

After a few sharp words, the door screeched open. Vader waved his hand and the troopers fell into step behind him. But before he marched into the darkness, Vader glanced back at Luke.

"You are not trained enough to witness this," he said. "It will be… chaotic. I cannot guarantee your safety."

"You haven't really cared about my safety so far," Luke retorted.

Vader ignored him. "But remember that you are also capable of this," he continued. "And you will be capable of all that comes after."

Luke was his son, Biggs thought.

One day, Luke could be Vader's greatest weapon. Another leader in the Empire, controlling and defending a thousand worlds from all that he despised—slavery, war, torment. Ruling with the same durasteel fist and lightsaber that his father had. That was what Vader wanted: for Luke to realise his own power, and the destiny that Vader, that Biggs, had decided would be best for him.

But, one day, Luke could be Vader's greatest opponent to all of that. And that wasn't the bit that Vader wanted Luke to know.

The door slammed shut behind Vader. The stormtroopers left behind to guard Biggs and Luke tilted their heads and exchanged looks in a way that told Biggs they were grimacing. They didn't want to be babysitters. They wanted to be a part of the team that destroyed Jabba.

Biggs couldn't blame them. But that wouldn't gain them his sympathy. He scanned the sky—it was approaching high noon, when the stormtroopers would be suffering the most in their terrible excuse for armour and the fewest people would be out. Princess Leia and the Falcon should swoop down to Jabba's Palace soon. Then, they just needed to get away from the stormtroopers long enough to leap onto the ramp, and they would be gone.

Luke leaned in close to kiss Biggs on the cheek—suddenly and affectionately, in a way he hadn't anticipated. The stormtroopers clearly hadn't either, but they grumbled, and Luke murmured, "So, what's the plan from here?"

His comlink chimed. Biggs glanced down at it, smiling like he'd been messaged a joke, and showed it to Luke. Luke laughed to keep the cover going. The stormtroopers were still grumbling, and the nervous sweat coating Biggs's forehead just mingled with the sweat coating the rest of his body.

We can't get into Imperial airspace over Mos Espa without alerting them of Rebel activity. After the Death Star, the Falcon is too notorious. The Star Destroyer in the sky doesn't help.

Before he could recommend Mos Eisley—it was a slightly longer trip for Biggs and Luke to get to themselves, but easy to get lost in the bustle of—she added, He's wanted in Mos Eisley as well.

If Solo was out of the desert with Jabba after paying him off, why wasn't he free to fly around Tatooine? How strong was the Empire's grip, here?

How much of their brutality had Biggs attributed to the Hutts unknowingly?

This would have been so much easier if the Rebellion had sent another ship. But, Biggs thought as he glanced at Luke, he was glad they'd sent that ship. Captain Solo cared about Luke. More than Biggs had liked, but now…

Meet us at the Lars farm, he said. We'll get there.

Across the Wastes they'd grown up flying. Home. There would be nowhere to run, nowhere to hide—there had never been anywhere to hide. But at least they knew how to make a stand there.

Luke leaned his head against Biggs's shoulder so that he could feel his subtle nod. "The fight has started," he said abruptly. "I can sense it."

The stormtroopers around them shifted. "What?"

"Vader's already started the fight. Jabba isn't dead yet, but a lot of people are dying." Biggs recognised the tightness in Luke's voice. He wished he could provide comfort, and he wished it would be accepted if he did, but for now they had something to do.

The stormtroopers shifted. Luke smirked. "Bet you wish you were down there, huh?"

"Lord Vader gave us our duty," the captain assured them. "We perform it well."

"Really? Or did he leave you here because you don't?" Luke nodded at their blasters. "What's your sharpshooting like? He'd probably only want the best of the best with him against Jabba's court."

The captain didn't respond, but a lieutenant, young and incensed, raised his blaster and fired at the door to the palace. The eyeball droid's slot was still open; the blaster bolt just clipped the edge of the hole and didn't quite go through. It was still an impressive shot.

"That good enough for you, kid?" the stormtrooper challenged.

