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He hasn’t been back here for a long time.
The binary suns have passed their zenith, beginning their descent, the familiar sight of nineteen years of afternoons. Little has changed except the driving sand piling up against the weather-beaten walls, the dunes slowly reclaiming what was once theirs. The winds have taken their toll on the whitewashed pourstone, flaking the paint, leaving it to wither away.
Luke doesn’t like coming back to Tatooine. His home is elsewhere, now; a different sector, a different system, and different people, too. But this felt… necessary, and he’s honestly ashamed he hadn’t thought to do it sooner. He’s glad Din agreed to come with him, he can’t imagine being here without him, without their son. Because they’re entirely the reason why he’s here again in the first place.
Grogu peeks out from his satchel, making a curious noise. Luke plucks him from his spot at Din’s side, cradling him gently.
“We’re here to visit family,” Luke murmurs. Grogu looks around at that, ears perked up, eyes wide and inquisitive, but the only sight apart from the spindly ruins of scavenged vaporators is a pair of tombstones. They sit next to each other, bleached by the suns, and Luke wrote the names on them himself, only weeks after Endor, when all he could do was mourn as the galaxy celebrated.
Gathering his cloak beneath him, Luke sits, cross-legged, Grogu in his lap. Din stands a little distance away, still as a statue but much more alert, allowing them space.
“Hi, Uncle Owen, Aunt Beru,” Luke murmurs. “I have people I want you to meet.”
It’s silly, really. They had no connection to the Force, nothing that could make their spirits linger in this place beyond Luke’s own sentimentality. They can’t see or hear him from some metaphysical elsewhere, they can’t reach between worlds and touch the living. But it feels real enough.
“This is Grogu,” he says. “He’s my son. And that’s Din, he’s my husband. I thought you should know them.”
Grogu makes a soft noise, sensing Luke’s emotions in the Force, his sorrow, his regret, and he clings tightly to his fingers.
“It’s funny,” Luke says, blinking back tears, “but I never thought I’d have this. I thought I’d end up stuck here on the farm, alone and lonely. And then I thought I’d never have a family of my own, people I loved more than anything, because I chose to be a Jedi. And then these two just appeared in my life, and I have them now, and I can barely believe it. I wish… I wish you could meet them.”
He can almost see it, in his mind’s eye, Uncle Owen’s disapproving look at Din. He’d be unimpressed with this stoic, armour-clad stranger, tell Luke off for his poor taste (“a bounty hunter? You couldn’t do any better, boy?”), but then he’d let slip a ‘son’ when he’d ask Din to pass him something. He wouldn’t acknowledge it, pretend it’d never happened, but that would be how Din would know he was accepted. And he’d give Grogu a gruff pat on the head, slipping him a chewstick to spoil his appetite before dinner.
And Aunt Beru would be absolutely enamoured with Grogu and his adorable mischief. She’d break out the blue milk pudding for him, make it extra sweet with precious sugar, and dote on him like Luke remembers her doing when he was small, telling him stories and planting kisses on his round, green cheeks. And she’d call Din a handsome young man, pat his cheek fondly and wink at Luke just to make him blush, like she used to when talking about Biggs.
It's wasteful to cry in the desert, it’s something every Tatooine kid learns early, but he can’t help it. The tears fall freely, though he keeps his sobs inside, his shoulders trembling. He should have been a better nephew. He should have loved them more, like they deserved, for everything they gave him.
Grogu whimpers, snuggling into his chest. In his soft, childish way, he attempts to send a wave of love and comfort to him, and Luke’s heart is broken and remade in the same moment.
Wordlessly he turns, holds out a hand, and Din heads over, takes it. He settles at Luke’s side and there’s no hesitation as he removes his helmet. His hair is a mess, his brow covered with a slight sheen of sweat, but he’s as handsome as he always is, perfect in all the little imperfect ways Luke loves.
“I’m proud to call your nephew my husband,” he murmurs. “I hope you’re proud of him too.”
He raises Luke’s hand to his lips, kisses it, gives Luke one of his small, precious smiles. And Luke smiles back, tears already drying on his cheeks. They lean in, press their foreheads together, and the Force is serene around them.
