Chapter Text
Most days, Luke was calm and collected—the very embodiment of Jedi principles and composure. Most days, he could walk normally without an additional zip in his footsteps. And on most days, he refrained from blinking one eye open during meditation sessions to check the chrono every five minutes.
Today did not fall under the category of ‘most days.’
Mara was returning to the Executor for a longer stay, and Luke could barely suppress the dopey, smitten grin that had spread across his face as the hour swiftly approached. He told himself that he wasn’t excited…he was. He told himself he wasn’t counting down the minutes…he definitely was. He told himself he wasn’t rehearsing what he’d say when she arrived…he absolutely was.
After another meeting with his father, Luke exited the turbolift that led into his private quarters. He scrolled through his datapad as he went, reviewing his to-do list:
- Repair his bedroom door that Vader had obliterated (with an extra lock this time).
- Order Mara’s most-used full-size toiletries for the refresher.
- Prepare her training lightsaber.
- Drag the futon into the smaller living space (since he and his father had almost come to blows over the idea of them sharing his bedroom).
- Unload a collection of pillows, blankets, and throws onto said futon so that Mara could customize her level of comfort.
- Add fresh flowers to brighten her new room.
- Purchase fuzzy socks and flannel wraps for Mara to wear when she got cold.
- Request the galley droids to prep extra food and snacks so she would never get hungry.
- Stock a spare datapad with holobooks she might enjoy.
He’d checked off all the items except the last one. He hadn’t even written it down; it lived only in his private thoughts, safeguarded and untouched. With dinner not scheduled for another few hours, he still had time to complete it. Truthfully, though, he’d been putting it off until the very end. Lightsabers, snacks, and a futon—those were easy. The last task was the most important and therefore the hardest; he needed to have his mind somewhat focused before he dared attempt it.
The steady thrum of the many hydraulic systems that powered the Executor diminished into a faraway pulse as Luke entered the serenity of his bedroom. The door slid shut behind him, enveloping Luke in a rare interlude of free time. There was normally so much to do, but Luke had propelled through his daily chores with something rivaling superhuman efficiency, and now he found himself at a not-unwelcome standstill. He took a moment to inhale and exhale deeply, just to feel the joyous emotions coursing through him at the impending reunion.
Luke almost laughed at himself. If Mara were here right now, she’d probably scoff and accuse him of acting like the cornball lead character in that over-the-top sci-fi holodrama they both mocked (but still faithfully watched). I don’t need indulgence, pampering, or any of this extra attention, she’d gripe, rolling her eyes for maximum effect and planting her hands on her hips. Honestly, Skywalker. I only tolerate this nonsense because you’re so damn cute.
He wouldn’t refute anything she claimed; he’d just cradle her in his arms, and she would melt against him, grumbling all the while.
Freshly laundered clothes heaped in a disorganized mess on his bed, courtesy of an ASP-19 domestic service droid. He divided the items into categories—small clothes, socks, pajamas, and workout gear—then began to fold and store. Luke preferred the mundane nature of it. The rote action preoccupied his hands and unchained his thoughts, allowing him to slip into a contemplative state.
The thread of anticipation was a river winding through every moment and action; Mara was the tide that kept him afloat and carried him forward. She occupied a constant presence in his mind, and no matter the distance, it was that unceasing awareness of her that made the anticipation so sharp. And yet, he couldn’t quite name or define what they shared. Luke had known love before: the steadfast guardianship of Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, the fierce loyalty of Leia, the bonds forged in war with Han, Chewbacca, and Wedge. There was his father, with an all-consuming devotion that was obsessive to a fault but still gave him the peace of mind to accept a destiny that once felt overwhelming and burdensome.
But Mara was something else entirely. She was the rare light that freed him, that understood him as no one else ever had. With her, Luke wasn’t a moisture farmer, or Darth Vader’s son. He wasn’t the last Jedi, or the hero of Yavin IV. He was simply himself. She didn’t expect him to be anything other than Luke Skywalker.