The captain stiffened. "Trooper—"

Luke shrugged. "Give me your blaster and I'll show you."

"You? Have you even been to the academy?" The trooper leaned forwards. "Why is Lord Vader bothering with you anyway?"

Luke just shrugged again and repeated, "Give me your blaster," he met his gaze levelly, words dripping condescension, "and I'll show you."

Scoffing, the lieutenant handed Luke his blaster. Luke calmly took it, weighed it in his palm, switched the settings, and stunned him.

Biggs jerked, eyes widening. Luke, backing away, took out the next three stormtroopers before they could even touch their blasters, then thrust the blaster into Biggs's shocked hands. When the stormtroopers got a shot off, Biggs moved to block Luke with his body, only for an invisible force to shove him out of the way. The hiss of Luke's training lightsaber sprang to life; the shots bounced back at their owners.

He took the hint. There were only two troopers left, including the captain, and Luke could take those himself. Instead, he ran for one of the stormtrooper's speeder bikes and revved the engine, glancing over his shoulder.

Luke strode forwards with his lightsaber without so much as flinching. The captain did flinch, and Biggs couldn't blame him. The red blade flashed fast enough that Biggs could see Luke's face in the red blur it left behind, bloody and flushed. The stun bolts flashed and both remaining troopers fell to the ground.

The other creatures who had been outside Jabba's palace when they arrived paused, then looked away.

"He probably sensed that," Luke said, extinguishing his lightsaber and, with a running jump, landing on the back of the speeder bike. "Go!"

Biggs went.

Jabba's palace shrank so fast behind them it seemed to blink out of existence. It was perched on a cliff, and the road up was twisty and slow, but Biggs knew Luke. He wouldn't mind what he was about to do.

He dove off the edge and straight down the cliff. Luke shrieked with laughter. Biggs pulled back just before they hit the road, then down the edge again, and again, and again. In the distance, he could just hear speeders starting up, the roar of their engines booming out across the desert.

Luke winced. "Faster!" he said. "He knows. And Jabba's dead."

Biggs wondered how messy that had been.

This was their territory. This was their turf. Biggs banked to the left, swerved around Mos Espa and the backup troops Vader was undoubtedly about to summon from there, and shot towards the Jundland Wastes.

They didn't bother to talk about it; they knew what they had to do. The fastest way to the Lars farm was straight over the open desert, perhaps two hours of flying. Slightly less, if you had maniacs like them in the pilot's seat, but Biggs didn't know this speeder bike, and he didn't know how fast Vader would catch up with them. The Devastator was in orbit, but launching TIEs just for this speeder chase would be a massive upfront investment of resources; Vader wouldn't do that. No, he'd come after them himself.

Probably.

"Incoming," Luke said, and spun around on the seat so he was facing backwards, gripping the seat with his thighs. Biggs frowned—he couldn't hear any engines right now—but after a few more minutes and a few dozen more miles, he did. Troopers swooped towards them, lighter and faster on their bikes than they were.

"Keep flying," Luke ordered, and the tone reminded Biggs of Vader. The lightsaber's roar did as well.

Biggs kept his eyes ahead, which meant he couldn't see anything. The sand flashed red before he heard the shots bang out; the already hot air scorched. Red streaked in the corner of his eye, then another red streak batted it away. A crash, a flump, and a scream heralded the explosion of a speeder bike.

Another bolt seared the side of his arm before Luke deflected it into the ground below, sending up a momentary shower of molten glass. Biggs hissed—but the third confirmed his suspicions.

They were firing on him. They couldn't fire on Luke, but they needed to stop them, so they were firing on—

"Keep flying," Luke ordered again. "I've got you." As if in confirmation, the next few shots veered away from Biggs's face without Luke even having to touch them. Something warm and pulsing with love wrapped around Biggs's shoulders. His hands, shaking on the controls, steadied.

This was what Jedi could do, he thought with awe. This was what Luke could do.

