Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He opens the hatch to his X-wing, and the rush of hot dry air against his skin is painfully familiar while being strangely new. The smell is off, acrid and sharp instead of muted and dusty. The wind is strange, in that there is very little, and as he jumps out of the cockpit he doesn’t feel the need to pull his hood up to keep the sand off. It’s like everything that is familiar has shifted slightly off degree, and he takes a breath to center himself and chase away the not-quite deja vu. 

Even so, different isn’t bad, isn’t unwelcome; and Luke can admit that setting his feet on a desert planet always feels a bit like settling into his own skin. The desert is so deeply ingrained in him, so inseparable from himself even now, that sand under his boots is never anything but a comfort.

They’ve done well, here on Mandalore. An entire planet once glassed by the Empire, restored with breathable air and manageable temperature in less than a decade. He supposes he has his sister to thank for that, in part. She had pushed fiercely, vehemently, for New Republic aid to Mandalore while allowing the planet to maintain its independence. But he knows that the majority of his admiration should be directed at the Mandalorians themselves. A people once spread out across the galaxy, now answering the Call to come back home. 

He smiles. He does not know how Mandalore appeared before the Empire, what climate it had or what beings lived here - besides the Mandalorians. But they are a desert people, now. Desert people have always been strong.

The welcome he receives is anything but warm, but that’s to be expected. Master Yoda had told him - after the encounter with Boba Fett those years ago - that Mandalorians saw Jedi as a sort of ancestral enemy. But Luke knows who his ancestors were, and the only quarrel the Children have ever had with Mandalorians were those who took bounties from slavers. 

A slight Mandalorian with armor painted in shades of blue is waiting for him by the landing pad. Well. Slight for Mandalorians, Luke amends. They are still taller than he is. 

“Hello,” he says, once he’s come to stand before them, “my name is Luke Skywalker. I am a Jedi Master.”

“Why are you here,” they growl, voice distinctly feminine through the vocoder, and Luke clasps his hands in front of him and smiles.

“I sensed a very strong presence in the Force. So few of my kind still exist in the galaxy, and even less who’re so strong. I wanted to meet that person.”

Truthfully, it had felt like someone punched him in the chest. He’d woken up gasping, clinging to Skins’ wrist beside him. His partner had opened his eyes, very still in a way he almost never was, and said, “I saw them.”

A child, he’d said. A child who looked very much like Master Yoda, and a Mandalorian in gleaming silver. Only flashes - the way Skins’ Force-dreams always were - but clearly parent and child. They were looking for a Jedi. They were on Mandalore.

“Go,” Skins had said, sitting up to snake his arms around Luke’s torso, back pressed to chest, “Go find them. I’ll go to Dagobah; Master Yoda should know that he’s not the last of his species. Force willing, I’ll join you in a tenday.”

What else could Luke do, when the Force was guiding him so clearly? He went.

The Mandalorian in blue regards him for long moments, then steps to the side to let him pass. “I will take you to the Mand’alor. He will decide what to do with you, jetii. ”

Luke smiles, and goes.

They stop before an unassuming door, the Mandalorian who’d been guiding him turning to face him with absolute protection radiating through her Force-signature. She holds out a hand.

“Your lightsaber,” she says. Luke unclips it from his belt and passes it to her. Mild discomfort squirms low in his stomach, quickly released into the Force. He can deal with being separated from it for a time, if it will make the Mandalorians more trusting of him.

Slight surprise flares from the Mandalorian in front of him, before it is quickly and ruthlessly suppressed. She grunts and turns towards the door - still angling her body to keep him in her line of sight. She’d remained behind him the entire walk here, snapping instructions when they reached a fork in the road. He recognizes in her the mistrustful discipline of a soldier, and releases the memories - of being escorted down echoing, clinically lit halls - into the Force. 

She does not knock, merely pushes the button to open the blast door before stepping within and to the side. Luke enters, and finds a room far less grand than he had initially been anticipating for an audience with the ruler of Mandalore. It’s a sparse room, obviously meant for meetings, but small. There is no throne, no dais. There is only a Mandalorian in gleaming silver armor, standing to the side of a table set with four chairs. 

Luke stops, maybe too abruptly to be polite; but there is something off here, within the Force. It’s less than a second before he realizes that it isn’t what’s within the Force, it’s what’s outside it. The Force flows around the Mandalorian in silver - the Mand’alor - glancing off the armor, creating a blank spot in the Force. Intrigued, Luke continues walking until he’s within a respectable distance. He inclines his head.

“You’re the Mand’alor? It’s an honor. My name is Luke Skywalker.”

“Are you a Jedi?” the Mand’alor asks, his voice more warmly-colored than Luke would have expected. Not warm exactly , but plainly curious. Luke nods.

“I am. I sensed a very strong Force presence on this planet, so I came to investigate. There aren’t many of us left, you see. It was something of a shock.” He laughs lightly, and smiles. The Mand’alor’s helmet tips to the side, regarding him for a moment. 

“He’s really that strong?” Comes the vocoded voice, slightly wondering. “I had thought it might be normal, for your kind.”

“Ah, well, his natural connection to the Force is very bright. Force-signature, we call it. ‘Strong’ might be the wrong word for it. Think of it like…a clear comm signal. I was in the Endor system, and felt it from there.”