He drifted into that luminous stream of thought, and the Force seemed to pulsate in approval, enfolding Mara into every current as if it longed for her arrival as much as he did.
So lost was he in that warmth that he nearly missed his comm’s insistent chirping. He folded the last article of clothing—a black t-shirt plastered with the Rebel Alliance’s starbird crest—then fished the item out of his pocket. His breath hitched before he even saw the encryption code.
Mara.
He shoved the shirt into an open drawer, then crossed the room to his reading chair near the viewport. Hunkering down, he made himself comfortable on the barrel-shaped cushion and plopped his black boots atop the ottoman.
“Missing me this much?” he answered in a teasing tone, the pulsation from the Force still fresh in his mind. “Can’t even wait until tomorrow?”
A snort buzzed through the channel. “Don’t flatter yourself, farmboy. I’m bored.”
Luke chuckled warmly. Their communications were strictly voice only, as it was too risky to attempt a video projection. Mara had alleged that imagination could be just as tantalizing and visceral as the real thing, but Luke disagreed. In the privacy of his innermost thoughts, her face appeared—heart-shaped and alive with mischief, with those piercing green eyes that always softened when she smiled at him. He could almost evoke the way her fiery copper-red hair tickled his nose with its floral scent when she leaned in close, and how her body fit the hollow spaces of his perfectly. But it wasn’t the same. It was never the same. He missed her ingenuity, the fortitude of her spirit, and the fearless honesty in her voice. He missed it all. Every single thing about her.
“Don’t you have any books to read? Holoshows to binge?”
“I read them all. Watched everything there is to watch. I even filled every page in that ridiculous journal you gave me.” A pause ensued, and Luke heard the faint squeak of leather as Mara repositioned herself somewhere within the Lambda shuttle’s cabin. “So. Tell me what you’re doing.”
“You caught me at a good time,” Luke replied. “Just wrapped up my last meeting for the day. I have a bit of time to kill before dinner.”
“The dinner that only you eat.”
“Yeah,” Luke admitted with a crooked grin. “But my father and I have nice conversations to close the day. I look forward to them.”
Mara snorted again, this one higher-pitched and somehow more skeptical. “You mean nice interrogations with Darth Doom-and-Gloom. I should act as your attorney just to keep him on his toes. I bet dinner with dad is way less exciting without me.”
“It definitely feels less…charged.” Luke ran a hand through his hair, then let his head fall back. After Mara left, his father had enacted a ‘no handholding’ rule at mealtimes…supposedly to improve droid service and prevent distractions at the table. He couldn’t wait to see Mara’s reaction after he informed her—and the creative loopholes she’d exploit to circumvent it.
“That’s because I’m not there to glare at your father every time he calls me ‘that one,’” Mara said dryly.
“Or roll your eyes when he tries to compliment your tactical instincts,”
“Well, he’s not wrong about that. I am brilliant,” she declared, and Luke clearly pictured her eyebrow lifting and back straightening in mock pride. His father rarely offered praise to anyone, so hearing him acknowledge Mara’s skill was as strange as it was gratifying.
“You are,” Luke said in agreement, the smile audible in his voice. “And so very scary.”
Her tickled scoff—a throaty sound that only Mara could pull off—filtered through the comm. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not. It’s just…quieter here. More muted without you.”
A beat of silence stretched, heavy with expectation. Electricity sizzled through the comm as their playful tension quivered like a live wire. No doubt Mara could also feel their conversation redirecting, and Luke sensed her weighing the words she planned to say next.
“Then keep talking,” she replied at last. “You miss me, don’t you, Skywalker?”
Luke sighed with unguarded longing. There was no point in denying it—Mara could see right through him, encrypted frequency or not. “I do.”
“I knew it,” said Mara, smug as ever, though the gentleness she only shared with Luke radiated underneath. “Or maybe you just miss the way I sat on your lap and stole your dessert.”
“I gave it to you,” Luke countered, though the grin still twitching at his mouth betrayed him.