Bang. Bang. The sudden hiss and release of noise that the lightsaber made when it hit them felt like a wicked imitation of parents tsking. Luke stilled where he was sat, watching…

"How many are left?" Biggs whispered.

Luke threw his lightsaber, the pent up energy in his arm rocketing out. It whistled as it boomeranged through the air, punctuated by three hisses, three gasps and six thuds. One crash. Even from here, Biggs could feel the heat of the crashed bikes going up in flames, taste the smoke acrid on his tongue.

"Now? Two."

"Alright." If Biggs correctly recognised the sandstone mesas on his left, they were just coming up on the Jundland Wastes. It was still farther to the Great Chott salt flats and Anchorhead, but— "Agh!"

A shot seared too close to Biggs's shoulder; Luke couldn't block it without hurting him. Instead, he made it curve—it skimmed his sleeve, eating a hot hole in the fabric, then slowed, and shot straight downwards instead. It punched through Biggs's pocket, down through the seat, and out again.

The shock of it made Biggs sigh with relief when he wasn't hit—the crash and sizzle as it rammed down into the engine of the speeder bike did not.

"That sounded like damage." Biggs could smell the black smoke here, as well. It wasn't bad enough to sting his eyes, yet, so he'd flown in worse, but he could smell it and that was never a good sign—

"It's not as bad as it smells," Luke said.

Biggs glanced down. "Is it as bad as it looks? 'Cause it looks pretty bad."

Their distraction cost them. Another bolt shot towards Biggs; they swerved just in time, and that peppered into the bike itself as well.

"Now it is," Luke said.

Biggs shook his head. "We'll have to stop in Anchorhead. Get Fixer to lend us something, or— I don't know. Steal it if we have to. This thing could blow any minute, we don't want to keep flying in it—"

"There are more troopers coming," Luke said quietly. "In troop transports. We can't bring them down on Anchorhead."

"We have to." The bike was spluttering now, and Biggs knew that sound all too well. "If we don't—"

He flinched so hard he nearly fell off the bike when Luke's lightsaber snapped to life at the side of his face, deflecting another shot into the sands.

"Deal with these guys first," he decided. "How far away are the others?"

"I can't see them yet."

"Then take care of these guys."

Luke nodded. With his head still facing forwards, Biggs felt it in the way Luke's body pressed against his, the movement knocking through him and into his gritted teeth.

This time, he was prepared for anything—for Luke to throw the lightsaber, to deflect the bolts, to—

A dozen shots flew out in rapid fire, from both troopers, like crimson rain. Biggs waited for a tornado of lightsaber swings from Luke. Instead, Luke threw out his hand, shaking the whole speeder bike with the force of it, and threw them back.

The troopers' screams as they died were muffled and gargled. Each bolt hit them with a whump. Their speeders ran into the ground and exploded.

"Damn," Biggs whispered. "Damn."

Luke twisted back around on the speeder, hooked his lightsaber back onto his belt, and leaned forwards to wrap his arms around Biggs's waist. Biggs knew why he was doing it—knew this was making them as aerodynamic as they could be, with two people on a one-person bike throwing off the balance—but his heart still hammered.

Luke could clearly tell. Biggs felt him smile against his shoulder. When he spoke, he could feel his lips moving against his shoulder as well.

"The backup troopers still aren't on the horizon," he said. "Your plan?"

Biggs liked that Luke assumed he still had one.

"If you can't see them, they can't see us," he said, drawing one together on the spot. It was now or never, after all. "And they don't know where we're going. They don't know we have contacts coming to pick us up."

"Can we get them to pick us up here? If Han and Leia have the Falcon—"

"Good point. Can you get to my comlink?"

Luke reached for Biggs's pocket, his other arm still wrapped around Biggs's torso. He fumbled for a moment, then gave a ragged, bitter laugh.

"The shot," he said. "You—"

"That shot took out my comlink?" Biggs spat.

Luke fumbled with it. Biggs glanced down. It certainly looked… melted.

"Then we have to meet them at the farm," he said. "We've got no choice." That was still a few hours of flying. They could make it, if… "The troopers will think we've gone to Mos Eisley. It's in this direction. They'll chase us there."