There’s a long pause. Then, the Mand’alor sighs, shoulders twitching minutely downward.

“I don’t get it,” he says. His posture straightens, and even through the helmet Luke can feel his gaze focus on Luke’s own. “But that’s why you’re here. Right?”

Luke feels his eyes widen, and quickly releases his surprise into the Force. “I came only to meet him, but…if the both of you would be receptive, I’d be happy to train him.”

Behind him, the Mandalorian who led him in snarls. There’s a hiss, and then a distinctly un-vocoded voice snaps, “You will not be taking him, jetii! ”

He turns to look at her. Her helmet is off, hair red and expression fierce. Luke, however, is more stuck on her words. Taking him?

He’s reminded of his many talks with Master Yoda regarding the Tenets of the Old Jedi Order. Specifically, children being taken from their families at a young age and moved to the Temple; supposedly to strengthen their connection with the Force and prevent ‘attachments.’

Luke squares his shoulders and meets her eye steadily. “No, I will not.”

He turns back to the Mand’alor. The young one’s father. Even the thought of the word tightens his chest, though not as fiercely as it once did. 

“The Jedi Order is dead,” he says, and doesn’t miss how the Mand’alor’s posture shifts, though he can’t tell the emotion behind it. “I have no interest in reviving the Order of old. My own teacher was once the Grandmaster of the Order, and we have talked at length about its Tenets and how they contributed to its fall. I don’t wish to repeat their mistakes.”

He risks a step closer, then stops. 

“If I end up training your son,” The Mand’alor twitches. “It will be here, on Mandalore. With his people. I would not think of taking him from you.”

There is silence in the room after he is done, and he sits with it comfortably. He’s given them a lot to think about. Mandalorians - he has heard - are fiercely protective of their children. As all people of the desert are. Eventually, the Mand’alor speaks.

“You can meet him.”

Luke smiles.

After they’ve eaten their firstmeal and Djarin has cleaned the remnants off Grogu’s face and changed him into clean clothes, he picks up his son and starts off towards the Jedi’s new home. It’s a small house towards the outer edge of the settlement. They’d offered him something closer to Djarin’s own home, something more protected; but he’d only smiled that serene half-smile of his and said he’d prefer to be close to the desert. A strange request, but not a harmful one. The house is admittedly small, which the Jedi had said was no issue, and he’d moved his meager belongings in after latemeal the previous night. 

They reach the house in good time - Grogu’s ears ticking upwards as he peers curiously at his surroundings. Djarin hasn’t had much cause to bring his son to this part of the settlement, and the little one is obviously enjoying the change in scenery. Djarin smiles to himself and knocks on the Jedi’s door. There’s a beat of silence, then two; and after a few minutes of standing there with no noise or movement coming from inside the house, Djarin begins to worry. It’s ridiculous, of course. Nothing could have happened to the Jedi between last night and this morning, whether the man has his lightsaber or not. 

(Bo-katan had been adamant that the Jedi would not be permitted to carry his weapon. Djarin - privately - thought that this was unnecessary. Grogu and Ashoka had both been able to move things with their minds; the Jedi obviously didn’t need a weapon to be a threat.)

He’s beginning to contemplate just opening the door himself - just to check - when Grogu begins to make burbling noises and shifting in his arms, one clawed hand reaching towards the side of the house.

“What is it, buddy?” Djarin mumbles, stepping away from the door and walking around the small structure. There’s a narrow pathway that leads into a small backyard, and Djarin follows it on instinct. Rounding the last corner into the yard, he takes a look around and freezes where he stands.

The Jedi is here, which is more or less expected. The Jedi is also upside down , which is unexpected and also perplexing. He’s balancing on one hand, body held above him, and from where he’s turned to face them Djarin can see that his eyes are closed. His face is placid, though sweat pours off of him, and next to him is a stack of small boulders of varying sizes. As Djarin and Grogu watch, another boulder lifts itself smoothly into the air and sets itself on top of the stack. 

Grogu makes a sound of delight and claps his little claws together, ears standing nearly straight-up. Djarin makes an aborted sound to quiet him, not wanting to disturb the Jedi’s concentration; but light-colored eyes slip open and the man fixes them with a relaxed, upside-down smile. Slowly, he bends his arm, lowering his head towards the ground. Djarin expects him to get his feet under himself and stand, but the Jedi surprises him once again by using his hand as a spring-board and backflipping out of the handstand. Djarin blinks.

“Hello, Little One. Mand’alor,” the Jedi greets, coming to stand before them. Sweat is dripping down his face and bare arms - plastering his hair to his forehead - and yet he doesn’t even seem out of breath. Djarin’s own breath catches on an inhale, and he coughs.

“Jedi,” he replies, intending to relay the reason for their visit, but the Jedi cuts him off.

“Luke,” he says. When Djarin tilts his head to the side fractionally, he smiles. “You can call me Luke, if you want. No pressure, though.”

Djarin is momentarily taken aback. The Jedi - Luke - would give him his name? Just like that? He’s aware that not everyone carries their name as closely as those from his covert; but to give it to someone that he’s barely met, in their first private conversation…it’s strange.