“With that look on your face? Please, farmboy. You were pudding—no pun intended—in my hands.”
Luke shook his head, smothering the laugh that nearly erupted at the memory. “I just might punish you for the way you licked the ice cream off that spoon.”
“You should,” she murmured. “I want you to.”
He uncrossed his ankles and placed his feet flat on the floor, then leaned forward in his seat. A frisson of heat passed through them, transversing the comm and the millions of miles that unfairly separated them. In his mind, he saw her breathing become shallow, her beautiful green eyes glassing over with need, how she bit her lip in a way that always undid him.
Luke’s voice deepened. “What are you wearing?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I would.”
A slight rustle of fabric reached his ears, then: “Your tunic.”
“What else?”
“Just that.”
Blood thumped in Luke’s veins as the image formed in his mind—the black shirt, well-made and too large for her lithe figure, still somehow bunching up right by the jut of her hipbones, high enough to show off the endless alabaster of her lean legs. His tunic. His Mara. His.
“Where are you?”
“In the pilot’s seat.”
“Get up and lie down on the cot,” Luke ordered, smirking in satisfaction when she didn’t level him with a snarky response. Mara’s obedience gave him a heady rush, and he intended to savor each second.
“Okay, I’m here,” she announced, the springs of the mattress squealing beneath her as she settled into place. The dim overhead lighting provided just enough illumination to keep the shadows away from the curves of her body. Her loose hair spilled across the pillow, and her hands pawed at the bedsheets as she impatiently awaited his command.
“Good. Now unbutton your tunic. Slowly. I want to hear how good you can be, Mara.”
Her soft whimper was like the spiciest shot of ambrosia. Luke saw her squirming on the cot, her delicate fingertips caressing soft skin as she bared her treasures one button at a time.
“Let it fall open. Don’t take it off unless I tell you to.”
Mara whined his name, and Luke leaned back and unclasped the buckle of his trousers.
“You’ll do as I say.”
“Gladly,” she said instantly, with a dare in her voice that begged him to continue. “You can do anything you want to me, Skywalker.”
Her quick assent made Luke growl, the sound emitting from his chest, primal and animalistic. He glanced over at the door to ensure the lock was securely in place, then refocused his attention on the temptress at the other end of the comm.
“Then show me you’re listening. I’m gonna take my time with you.”
She drew in a slow, wobbly breath, the wantonness of that one note carrying across the channel and threatening to unravel him. Luke swallowed hard, tightening the device in his grip. He decided right then to postpone the last crucial item on his to-do list until after dinner…and a cold shower.
The next morning dawned brighter than any Luke had known aboard the Executor. He awoke with a clear head and a restless momentum sluicing through his limbs. Breakfast was a blur of overeating, his appetite as boundless as his mood, and his daily training session flowed with an abundantly high connection to the Force.
He normally took little stock of his reflection, but today was no ordinary day. In his walk-in closet’s floor-to-ceiling mirror, Luke carefully parted his freshly shampooed hair, then adjusted the fringe so it lay just right on his forehead. He reshaped the collar of his ironed tunic, slipped on a pair of sleek black pants, then attached the gleaming hilt of his lightsaber to his belt to complete the look.
Each gesture seemed to hold some sacred meaning. Or perhaps the significance of his actions seemed amplified in the enormous star destroyer he called home. His surroundings certainly felt different. The Executor’s corridors were less oppressive and gray when he strode through them. Luke noticed the flares of colour popping up along the walls—digital chronos glowing with vibrant numbers, emergency panels in burnt orange, fluorescent lighting tinted pale blue depending on the angle. Each gulp of sterile air felt like a cleansing breath. Even the hyperdrive’s drone sounded musical.
The interplay of light and sound stirred a sensation he had experienced only in simpler times. For a moment, he stood barefoot in the sand, dreaming of adventure as he gazed into the silent beauty of Tatooine’s nighttime sky. When the galaxy felt too vast to comprehend, he had found solace in his companions: clusters of diamondlike stars, the sudden blaze of a comet, the silvery resonance of three moons. The same wonder lit his eyes now—but it was Mara’s arrival that fueled it.