"That'll buy us a few hours, then."

"I'm not sure it'll be enough."

"We'll make it enough." Luke squeezed him a little tighter. "Go faster."

"This bike'll explode—"

"Then we'll get one from Anchorhead. Go."

Biggs hit the accelerator. The sand churned underneath them, nothing but a yellow blur.

Accelerating was the easy bit; slowing down was harder. The moment Anchorhead loomed in the distance, Biggs tried to decelerate so they didn't paste themselves against the sandstone walls. He failed. In the end, Luke threw them both off the bike with the Force and threw the bike far beyond the town walls, moments before it exploded.

"Pushed her a little too hard," Luke said, panting. He was grinning, though. What a maniac.

Biggs grinned back. "Yeah," he replied breathlessly. "…we need to move."

Fixer was in his shop, as usual, and he was playing host. His dad was quietly working on something small in the corner, but Camie, Windy, and Deak were all hanging around the speeder Fixer was under, laughing at something. Probably at Fixer.

They stopped short when Luke and Biggs staggered in, though, windswept and charred. Camie looked Biggs up and down, while Deak shot to his feet. "Luke! I missed you the last time you were back—"

"We need a speeder," Biggs said straight to Fixer.

Fixer, slowly, rolled out from underneath the speeder. He gave them a withering look. "Again? Look, I already lent you that other one for free—"

"And we brought it back. We need this one even more." Luke got the words out breathlessly. "We just flew all the way here from Jabba's palace running away from the Imps and our speeder bike exploded."

Camie scoffed. "When are you gonna stop making things up, Wormie?"

"He's not," Biggs said. "We need to get out of here, now, and it's in Anchorhead's best interest that we get out of here as soon as possible. Otherwise the Imps will fall on Anchorhead as well."

"Seriously?" Fixer asked.

Luke was looking around desperately. He reached for his lightsaber, then clearly thought better of it, and let his hands drop again.

"We don't have any credits," he said. "We just escaped."

"Then get out of—"

"Shut up, Fixer."

Fixer scowled, turning towards his dad. Mr Loneozner had been looking at them for a few minutes: his gaze alighted on Luke's lightsaber, on Biggs's scorched sleeve, on the absolute messes they both were. When he spoke again, it was to them.

"You escaped from Jabba's Palace?" he asked.

Luke swallowed. "We escaped from the Empire. Vader's here, on the planet—he just killed Jabba."

Mr Loneozner sucked his teeth. "And the troopers are chasing you?"

"They probably think we went to Mos Eisley, but—"

"Give them the blasted speeder, Fixer," he said. "Get them out of Anchorhead."

Windy and Deak were looking between Fixer, his dad, and Luke and Biggs with awe. Camie's nose was wrinkled, but she cast Biggs a second, appreciative look.

Luke started to smile, but it dropped just as quickly. "No," he said. "They're already here."

Biggs whirled on him. "What?"

"Four or five of them—they must have split off from the main group and fanned out to scan the area instead of going straight to Mos Eisley." He swallowed. "They're already here—"

"How do you know?" Camie demanded.

"How has Luke ever known anything?" Mr Loneozner responded. Luke started and gave him a look, which Mr Loneozner ignored. "Take a speeder, boys." He stood up, and Biggs realised what he'd been tinkering with, in the corner. It was a blaster. "We'll handle the stormtroopers."

Biggs strode forwards to select a speeder out the back, but Luke didn't follow. "If you put up a fight, more reinforcements will come for revenge."

Mr Loneozner stepped outside. "We'll have to make sure they can't comm for help, then."

Biggs's mouth dropped open. So did Fixer's. But none of them had the time to stare.

The speeder bikes' drone crashed through the white sandstone streets like an apocalypse. Two stormtroopers swooped past and brought their bikes to a halt; Luke and Biggs ducked so they weren't in view of the windows as they disembarked, glancing around. Their armour made them look like figures of bone.