He recovers quickly, nodding in acknowledgement. 

“Luke,” he begins again, and Luke’s smile takes on a distinctly pleased cast, “This is…this is my son, Grogu.”

Grogu’s ears perk at the sound of his name, and he coos happily. Luke’s gaze focuses in on the child, and Djarin quashes down his urge to turn his body, hiding Grogu from sight. He stands very still, instead, and watches as Luke’s eyes turn soft and…vaguely wondering.

“Hello, Grogu,” he says, voice even softer than his eyes. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

To Djarin’s surprise, Grogu’s eyes are laser-focused on Luke’s face. The child is a curious one, but also cautious - more likely to turn into Djarin’s chest when meeting new people, shying away from eye contact. Now, though, Grogu makes quiet, intrigued sounds as his gaze scans the Jedi up and down. Luke just stands there patiently, gentle smile quirking his lips.

Grogu reaches out with both hands to make grabbing motions in the Jedi’s direction. Djarin’s eyebrows shoot up behind his helmet. Luke’s eyes go wide for a moment, and then he grins, a delighted laugh spilling from his mouth before he bites it off quickly. He glances at Djarin.

“He’s reaching out to me,” he says; and Djarin tips his head because yeah, obviously. Luke shakes his head lightly. “I mean through the Force. He’s…it’s like he’s poking my mind with his own, trying to figure me out.”

“Does it…hurt?” Djarin asks. At the very least, somebody poking at your mind doesn’t sound comfortable. Luke shakes his head again.

“Not at all. It feels warm, kind of. He - oh!” Luke’s focus swings back to Grogu. “He’s quite strong. There’s no Force-bond between us, but he’s…”

He trails off, head tilting to the side and eyes unfocusing slightly, as if he’s listening to something. He smiles.

“ Buir, ” he says, and Djarin can’t help the audible catch of his own breath, “He’s saying Buir, and pushing…love. Safety. And…”

Luke looks back to Djarin’s face, and his smile turns strangely empathetic. “A Mandalorian in silver armor. He loves you very much.”

Djarin swallows forcefully, emotion welling up in his chest, threatening to spill over into his eyes. Of course, he knew Grogu must care for him, must trust him to keep him safe; but to learn that - within his own mind - Grogu calls him Buir, it’s almost too much.

“You,” he says, and his voice comes out too roughly, so he pauses. Swallows again. “You can understand him?”

“I can,” Luke says, still looking at him with too much emotion behind those light eyes. “Not so much in words, but feelings. Impressions. Buir, though, that was very clear. He keeps repeating it. Is…is it your name?”

The Jedi looks sheepish now, almost shameful. He must know something of Mandalorian customs, Djarin realizes. He thinks that he has learned Djarin’s name without earning it, instead of offering Djarin a gift he doesn’t know how to express.

“No,” Djarin absolves him of the notion immediately. “It’s a word. Buir, it means…it means ‘parent.’”

The guilt bleeds out of Luke’s expression, and he smiles once again. He seems to do a lot of that.

Grogu makes a demanding noise, and they both turn their attention back to him. Luke chuckles. “Sorry, little one. We weren’t ignoring you, water.”

The phrasing is strange, almost a non-sequitur, but Luke is speaking again before Djarin has time to contemplate it.

“You’re very cute,” he says to Grogu. Not indulgently, his tone is almost comically serious. Djarin feels his lips twitch unbidden. “My teacher - Master Yoda - is of your species. He is not nearly as cute as you are.”

“Though he’d probably smack me with his stick if he ever heard me say that,” is mumbled, as though to himself. Djarin barely hears it. Blood is rushing through his ears.

“There is another? Of his species?” he hears himself ask, not caring about the intensity of his tone. “I thought- I thought he was the last.”

Luke looks at him. The Jedi is still smiling, but there’s a saddened cast to his eyes. “Yes, there is one other. Master Yoda is…very old. Maybe not soon, but one day, Grogu may very well be the last.”

Abruptly, Djarin understands. The look in Luke’s eyes: it is grief. The faraway, intangible grief which comes from mourning those who have not yet gone. Then the Jedi blinks, and it is gone - replaced with an odd sort of determined optimism. He looks back to Grogu, just looking at him, for a long moment. His posture straightens, and he says, “But not yet.”

Grogu coos questioningly, hands grabbing towards Luke again. The Jedi looks unfocused, just for a moment, before he shakes his head gently.

“No, little one. Your kindness is a beautiful thing, but I’m afraid this isn’t something you can help with,” he says softly. His smile is a bit subdued when he says to Djarin, “Your son is very attuned with the emotions of those around him. He sensed my grief, and wanted to help.”

Your son. Luke says it easily, obviously. Djarin grasps for a new topic to distract from the way his chest clenches. “He can do that?”

Luke hums, as if in thought. “He…could, theoretically. But he is young, untrained. He doesn’t understand yet that some emotions are better felt than soothed, or how to release those emotions into the Force once they’ve been felt. He could end up trying to take them into himself, and without knowing how to release them, end up harming himself.”

Protective alarm causes Djarin’s shoulders to hitch as he glances down at his child. All the times Grogu has healed him, could he have been hurting himself? Could Djarin, without even realizing it, have been causing his son pain? The thought is unacceptable, almost too much even to grasp, but he has to know.