Reality sagged back into place with the familiar cadence of mechanical breathing. Luke disengaged the lock to his bedroom, then stepped aside as the door hissed open. His father’s imposing outline filled the threshold, and Luke gestured him inside with a flick of his wrist.
“Son,” Vader intoned, his voice cutting through Luke’s memories. “We must talk before your friend arrives.”
“Okay,” replied Luke, moving deeper into the room to give his father space. “What’s on your mind? If this is about the dessert that Mara stole, I already forgave her.”
“No. I have brought you reading material.”
Vader tossed a stack of trifold pamphlets onto Luke’s bed. They landed with a dull thud on the off-white linen sheets, the neon covers fanning out in an unintentional yet pristine arch. Luke tiptoed closer and peered down at the titles, written in a garishly cartoonish font.
My body is changing, help!
What should I do if someone likes me?
Children: how are they made?
Dealing with my first crush: dos and don’ts
Luke examined the juvenile illustrations (a cheerful protocol droid pointing at two stick figures holding hands might just be his favourite) and bit back a wave of dumbfounded laughter.
“Father, what is this?”
“Information,” he said, placing a gloved hand firmly on Luke’s shoulder. “The rebellion is loose with rules, but I am not. Unfortunately, the materials I have obtained are primarily for children and contain guidelines rather than agreed-on conventions. You will find, however, that the content is still relevant. These bodily matters are not trivial, my son. They must be mastered as one would master the Force.”
Luke stared at the pamphlets, then at Vader’s mask. The corners of his lips lifted despite himself, but he steeled his face to remain serious for his father. “Look, I appreciate this, really. But Aunt Beru already gave me ‘the talk’ when I was a kid, so this isn’t necessary.”
“Nonsense!” Vader retracted his hand and picked up Dealing with my first crush: dos and don’ts, its cover adorned with a sketch of a blushing stormtrooper peeking over the top of a console. “All sons should seek advice from their fathers. I was married once. I am not as inexperienced as you may believe. In addition, I have studied the literature with the same discipline I demand of you. I am well prepared to answer any questions you may have.”
“With all due respect, father, I am not discussing my sex life with you. Not to mention, Mara and I are both consenting adults and we make our own decisions.”
Luke flashed back to a time in the not-so-distant past, after the completion of a successful recon mission. He had ambled through the outskirts of a forgotten Outer Rim town that even criminals and defectors passed over, reflecting on the abandoned imperial research facility he had discovered in the unkempt grasslands. The spaceport, little more than a series of duracrete warehouses and rusting hangars, loomed ahead. His X-wing waited for him, and Luke was ready to celebrate back at the rebel base.
And then she struck.
Mara had attacked like a bolt of lightning—balletic, molten, and otherworldly. One moment he was adjusting his cloak; in the next, the muzzle of a DL-44 blaster pistol seared cold against his throat. Her eyes were the colour of an emerald forest, filled with distrust and challenging him to make a move. Luke could have defended himself, but he felt a rush of fascination instead, a reckless certainty that this woman was unlike anyone he had ever met.
So, he invited her to happy hour on a whim, right there with the barrel of her weapon digging into his pulse. She accepted, suspicious but intrigued, and they ended up at a local watering hole about a block away, its flickering lights, greasy grub, and sour ale doing absolutely nothing to block their simmering appetite from exploding into an inferno. By the end of the night, they were tangled together in a cheap motel room, the sheets kicked off the bed, sweaty and sated. Details his father absolutely did not need to know.
“Very well. How will you prevent an unplanned pregnancy?”
Luke nearly choked on air. “We’re careful,” he said as heat funneled from his chest to the top of his head. “We take precautions, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
“I am merely taking an interest in your life, Luke, as any father should.” Vader was undeterred as he gathered the remaining pamphlets and shoved them into Luke’s hands.