Mr Loneozner stood in the doorway and shot them both. It punched through their ivory chest plates, leaving a black crater behind.

"Change of plan," he said. "Come with me, boys. Laze, get the speeder ready outside and drive it around to the entrance of Tosche Station for them to pick up."

"They're gonna know that you killed them!" Luke hissed, staring at the stormtroopers. Biggs knew what he was thinking. They'd both killed a lot of stormtroopers already, but seeing corpses litter the streets of Anchorhead, of all places, was just incongruous.

"There's a sandstorm due in six hours. The Empire will assume that you killed them in the chase and the sand covered their bodies and their equipment. But that just means you need to get out of here." He leaned out of the doorway and glanced right, then left, then beckoned them forwards. "Laze, get to it. Camie, Windy, Deak—stay there, out of trouble."

"Hell no." Camie pushed her way forwards. "I wanna see if Wormie's telling the truth for once."

"I don't lie," Luke muttered.

"You used to say your father was still alive."

Biggs snorted. "Who do you think is sending all these stormtroopers?"

Camie's sharp intake of breath was drowned out by Mr Loneozner's, "Come on."

He jogged down the street, around the corner. They followed where he went. The sound of the speeder bikes had cut out; Anchorhead was small enough that they ought to be able to still hear them. The other four troopers had dismounted, then.

Biggs walked carefully, the whistling of the winds and sands the only sound. His footsteps seemed very loud, but they didn't have to walk far. Mr Loneozner led them just around the corner, to the pub.

Luke and Biggs exchanged a look, and Camie raised her eyebrows, but Mr Loneozner shoved the door open and stepped right in. It was the lunch break of the day; the place wasn't packed, but it was busy enough. Chatter died momentarily as everyone looked up and seemed to clock Mr Loneozner's tension, the way the boys were almost tiptoeing behind him.

"Boys, get under the tables," he ordered, before he explained, "There are stormtroopers here. They're after Biggs and Luke."

Nobody moved for a moment.

"I said get under the tables." He gave Biggs a good hard shove, and Biggs knelt to crawl under them, wincing an apology at Camie's mother. She smiled at him and shifted over to make room. "Everyone start talking again."

Conversation started up quickly, voices strained but animated. Biggs could hear Camie's mother laughing about something inane, as always; the Whitesuns were having their third debate over cactus rearing, which meant they were ahead of schedule if they had already finished the first two and it wasn't even 1600 hours yet; and Deak's aunt chattered about whose vaporators she'd had to repair most recently and why. The drone of dull conversations hammered at his head and only put him more on edge.

But his fear peaked when a voice said, "Then why are they hiding? Let them face the troopers on their own."

Biggs met Luke's gaze under the opposite table. The rage in Luke's face shocked Biggs; hurt was the only thing he felt. His father was sitting at the end of the table Biggs was underneath—he recognised his boots—and he'd stood up to make his argument, probably leaning on the table to try to be more intimidating. Salla was next to him, pushed to the edge of the bench by the way he spread his legs, her skirts folding around her knees.

"When have you ever liked the Empire, Huff?" Mr Loneozner demanded.

Mrs Marstrap added, "And Biggs is your son."

"So he needs to learn the consequences of his actions." Huff directed his voice right at Biggs. "You can't keep bringing trouble to my door. You have to learn to fight your own battles—"

"Huff."

"—if you want to survive in the desert."

"You want the boys to go up against a stormtrooper squad themselves?" That was Deak's sister.

"If they're talented enough to get themselves into trouble, they're talented enough to get themselves out."

"You're a coward, Huff." Grunts around the room signified agreement.

His father hesitated. He cared so much about his standing. "We worked so hard to build all of this, our safe lives. The Empire leaves us alone because we made it that way. We protect ourselves and what we've built. Our children shouldn't be able to run off-planet, abandon all of that, then come crawling back the moment they get into trouble. It's for their own good."

"No, Huff," Salla said abruptly. "It's for yours."

Biggs knew what was going to happen before it did. The sound of the whipcrack smack sickened him, nonetheless. Salla's gasp was tiny, and she sagged forwards on the table, one of her arms braced against her knees.