He doesn’t realize he’s moved until he’s already gripping Luke’s bicep, the Jedi looking up at him with startled eyes. “He’s healed me. When we were on the run, when I was trying to protect him, he- he healed me. Did I- Is he-?” 

The Jedi softens. Instead of shaking Djarin off, he reaches up and wraps his fingers around the beskar of his vambrace. “Peace, Mand’alor. He is well. Physical healing - though exhausting - doesn’t allow for transfer the way emotional healing might. He used the Force to draw your wounds together, the same way he would move a rock. It would not have harmed him.”

Djarin  exhales forcefully, then draws air back into his lungs. Thank the stars. His shoulders relax, and he draws Grogu closer to his chest without conscious thought. The child gurgles in concern, placing one clawed hand against his chestplate. Djarin looks down at him and smiles gently.

“I’m alright, buddy. Thanks,” he says. He lifts his head and realizes that the Jedi - Luke - is close. Very close. Their arms are still clasped. Djarin drops his hand immediately and takes a couple hasty steps backwards. “Sorry, I-”

“You were concerned for your son,” Luke says. “No apology necessary.”

“Right,” Djarin says, haltingly. He is not used to people giving their forgiveness so readily. Still, he’d like to move past his outburst as quickly as possible, and is quietly thankful for Luke’s agreeable nature.

He says that, but he’s not really sure where to take the conversation from here. Luke - either picking up on his awkwardness or just a more natural conversationalist - does it for him.

“Just out of curiosity,” he begins, and there’s an amused slant to his eyes as he looks down at Grogu that Djarin hasn’t seen yet, “does he enjoy eating frogs?”

It isn’t what Djarin had been expecting, and it startles a brief laugh out of him. “You don’t know the half of it. I can’t get him to leave the damn things alone.”

Luke’s eyes sparkle. “Ah, so it’s not just Master Yoda, then. I’d thought it might just be the food scarcity on Dagobah, but now I’m beginning to think it’s a cultural preference.”

“Your…Master Yoda…eats frogs?”

“My teacher,” Luke corrects gently, and Djarin marks the distinction, “and yes. Frog stew, more particularly. I’ve never seen him eat one whole, but that might just be part of his whole ‘wise Jedi Master’ schtick. Honestly, I could go my entire life without eating another bowl of it, but I’m so fond of him that I don’t see that happening.”

“You- you’ve tried it?” Djarin tries to keep his tone even, but he can hear the note of incredulity slip through anyway. Luke laughs, folding forward slightly and eyes crinkling shut.

“Not through choice, believe me! It’s all there is to eat on Dagobah, so during training it was either frog stew or starve. Eventually, we’d get so hungry that we learned to wolf it down without really tasting it.”

We? Djarin is about to open his mouth to ask, but Grogu suddenly flails in his arms, tipping forward so abruptly that Djarin is a fraction of a second too late to catch him.

Anxiety spikes through him as his hand closes around air. Grogu’s taken worse tumbles and been fine, but Djarin doesn’t think he’ll ever outgrow the moment of pure panic whenever it happens.

Except it doesn’t. Instead of hitting the ground, his son hangs suspended in the air, rotating slowly and squealing in delight. Djarin  stares at him, trying to figure out what he’s seeing. His gaze snaps up to Luke. The Jedi has one hand slightly extended, an amused and indulgent smile on his face as he looks down at Grogu. His hand gestures, and the child floats slowly upwards and back into Djarin’s arms. Djarin tucks his son against his chest, and Luke lets out a soft exhale.

“I think he was getting frustrated by our lack of attention,” he says, amused. “He’s a mischievous one, isn’t he?”

Djarin huffs, more fond than annoyed. “You have no idea.”

“I’m sorry, Grogu. I came all this way to meet you, but it seems I forgot my manners. Will you forgive me?” Luke directs toward the child, absolutely sincere. He says nothing afterwards, as if actually waiting for an answer, his head tipping sideways. After a moment, he smiles. “Thank you, you’re very kind.”

Grogu makes an insistent noise and reaches out again, grabby hands coming back full force. Luke’s expression betrays pure surprise for a moment, and his smile is both perplexed and hesitant as he glances up at Djarin.

“He…he wants me to hold him,” he relays, sounding slightly astonished. It’s a sentiment Djarin shares. Grogu is never so forward with strangers, rarely wanting to be held by anyone other than Djarin, and never when Djarin is already holding him. He looks down at the child in his arms, shifting and lifting his son up to eye level.

“You sure, kid?”

Grogu makes a noise, even more insistent than before, and twists to attempt grabby hands in Luke’s vague direction. Well, then.

“Uh, sure,” Djarin says, and steps closer to pass his son into the Jedi’s arms. His hindbrain is practically screaming at him to snatch the child back: what is he doing? He doesn’t know this man, this stranger, this jetii. He could be a threat, he could-

Luke takes Grogu from him almost reverently. Gently, carefully, he tucks the child against his chest. Immediately, Grogu looks up and into his face, burbling happily and clenching one hand into Luke’s shirt. The Jedi looks wide-eyed for a second before his entire face melts, eyes and smile painfully soft.