“I know, and I thank you for your concern,” Luke replied, then tucked the four offending trifolds into his desk drawer. “But you didn’t come here to talk about first crushes and babies and where they come from. So what is this really about?”
His father stilled, and the respirator cycled to fill the abrupt silence. “You may believe my methods are overbearing. Perhaps they are. But the past is irretrievable, my son. I will not see you repeating my mistakes. Love is…”
He trailed off, static crackling from the vocoder. Luke held his breath; he had never heard Vader falter like this, struggling through layers of crushing agony to articulate his deepest heartbreak.
“I have lost much in my life, and I will not lose you.”
His father hesitated, as though he had more to impart. But just as quickly, he turned and departed the room, his cape brushing the floor.
Luke exhaled as he considered Vader’s words. When he aligned with his father and rearranged his entire life to live aboard the Executor, he had never envisioned this scenario: Darth Vader attempting a conversation not about the Force, the emperor, or ruling the galaxy, but about his son’s private life. Yet, as Luke gave it more thought, he realized that speaking with his father about his personal affairs wasn’t so outrageous or dreadful after all. He didn’t need specifics, but he knew very little about his mother and even less about her life with Anakin Skywalker. If this was the beginning of that exchange, then Luke was grateful. He hoped that one day his father might truly open up and speak candidly about the past—even if his delivery was a little unorthodox.
As for the trifolds…he planned to recount each syllable to Mara, complete with dramatic reenactments of each pamphlet’s lessons. And he suspected she would glare at him before giving in and laughing until her sides ached.
Later that day, Luke waited at the base of a maintenance gantry as the familiar Lambda-class shuttle glided into the hangar bay and touched down onto the landing deck with a subdued thump.
His heart leaped into a pitter-pattering rhythm as the hatch of the imperial transport yawned open. Luke stared into the void for a few anxious seconds until Mara appeared like a celestial vision, striding down the ramp with the borrowed luggage in tow. The hangar lights illuminated the copper streaks in her untied hair—longer and wavier than the last time he’d seen it—and her lace-up boots echoed with a soft click in the cavernous space. Every rehearsed greeting scattered from his mind, leaving only an awkward hello and a flimsy wave.
“Hello yourself,” she returned, her smile bright enough to dissolve his self-conscious attempt at suaveness. He loaded her bags onto a trolley and began the trek back to his quarters.
“You had a good flight?” he asked, his gaze absorbing her leggings with a camouflage print and oversized cashmere sweater—casual in appearance but undoubtedly concealing a plethora of weapons.
Mara laced her fingers with his and leaned her head against his arm. “Yes, uneventful,” she said with that coquettish lilt that he had missed so dearly. “Though I did manage to have a little bit of fun yesterday.”
“Only a little bit?” Luke asked, a surge of warmth prickling his skin. Mara grinned at his spreading flush and poked his cheek with her index finger.
“Well, let’s just say it was enough to make you groan multiple times through the comm.”
She frowned and scanned the hangar then, peering left and right into every visible corner. “Seriously? No welcoming committee? Not even Darth Father here to greet me? I’m so wounded.”
Luke swerved to the left, avoiding a stray tool crate with a half-open lid and hydrospanners in various sizes strewn across the deck.
“He’ll meet up with us shortly,” Luke explained, maneuvering the trolley with one hand and gently steering Mara aside with the other. “He had to speak to Admiral Piett about an urgent matter. Piett is probably one of the few officers my father implicitly trusts.”
“How unfortunate for him.”
Luke snickered at Mara’s retort. “You’ll meet him soon. I know you despise uptight imperials, and well, Piett is uptight imperial personified.”
“It’s just us, then?”
“Yeah, for now,” Luke answered, the door leading into the corridor looming before them. “So I was thinking—”
Mara stopped suddenly, and Luke turned to face her, concern creasing his forehead. He opened his mouth to ask if she was alright, but her lips silenced him, demanding and insistent. He reacted immediately, the trolley skidding away from his grip as he deepened the kiss and enfolded her into his need. His hands slipped below the gossamer fabric, unsurprised to find that Mara had worn nothing underneath. He felt her body shudder as his palms traversed the bare skin of her back, her waist, her ribcage, her breasts. She was strength and softness against his rough caress, pliant and willing as she fused into him with helpless keens.