He crawled forwards, knocking into someone else's legs to avoid touching his father's, and reached for her hand in the only comfort he could offer right now. She took it—then, as his father continued to ramble, used that grip to drag him forwards.

"None of us have blasters with us. We left them at the homesteads—that's where we're supposed to need them, out in the desert, against the Tuskens and the womp rats. The boys know that. They brought the trouble here; they know we can't deal with it for them.

Biggs made a small sound in his throat from shock. Salla's hand patted his shoulder reassuringly—then patted down his side, his waist, until she reached the weapons belt and the blaster he'd taken from that stormtrooper. She gripped it and drew it.

"They're just boys. They need help, Huff," another voice said. Mr Starkiller—Windy's dad.

"They need—"

Salla stood up. The rough fabric of her skirts brushed Biggs's cheek and he wanted to cling to it the way he remembered clinging to his mother's skirts, decades earlier, before she'd died. But Salla wasn't his mother, and it wasn't fair to demand she be.

Instead, he drew back, as she took his blaster and shot his father in the back of the head with it.

The bang and the wet splat took that sickened feeling in Biggs's stomach and nearly brought it up out of his mouth. Something slopped onto the table directly above him. Luke, under the other table, was staring above Biggs with wide eyes, and Biggs wondered how much he could see. Biggs couldn't see anything—but he felt the thump in his bones as his father's corpse slumped onto the table.

The room was silent.

Salla lowered the blaster and offered it back down to Biggs. He took it with trembling hands.

"Get a towel to wipe down the table," Salla said, her voice level.

Biggs wondered what had happened to her former master.

"What are you going to do with the body?" Mrs Marstrap demanded.

Salla shrugged off her jacket. Biggs watched it dangle from her hands, then heard her throw it over his father's head with a thump.

"That's never going to—"

"Towel. Now."

Hurried footsteps. Someone—Mr Starkiller—brought a towel and mopped up the blood and the brains. It was a rush job; he couldn't have got everything. Someone else leaned forwards and spilled some of their ale onto the table. It dripped down, and the smell was strong enough to disguise what was left of the blood.

And that was all they could do. Across the room, Luke tensed, and Biggs took that as the warning he needed before he pressed against the nearest person's legs, and the door swung open. Three sets of white stormtroopers' boots marched in.

Everyone fell silent again.

"We're looking for two men. Young." The stormtrooper captain's voice was crackly. "Luke Skywalker and Biggs Darklighter."

No one moved. After a few moments, someone—Mrs Starkiller, he thought—piped up, "I didn't know they were on Tatooine. Thought they were out with the Empire."

"They're not." The trooper didn't sound amused. "The reward for Darklighter's capture is fifteen thousand credits."

Biggs nearly choked on his own saliva.

"The reward for Skywalker is fifty thousand."

Luke, across the room, blinked slowly. His face folded in resignation.

Mr Starkiller, because that couple were the chattiest in Anchorhead, was the one who spoke this time. "Damn—could use that sort of money. We'll let you know if they come back, then. They're bound to sooner or later."

"We have reason to suspect they flew here from Jabba's Palace."

"Jabba's Palace?" Mrs Marstrap's nasal voice was wrought with curiosity. "What were they doing there?"

"That's classified until—"

"Have you checked Mos Eisley?" Camie cut in, this time, shifting next to her mother. "That's closest, ain't it? They'd probably have gone there, not here. None of us have a ship to get off-planet with."

The trooper hesitated. "That's what we thought," he said. "But we wanted to be thorough." He turned, so he was facing Biggs, Salla, and his father directly. "What happened to him?"

Biggs's heart thundered, but Salla shrugged and stroked Huff's dead shoulders. "Had a bit too much to drink," she said. "He does this every lunchtime. It's best to let him have his nap so he's able to work at least the rest of the afternoon."

The trooper scoffed and turned away. "If you hear anything from them," he said. "You will report it to the Empire."