“Hello, little one,” he breathes. Grogu releases his shirt and reaches up to place the same clawed hand against his cheek. Luke’s breath hitches visibly, and he closes his eyes. “I know, Grogu. I…I’ve been waiting for you too. For a long time.”

There is an emotion in Djarin’s chest that he can’t name, can’t even begin to find the words for, but he tries. Sadness: that this stranger shares something with his son that Djarin never will. Joy: that Grogu has finally, finally found someone like him who does not turn him away because of his attachments. Love, so much love for this foundling child that has become his. Fear. Wistfulness. 

Above it all, a sense of rightness, like the planet has shifted slightly on it’s axis and slotted back into place. Maybe that’s the Force that he’s heard so much (and not enough, never enough) about. He has no way of knowing. 

But there is something he does know, something he can be certain of, as he watches the Jedi hold his son.

“You will train him,” he says, no question in his voice. Luke’s eyes - when they snap open and find his face - are damp, but clear and questioning. “You will stay here, on Mandalore. And you will train him. He will be Mandalorian, and Jedi.”

Luke blinks, and a single tear escapes his lashes to run down his cheek. With his eyes slightly bloodshot, the paleness of them stands out, almost luminous. They must be blue, Djarin thinks.

“You’re sure?” Luke asks, still breathless, expression truly unguarded for the first time since he arrived. He looks so painfully, openly hopeful. Like Djarin is giving him a gift, one he can never hope to repay. Djarin nods, once.

“This is the Way.”

It isn’t. It really isn’t; but Djarin has learned so much since meeting Grogu, so much about the galaxy and himself, that he thinks it could be. Maybe the Way is like the Force, unknowable and deep, everchanging. It feels right, to allow his son this. As if he could ever deny him.

Luke nods back. “Witness.”

It’s not something that Djarin has ever heard before. It doesn’t sound like a Jedi saying, far more concrete and simple than, ‘ may the Force be with you,’ but something about the finality of it settles him. His shoulders relax, and he steps forward to lay a hand on Grogu’s head.

“Finally found you a teacher, kid. Told you I would.”

Grogu burbles happily at him, moving his hand from Luke’s face to rest against his beskar. Luke laughs, slightly wet.

“Right,” the Jedi says. When he looks up at Djarin, his eyes are almost burning with joy and focus. “How are we gonna do this?”

Chapter Text

“How are we gonna do this?”

They’re fresh from the debrief, both already wearing their flight suits, when Skins catches his arm and moves in close to speak to him in a low tone. Luke looks back at him, confused.

“Whad’ya mean? You heard what Leia said, we-”

“No,” Skins cuts him off, huffy. “I mean, if it all goes tits-up like usual, what’s our plan?”

Ah. It’s a good question, and Luke takes a few precious seconds to give it some serious thought. Skins waits patiently beside him; trusting - always trusting - Luke to come up with something that gets them all off this frozen rock in one piece.

“If the generators blow, get to the transports. Protecting them is our first priority anyway. As soon as they’re clear, get on board. I’ll double back to make sure that Leia and the others get out safe, then meet you there,” Luke says at last. He doesn’t know why, but he’s got a feeling that Leia, Han, and the rest of their motley crew will need the extra help. Luke has learned to trust his feelings.

He feels a little guilty about lying, though, even if he knows it’s ultimately the right call. If Skins knew that Luke was planning on jetting off to a backwater planet with no known inhabitants as soon as the transports get clear, he’d insist on coming with him. Usually, always , Luke would love to have Skins at his side. But this feels like something he has to do alone.

“What? No, I’ll go with you,” Skins says. Luke has a fraction of a second to worry he’s been somehow caught-out before his previous words catch up to him. He shakes his head.

“It’ll be faster and safer if only one of us doubles back,” he points out. “I need you on those transports, Skins. I need to know that you’re safe.”

That, at least, is one-hundred percent truth. If Skins comes with him, Luke will inevitably dedicate at least half of his brain to worrying about the other man, which won’t be good for his mission-focus. It might even be dangerous. 

Skins obviously disagrees, if the way he grips Luke’s arm slightly tighter is anything to go by.

“What about you, Luke? You think I’m not gonna be worried out of my mind; up there on the transports while you’re down here under fire?” His dark eyes are burning into Luke’s own, filled with anger and worry and fear. “I almost lost you once this week, and you’re gonna make me go through that again?”

“I was fine,” Luke mumbles, “Han found me.”

Skins laughs the incredulous laugh that means he’s gearing up for a tirade. Experience kicking in, Luke just braces and prepares to weather it. 

“Oh, right, of course; and then Wedge and me had to canvas practically the entire Krayt-damned ice sheet looking for the two of you! Only to find you half-frozen to death and stuffed inside a gutted Tauntaun just to keep you alive! ” Luke winces. He could do without the reminder. “You were in the bacta tank for two storming days ! Why in Twins’ name do you always insist on looking out for everyone’s safety but your own?”

Luke knows that he should feel guilty - and he does - but the Upatauan-curse-peppered ranting feels incredibly nostalgic. No matter how far they stray from the deserts of their homeworld, Skins always seems to keep a piece of it with him to share with Luke. Still, it’d probably be a bad idea to smile fondly right about now, so he keeps it to himself. 