They’d perfected the art of the stolen moment. Time was rarely on their side, so they learned how to maximize any empty location they could find—refreshers, closets, changing stations, even a college classroom (a convoluted and somewhat ridiculous story). After one such tryst in an underground hydroponic garden, Mara had once dubbed him the king of the quickie, and Luke had been both amused and secretly proud of the title. Flying with the rebellion had taught him a few tricks about seizing opportunities, but being with Mara was a whole new level of inventiveness.
She tugged his hair, fingernails scratching his scalp. Her hands raced over his biceps and chest, mouth trailing to press noisy, feverish kisses to his jaw and the column of his throat. The acute urge to couple made the galaxy blur around him. Luke scoped out the nearest workbench, its surface cluttered with tools, datapads of all sizes, and scattered stacks of reports. None of that mattered. His hands cupped her bottom, preparing to hoist her onto the edge of the tabletop when the sound of a respirator slashed through their heady desire for each other.
Hurried footsteps followed. Mara broke away first, breathless, her kiss-swollen lips reddened and slightly parted. Luke’s arms remained locked around her, reluctant to let go. His father appeared a few seconds later, storming through the hangar’s entrance with Piett moving rigidly by his side.
Luke would’ve laughed—or at least found some humour in the interruption—if he wasn’t already panting and trying to suppress the evidence of his arousal at the same time. First the disrupted hookup in his bedroom, and now this. His father really had to work on his awful timing.
To his credit, though, Vader didn’t acknowledge Luke or Mara’s disheveled states. He merely nodded once to his son, then affixed his helmet firmly on Mara.
“Jade. This is Admiral Firmus Piett. He will supervise you when I am not able. The emperor has spies everywhere, and I will not have them reporting falsehoods or weaknesses about you or my son. Piett will act as a safeguard.”
The words tumbled around in Luke’s brain, but they still made little sense when he finally assembled the pieces together. “Supervise…like babysit?”
“The term is ‘behavioral liaison,’ but if you wish to reduce Piett’s responsibility to that of a childminder’s, you are welcome to do so.”
Piett bowed, as wooden as his stiff posture would allow. Sleep-deprived seemed to be his natural condition, and puffiness sagged beneath his red-rimmed eyes. Luke resolved to brew him a cup of Mara’s infamous moxie-inducing caf, if only to add a little jitter to keep the weariness away.
“Commander Skywalker. Ms. Jade. It would be my honour.”
“Really?” Mara’s venomous scoff bounced off the walls. Her eyes narrowed, proof that physical pleasure hadn’t dulled her senses. “You went to the imperial academy, aced all the tests, climbed the ranks…and this is what you were trained for? To keep Darth Vader’s kid from getting laid on his flagship?”
Vader snarled, the sound reverberating like thunder, while Piett tightened his jaw in obvious embarrassment. Luke covered his mouth to muffle his laughter when his father glared at him. Hopefully, Vader had fully briefed the admiral on Mara’s colourful, blunt vocabulary.
“Ms. Jade, your question is noted. My duty is to ensure the two of you don’t find yourselves in unexpected trouble. Now, if you’ll be so kind as to follow me.”
Piett, recovering quickly and restoring the veneer of strict professionalism, led the cavalcade out of the hangar. They shuffled along like a row of ducklings, with Vader assuming the position at the rear. Luke grabbed the luggage trolley and glanced at Mara. When no one was looking, she elbowed his midsection and stuck her tongue out in flagrant mischief. Luke could only shake his head at their predicament. So much for a grand reunion. Instead, he and Mara received an escort detail and a babysitter—or rather, a behavioural liaison—to guard them from the emperor’s invisible spies. Alone time would have to wait, though judging by the sparkle in Mara’s green eyes, she was already plotting their next escapade.