"Of course," Mr Loneozner said gruffly. They could all tell he didn't care enough to. These stormtroopers were locals, not Vader's 501st. They couldn't be bothered with the fight.

They left the pub again, the door shutting hard behind them. Everybody held their breath.

A few moments later, Biggs and Luke nodded at each other. They rose onto their feet to climb out, and a volley of blaster shots from outside made Biggs whack his head on the underside of the table, cursing.

Mr Loneozner ran to the door. "Boys!" he shouted, fury in his voice. When Luke and Biggs managed to crawl free, they ran outside as well. The three stormtroopers lay spread-eagled in the sand. A few blaster marks blemished the wall opposite, but standing grinning, unharmed, were Windy, Deak, and Fixer.

"That was so much better than bulls-eyeing womp rats," Windy said.

Fixer hit his elbow so hard he dropped the blaster. "You couldn't hit a womp rat if it was a metre in front of you."

"I hit that guy, didn't I—"

"I told you to stay out of trouble," Mr Loneozner said.

Fixer shrugged. "You also said that we needed to kill all the stormtroopers before they commed for backup."

"You were meant to get the speeder ready for Luke and Biggs."

"Luke and Biggs aren't gonna bring my speeder back," Fixer complained. "But they can have those." He pointed.

The stormtroopers' bikes were resting against the wall, undamaged.

"You killed a bunch of troopers so you could get out of lending me a speeder?" Luke demanded.

"I don't like you, Wormie."

"I don't like you either!" Luke snapped. "Thank you."

"Shut up."

Luke glanced over his shoulder as well, and Biggs followed his gaze. Camie was chatting to her mother under her breath. When she noticed them watching, she sneered at them.

Luke's gaze skipped to the others in the pub. Hardy desert folk they'd known their whole lives. Biggs wondered what they felt like to him in the Force: a dozen and more lights, small but not dim. Dark lights getting brighter the longer he looked at them, until the broader pattern was clear to see.

"Thank you," he said again—to them, and then to Mr Loneozner, who accepted it with a sharp nod.

"We'll get rid of the bodies," he said. "All of them." To Biggs: "Let us know if you want to come back for the funeral."

Biggs swallowed and glanced back at Salla. Her face was pale but resolute—and, possibly, the most relaxed he'd ever seen her.

He nodded.

Then he took Luke's hand, and together they walked towards the speeders.

The Falcon was indeed waiting at the Lars farm. Princess Leia was kneeling in front of Owen and Beru's grave, hand hovering over the plants still bristling atop it. She heard the speeder bike and jumped to her feet.

"Luke!"

Luke's laugh was infectious, and he choked up and wrapped his arms around Leia as soon as they were in range. Leia met Biggs's gaze over his shoulder. Biggs fidgeted awkwardly, but she turned away a few seconds later.

"Glad to see you're alright, kid." Han made to punch Luke on the arm, but Luke hugged him too, and Han's laugh told Biggs he'd wanted that, anyway. "The Empire can't get you yet."

Luke shook his head, grinning. "I—" A shrill beeping interrupted whatever he was going to say, and Luke pivoted to see R2 hurtle down the Falcon's ramp, into his knees. "Artoo!"

R2 beeped happily, bumping into Luke's shins as Luke knelt beside him. "I thought you were— I thought Vader had—" Artoo chattered something else, and Luke smiled. "Of course you escaped. I shouldn't have expected differently, should I?"

R2's response was a definite no, on that. Biggs felt his heart seize up. He thought of all the droids on his father's farm, treated like servants and nothing else. He thought of how he'd treated R5.

He wondered if she was alright.

Luke glanced around, laughing. "I have so much to tell you guys."

"So does he," Leia said, nodding at Biggs.

Any lingering joy from the reunions vanished. Everyone turned to look at him.

Biggs swallowed. "I'm aware I'll be put on trial."

"You killed an innocent Rebel and delivered Luke to Vader."

"I know," Biggs said.

Princess Leia tilted her hand. "Are you coming back, then?"

"I have a choice?"