“Somebody has to do it,” he says, shrugging. All of Skins’ anger seems to leave him in a rush, and he visibly deflates.

“But why does it have to be you?” he asks softly, and now the guilt pierces Luke like a bolt through the chest. Skins is still so young, only twenty years old, and Luke had taken him from the only home either of them had ever known; only to drag him into a war that they’re - categorically - losing. 

He knows that’s not really being fair to himself. Skins is the most stubborn person in the galaxy. He would have found a way to smuggle himself to Mos Eisley and onto the Falcon even if Luke hadn’t let him come. Still, when his best friend gets like this: all the fight leaving him, stranded and lost, Luke can’t help but feel like it’s his fault.

He gathers the taller man into his arms, pressing his forehead into Skins’ shoulder and feeling the brunette slump against him. It’s not enough, but it’s all he can offer. “I’m sorry.”

Skins goes tense against him, and Luke sighs inwardly even as his friend wrenches backwards. If he were easy, he wouldn’t be Skins. Still, that doesn’t mean it’s not frustrating when Luke wishes he would just listen to him.

“I don’t need you to be sorry,” Skins hisses, “I need you to let me come with you! ” 

“Not happening.” He hates when he has to shut him down like this, but they’re running out of time. Skins glares down at him.

“And if I follow you?”

Luke takes in a sharp breath and fights down his irritation. Skins is just looking out for him, but does he have to be so Krayt-damned stubborn about it? They don’t have time for this. He knows the next words out of his mouth are going to be painful - for both of them - even before he says them.

“Rogue Two,” he starts, voice even. Hurt is already bleeding into Skins’ eyes as he snaps to attention. “As your Commander and Rogue Leader, I order you join the transports after the completion of our mission, and wait for me there. Clear?”

“As water,” Skins bites out venomously, before turning on his heels and stalking away. And Twins, it hurts. Luke hates parting like this, hates that he knows that this will be the last time in a long time that they see each other. He watches Skins’ retreating form until it gets lost in the crowd, then exhales heavily. He allows himself a few seconds of frustration and sadness, then turns towards his ship and the task at hand.

I’ll come back to you, Skins, he swears to himself as he crams his helmet on and begins the start-up sequence. On my water, I’ll come back to you.

They iron out a tentative plan and schedule for Grogu’s training: establishing a training-bond to start, then meditation. It isn’t how Master Yoda trained him, but Luke was fighting a war and needed to learn how to protect himself and others as quickly as possible. Grogu is not fighting a war (and never will, if Luke has any say in it) and has the time and safety necessary to take it slow. Establishing a strong base for his training will only benefit him, in the long run.

When he asks the Mand’alor what uses of the Force he’s already seen in Grogu, Luke is shocked to hear that the child had lifted an entire adult mudhorn meters into the air on the first day they met. Size matters not, of course; but such an arduous use of the Force is mystifying at Grogu’s age. Then Luke begins to wonder, how old is Grogu? He only looks to be a few years old, but Master Yoda is over nine-hundred and only shows about one-hundred of those years. It bears researching.

After they’ve decided on how and when to begin Grogu’s training, The Mand’alor invites him to latemeal. Evidently it’s a communal affair, with the entire settlement coming together to share stories and talk about their day. Luke is reminded - with a small pang of nostalgia and scarred-over grief - of latemeal on Rebel bases past. Toward the end of the war, more and more seats were left empty, those that were left closing ranks to fill in missing space. 

Luke takes a breath and releases the feeling into the Force. Smiling, he thanks the Mand’alor for the invitation. If the man sees any of his grief on his face or in his reaction, he makes no mention of it, and Luke is grateful. The Mand’alor nods, Grogu sends a tide of happiness satisfaction goodbye through the Force, and the father-son pair take their leave.

Luke is left with about five hours of free time, and for a moment he simply stands in the middle of his small lodgings, lost in thought. Eventually, he squares his shoulders and steps out his door.

The absence of his lightsaber has morphed into a small pinch at the base of his spine, but there are things he can do to mitigate it. The desert here has a different Call to the sands of his homeworld, but - as he walks past the scattering of buildings around his own - he sinks into it all the same. It’s…emptier: the Empire’s bombardment ensuring that no life which once thrived here could remain, but it isn’t empty. There are lifeforms, small and robust, making their homes amongst the dunes and crags of rock. Bugs and lizards, blind fish in deep underground acid-springs. Luke casts out with the Force, feeling their life-signatures like tiny stars among the vast desert.

And the desert itself is not silent. The sands are different, made of glass and ash and dead matter, but their shifting sounds similar enough that Luke can almost pick out the notes of their Call. The winds are different - near non-existent with the thinner atmosphere - but not entirely absent. They whisper, softly, barely heard but still very much there.

Luke, he hears, barely a breath in his mind. Then, louder, Luke!

His eyes shoot open, then slam closed just as quickly. Keeping the desert close, he follows the bright thread of a Force-bond within his mind and out into the stars.

Skins? he sends, tentatively. I hear you.

There’s the impression of a laugh, wry and fond. So it’s a desert planet, huh? The Call felt…odd.