Their speeder breaks down a mile and a half away from Tosche Station, which Luke calls absolutely rotten luck. They walk it there, reaching the place after nightfall, Grogu now dozing in his satchel at Din’s side. There’s no other choice but to stay the night, considering they left the Wayfinder in Mos Eisley at Peli’s hangar.
Luke feels tense. It’s not fun to be around places that are full of past shadows, memories of people he once knew, once cared about. But they need a couple of replacement parts for the speeder, from what Luke could see by the light of the glowlamp in Din’s helmet, and Tosche Station does, at least, have a small common room and a couple of spare rooms, and, most importantly, plenty of spare parts.
He lets Din deal with the business side of things, standing to the side and scuffing his boots on the floor like he’s twenty years younger and a good deal less savvy about the galaxy. He keeps his head down, his hood pulled low. He can’t remember the last time he felt this awkward; he can face down the Senate, stand up to the Mandalorian Council, tackle a whole cruiser of Imp remnants head-on, but being back on Fixer and Camie’s turf churns up bile he thought he’d gotten over long ago. There was good here, of course, there were Deak and Windy who at least put up with him, and Biggs, of course there was Biggs, but it’s hard to get over nineteen years of mockery by only being away ten.
“’Scuse me, need to get through.”
Instead of stepping to the side, Luke freezes. It’s a little scratchier than it was years ago – that’s what Tatooine’s dry air does to everyone – but Luke recognises that voice. He half-turns.
“Are you deaf?” Fixer demands, glowering at him. He’s carrying a crate of bottles of spotchka, and Luke steps to the side.
“Sorry,” he mutters, looking away again. Not quick enough, it seems, because Fixer is now peering at him, eyes narrowed. It takes a moment because of the shadow of the hood, but then his eyes widen again.
“No way! If it ain’t Wormie kriffin’ Skywalker!” He plonks the crate, with a rattle, on the counter, and grabs Luke by both shoulders, holding him at arm’s length with an oddly delighted grin as he looks him up and down.
Luke attempts a smile, but it’s feeble at best, more of a grimace.
“Hi, Fixer,” he says.
“What in the Sith hells are you doing out here?” Fixer asks, throwing an arm around Luke’s shoulders and guiding him to the lone free table.
Luke really doesn’t want to talk about why he was out here. That’s nobody’s business but his family’s. He shrugs, reluctantly pulling his hood back.
“Giving a guided tour,” he says instead, leaning on humour. Fixer snorts.
“Right, I believe that. And what are you dressed as? Hang on, lemme go get Camie, she’s not gonna believe this…”
Fixer disappears out the door, and Luke scrubs a hand down his face with a soft groan. He knew this would happen.
He’s startled out of his reverie by Grogu hopping first onto a chair and then onto the table to sit by him – he must have woken up and wriggled out of the satchel as Din still negotiates. He pats Luke’s face, ears drooping with concern, and Luke smiles.
“I’m fine, kiddo,” he murmurs, giving one of Grogu’s huge ears a stroke. He knows he’s been worrying Grogu all day with his roiling emotions in the Force. Grogu burbles happily and decides to clamber into Luke’s lap, settling himself down contentedly with a little clawed hand hooked around one of Luke’s fingers, and it’s honestly hard to stay bitter about things when your son is being so stinking cute.
Fixer returns, dragging Camie by the hand. She looks highly sceptical at first, but then she sees Luke. Her eyes go wide as dinner plates, she gasps, and rushes over.
“Luke!” she cries, and throws her arms around him, which stuns him.
“Um, hi,” he says, patting her back awkwardly with the hand that isn’t being held by a small green baby. She pulls back, sits down, a disbelieving smile plastered on her face.
“I can’t believe it, you’ve come back,” she says, shaking her head. Fixer sets a bottle and three glasses on the table, taking the seat next to her.
“Just a visit,” Luke says quickly.
“And you weren’t even going to stop by and say hi?” Camie says, wagging an admonishing finger at him. He shrugs again, trying for apologetic.
“We’re on a tight schedule,” he says. Not entirely the truth. Luke’s been avoiding this place like it could sting him every time he’s been back to Tatooine since he left the first time, and he’s never wanted to get back to Mandalore faster in his life.
“‘We’?” she asks, and their gazes both head lower, landing on Grogu. Luke looks down as well, can’t help but grin when Grogu looks back up at him.