"We came here for Luke. Not a traitor."

Traitor. He tried the word in his head.

How many people and causes had he betrayed in the last few months?

Did he himself count as one?

He didn't want that to be his defining truth.

"I'll come," he said at last. "I… I'll face it."

He reached out and took Luke's hand.

The trip back to the Rebel base was long, but not long enough. Biggs was keenly aware he'd be slapped in cuffs the moment he returned, so he savoured what little freedom he had on the ship. Most of all, he savoured being close to Luke.

"He's not going to stop chasing you, you know."

He said it several hours in, when Luke was sitting alone at the dejarik table and Han and Leia were arguing in the cockpit, with the Wookiee as referee. Luke stared at the holographic animals and nodded.

"I know," he said. "But neither will the Empire. It—he never would have stopped. This doesn't change anything."

"I'm sorry about your father, Luke."

"I'm sorry about yours."

Biggs felt a stab of grief, but he was trying to bury that, for now. "I hated him. You… you idolised him, before—"

"I did."

"He's a monster, Luke. I'm sorry." He swallowed. "I thought he would be better. I thought he'd want to protect you."

Luke fisted his hand on the dejarik table. "I think that's what he thought, too."

"What?"

"I can still hear him," Luke admitted. "Calling to me. We built a bond when he trained me. He's worried about the Emperor—wants to protect me. He's not going to give up on getting me to join him. And he's angry."

"That's his default state, I think."

"I don't know how I'm going to explain it to Rebel Command," Luke said. He sighed. "But I can explain it to you."

"Explain what?" There was a beat of silence, and Biggs let it draw out, patient.

Luke pulled out his lightsaber. No—the lightsaber Vader had given him. His father's blue lightsaber was still in Vader's possession, sequestered away as evidence that he used to be a Jedi, and Luke had been given this random one instead. Biggs wasn't sure how to read into that.

Nor was he sure how to read it when Luke lit the lightsaber and studied the blade, bloody light glinting in his eyes, before extinguishing it again. Then he wrapped his hands around the hilt and closed his eyes.

Biggs was used to Luke's warmth, now. His expanding Jedi presence. He was growing more attuned, and stronger, and even Biggs could feel it in the wash of peace that enveloped him. Luke opened his eyes, and his irises seemed to glow blue.

When he lit the lightsaber again, it was white. Biggs, staring at it, felt his heart go tight.

"I love you," Luke told him. "I forgive you."

Biggs shook his head. "Luke, I— I messed up. I delivered you to him."

"You wanted to protect me. And when you realised you were hurting me, you did your best to save me. You changed. If he really wants to protect me, as he says… he can change too." Luke looked into the lightsaber, then deactivated it. "If he wants me back, he'll have to come and get me."

"I don't know if he can, Luke."

"Then that's up to him." Luke put out his hand, and Biggs took it. He kissed him, very lightly. "We just have to focus on us."

"I'm afraid," Biggs murmured against Luke's lips, like it was a secret.

"Me too," Luke whispered back. "We've got a whole empire to fight."

"This isn't how I thought an adventure would go. I didn't expect to be hiding under the table in the pub relying on the citizens of Anchorhead to protect us."

"Is that a bad thing?"

The image of his father's corpse bent over the table, Salla's face grim but free from remorse, flashed into his mind. Mr Loneozner lifting his blaster.

Vader, who couldn't have got to Luke without Biggs, and himself, who couldn't have got Luke back without Leia.

"No," he admitted. "The whole galaxy is fighting the Empire."

"You're coming around to the Rebellion, then?"

He shook his head. "The Rebellion doesn't trust me. And I don't trust them." His voice broke. "None of this is safe. I don't trust in those dreams of adventure we had, Luke. Striking out on our own…"

"No," Luke agreed, and kissed him again. "But I trust you."

The fear didn't lessen. If anything, it felt like his heart tripled in weight, a burden in and of itself.

But Luke was here, against him, and Biggs could whisper, "I trust you too," against his lips. So perhaps it was a burden he could bear.