Just different. Lighter than what we’re used to. Still, it’s here. It’s…nice. Luke sends - their bond solidifying through shared attention - the impression of the desert. The small life, the sands, the wind. A feeling of relaxation, of soft contemplation trickles through their bond; and he can imagine Skins on Dagobah, eyes closed as he sits in their teacher’s hut, listening to the Call of the desert. Unfamiliar, yet familiar. New, yet so deeply ingrained in both of them that it will never be removed. He feels his own shoulders relax, his mind widening to listen and keep the bond in place at the same time.

This is what he’d needed. What he’d sought out, almost subconsciously. Of course the Call would tug on his bond with Skins, bring him closer, sooth the small ache that his lightsaber’s absence had left.

Skins’ attention sharpens on him all at once, and Luke has enough time to think oh, Storm to himself before the words come through.

They took your ‘saber ? Skins sends, enraged, and Luke winces.

It’s…they’re very cautious. Protective. I’m-

Luke Skywalker, if you say you’re ‘fine’ Twins help me, Skins bites the words off. There’s a concerning - for Luke - moment of silence, then, We’re coming. Leaving in an hour. Be there in two days.

What? Luke asks, suddenly thrown off his axis. What do you mean ‘we?’ Skins, don’t- I’m fine! Really, don’t be so-

We’re. Coming. You think that Master Yoda would find out about the survival of his species and just stay put on Dagobah? All we’ve done is up the timetable. Two days. Force be with you, desert keep you. I love you.

Then the bond is fading back into the recesses of Luke’s mind, pulsing love love love as it always does. He opens his eyes and heaves a sigh. He kicks at the sand petulantly, as if it will help. Well, then. 

Two days. It’s unexpected, but…he’ll get to see Skins. And Master Yoda, far sooner than he thought to see his teacher again. It is - objectively, absolutely - a good thing. Not only that, but both Grogu and Master Yoda will get to meet another of their species, after who knows how many years thinking they were completely alone in the galaxy.

Luke smiles. Yes, this is a very good thing. The Force rings with truth at the thought.

Latemeal comes both too quickly and not quickly enough. Yes, the Mand’alor has heard a bit about Master Yoda. He knows that he is of the same species as his own son. Surely, Master Yoda will be welcome. Skins, on the other hand…his partner was enraged at the knowledge that the Mandalorians had taken his lightsaber. His stubbornness and protectiveness, combined with the Mandalorians’ own…

Luke sighs. The only thing for it is to bring it up at latemeal, and hope for the Mand’alor’s understanding. 

He finds the open-air meeting space easily enough. It’s the largest building in the settlement, and the smell of cooking meat and vegetables flows out into the evening air. Long tables have been arranged banquet-style throughout the space, and Luke is pleasantly surprised to find that he cannot immediately locate the Mand’alor among them. The man eats with his people, not above them. It’s a heartening thought, though he doesn’t spend the time to analyze why.

Eventually, he finds the Mand’alor and Grogu at the far end of a table in the center of the room. Grogu notices him first, ears going up and clawed hands grabbing for him. Luke smiles warmly. The child is adorable; far more adorable than he can ever imagine Master Yoda being. Immediately, he winces. He’ll have to learn to keep thoughts like than under wraps before his teacher gets here. He’s had more than enough stick-beatings in his life, though he’s certain he’ll be on the receiving end of many, many more. The thought of his teacher brings him back to the situation at hand, and he releases his spike of nerves into the Force.

The Mand’alor notices Grogu’s line of attention, and a pure silver helmet turns in Luke’s direction. It dips once, a nod, and Luke takes that as permission to approach.

“Hello, Grogu. Mand’alor,” he greets, noting that there is space on the bench next to Grogu. He glances at it and back to the Mand’alor. The man inclines his head towards it, and Luke smiles before taking his seat. Immediately, the child wiggles out of his father’s arms and settles on Luke’s lap. His Force-signature radiates greeting happiness hungry happiness and Luke laughs before he makes the decision to do so. He can’t help it. Grogu is just so bright, so happy, so full of love. His presence radiates into the Force like a star, and Luke can’t help but bask in it.

He smiles down at the child in his lap for a moment. When he looks up, he meets glaring brown eyes framed by red hair.

He keeps the smile on his face and inclines his head. “Good to see you again.”

He does not ask her name. She hasn’t given it to him. As if counting on him to make a social faux-pas, she scoffs and jerks her head to the side. “Can’t say the same, jetii. ”

Luke mentally shrugs and begins to make a plate for himself from the dishes immediately around him. As far as food goes, he’s not picky. His upbringing and time in the war saw to that. He ends up with a small bowl of some kind of stew, a chunk of firm bread, and a green vegetable that he can’t name. 

“Thank you,” he says to the table at large, “for allowing me my life today.”

He takes a bite of the stew. It’s quite good. He hums at the flavor, then glances up as he realizes that the Mandalorians around him have gone quiet. He tilts his head. What is it?

The Mand’alor has turned his head to stare at him. The silence has begun to get awkward, and Luke searches for something to say when he doesn’t know what he did in the first place.