“Yep! This is Grogu, he’s my son.”
They both keep staring. Fixer picks up his glass, takes a swig.
“Don’t want to see the mother,” he mutters, and Camie elbows him in the ribs.
“He’s adopted, smartass,” Luke says before he can stop himself, and that earns him a surprised look from the both of them. That felt… surprisingly good. Telling Fixer to go kriff himself was always something he never had the guts to do before, and now it’s easy.
Camie clears her throat after shooting Fixer a glare. “So… are you married?”
“He is.”
Din sets down a chair, commandeered from another table and sits heavily beside him, all stern, impenetrable beskar and unreadable helmet. Luke has to smother a chuckle at their faces.
“Din, these are old friends of mine, Fixer Loneozner and Camie Marstrap. Camie, Fixer, this is Din Djarin, my husband.”
Din gives them one of his slowest, most intimidating nods, the no-nonsense bounty hunter one. Camie is the first to recover, hitching on a pleasant smile.
“Nice to meet you, Din!” she says. “We don’t get many Mandalorians out here anymore, not since the Daimyo started clearing up Mos Espa.”
“Boba does his job well,” Din concedes. Fixer snorts again.
“What, you know Fett?”
“He’s a family friend,” Din says easily. His daunting façade is slightly undermined by Grogu leaning over and tugging on his sleeve demandingly, which means he wants a snack, because that’s what Grogu wants most of the time and he knows exactly where the snacks are. Din sighs and reaches into one of his belt pouches, pulling out a packet of dried fruit, which Grogu seizes enthusiastically.
Camie taps the side of her glass, looking thoughtful. “We saw the posters,” she murmurs. “We didn’t really believe them.”
Luke takes a swig of his own spotchka. It’s not particularly good, it burns a little on the way down, but it’s something to do with his hands.
“Well, they always were a little misleading,” he admits. “The Empire liked pinning things on me that I didn’t do.”
He got blamed for a lot of sabotage he could simply never have done, being across the other side of the galaxy half the time. Not that he minds, but still… credit where credit is due, there were other people in the Rebellion.
Fixer nudges her. “See? Told you. Bantha crap. I always said there was no way ol’ Wormie blew up the Death Star!”
“Oh, I did do that,” Luke says, and he hears a gentle huff of amusement from Din beside him, and that hint of fierce pride whenever Luke’s past exploits are mentioned. Din’s proud of him. That always leaves Luke a little stunned. It means more than medals and accolades ever could, honestly.
Camie and Fixer are just staring at him, unable to find any words to respond to that.
“Can we get food here?” Luke asks.
The stars are much the same as Luke remembers: exceptionally clear, exceptionally bright, and completely unreachable. Except they’re not anymore, are they? If he looks west, Coreward, he knows Chandrila is there, and Leia, Han and Ben. If he looks south, there is Bespin, and Lando. If he casts his gaze north, well there is Kashyyyk and Chewie, and even further north… that’s where Mandalore is. Where home is. And it’s all within giddying, electrifying reach. He’d lost so many nights simply gazing up at them, wishing he was out there, in the black, and now he can be. He can go wherever he chooses with the two people he loves most, and seek out the other people he loves, as well.
Luke knows the roof they’re sitting on like the inner workings of his right hand – he’s spent enough nights staring hungrily up at the stars from it, clinging to desperate fantasies of getting away, by any means possible, waxing lyrical about all the plans he had to an indulgent Biggs. Kriff, he had his first kiss on this roof, trembling, anxious, and Biggs had tasted of pilfered sand wine and realisation.
Now Grogu is snoring between them, cocooned in part of Luke’s cloak to protect him from the chilly desert night. Din is helmetless, a rare thing out in the open, but it’s close at hand and he obviously feels safe enough to do so, which Luke is grateful for. Din looks pretty in the light of the Three, and Luke does love getting lost in gazing at him. He could look at Din forever.
“You’re staring,” Din says, turning to him. It’s a testament to how much he’s used to it that he simply looks fond now, not embarrassed. Luke smiles.
“You’re nice to look at,” he says. He leans in, Din closes the distance, and he tastes like cheap spotchka, spice and fully realised dreams.