A woman across from him, next to the redhead, suddenly laughs. Loud, boisterous, and Luke’s shoulders relax as she says, “You’re from Tatooine? Never would have guessed that. ”

He looks over to her, and freezes for a moment as he realizes that he knows her. He swallows his mouthful of stew.

“I know you,” he says. “Lieutenant Dune! Last time…it was on Hoth, right? Good to see you made it out.”

She looks momentarily taken aback, then smiles - albeit ruefully. “Thanks to you, Commander. And Rogue Squad, of course. And I’m not a Lieutenant, not anymore.”

Luke smiles back, subdued but genuine. Mandalorians, he’s still learning. Soldiers, he understands. “Not a Commander anymore, for my part. Though Rogue Squad still won’t give the Leader callsign to anyone else, no matter how much I try.”

He shakes his head and gestures with his spoon. What can you do? She laughs.

“Right, I heard you’re doing the whole Jedi thing full-time, now. Shame, you’re a hell of a pilot,” she remarks. To the Mand’alor, she says, “You’re sitting next to the guy who blew up the Death Star, y’know. Both of them.”

“Just the one,” Luke jumps in to correct. “Which I had help with. The second one was all Lando and Red-Gold Squad.”

Cara hums noncommittally. “Way I heard it, you walked onto that station with two known Sith Lords, and you’re the only one who walked off again.”

Luke feels his shoulders hitch the way he hasn’t been able to train himself out of. Of all the things she could have brought up about his time in the war, this is easily the worst. The focus of the table has sharpened on him, and his skin crawls with it. He tries for a smile, and knows he misses the mark by at least a parsec.

“Legends are often exaggerated, Ms. Dune, especially during war time.”

“Oh, c’mon, Skywalker! No need to be modest! You killed the Emperor,” she says. He can tell there’s no malice in it, just a warrior itching for a good story. Even so, the attention around him is quickly flooding the Force with the feelings of shock awe admiration fear that he hates, and he can’t help what comes out of his mouth next.

“I didn’t. Vader did.”

He’s battered on all sides with a wall of shock disbelief anger and he draws a deep breath through his nose. In his lap, Grogu coos in concern and places a tiny hand against his neck. Concern, the little star in his lap feeds into him, blocking out all else. Safety. Worry. Pain. Safety. Help.

Luke reaches up gently with his prosthetic and draws Grogu’s hand away from his skin. “Thank you, little one. I’m alright.”

Gently, he lifts the child from his lap and passes him to his father. The Mand’alor takes him without thought, helmeted gaze still focused on Luke. The Force flows around his armor, creating a blank space; and Luke centers himself in it. He looks back to Cara.

“My father, Anakin Skywalker,” he begins, and can sense the confusion around him at the seeming non-sequitur, “was born-in-chains, on Upatau. The Jedi broke those chains, and took him in. Under their care, he became a hero: a feared and beloved General, an accomplished pilot, an unmatched master of the ‘saber. But…”

He swallows. This is always the hardest part, both for him to talk about and for others to hear. Still, it’s the most important. The truth. “Those born-in-chains have a hard time shaking them. He was…seduced. Manipulated by the Sith, by Palpatine. He…fell, and was once more chained under the heel of the Empire.”

Luke looks around as understanding , shocked and incomprehensible, dawns on the faces and in the Force around him. He reaches for the blank space at his side, and breathes. “I am the first Free-born child of my Clan.”

The word ‘Clan’ sends a ripple through the Mandalorians within hearing distance, all of whom have abandoned any pretense of not hearing him. He pitches his voice slightly louder.

“As the first Free-born, it is my ancestral duty to offer retribution to those who would demean my Clan. To break their chains, if I am able.”

He once again meets Cara’s eyes, now stricken and wide. “I walked onto that station as a prisoner. I surrendered myself to get closer to Vader. My father.”

She takes in a sharp breath as he says the word, finally, aloud. “I wanted to break his chains; to free him from the slavery of the Sith, of the Empire. I thought…I thought I had failed. But when the Emperor - realizing I would not fall - had me on the edge of death, my father lifted him and threw him down an exhaust shaft.”

He scans his gaze across the nearby faces and helmets, meeting their eyes. “My father knew this would kill him. The Emperor…the power he used could not - would not - be contained. My father, with his last act, broke his own chains. He saved me. He saved the galaxy. He died as Anakin Skywalker, a free man.”

Luke turns, now, to the Mand’alor. Allows the complete lack of Force-resonance to wash over him, and speaks his final peace: “I am not ashamed of who my father was. The things he did under the slavery of the Empire…there can be no recompense. I will wear those marks until the sands take them from me; but my father broke his chains. He died free, and for that, I can be nothing but proud.”

Chapter Text

There is silence following his tale, so complete that Luke considers simply leaving them to it. Surprisingly, or maybe unsurprisingly, it is Cara that breaks it.

“Damn, you really are Upatauan, aren’t you? Don’t know how I missed it before.”

Luke’s gaze snaps onto hers. In her eyes he finds empathy. Understanding. Forgiveness. Apology . It brings a wry smile to his lips, and he sighs. 

“You’ve met the Children before?” he asks, and picks up his spoon to take another bite of stew. It’s gone a bit cold, but the flavors are still delicious.

“A few times, both on the planet itself and out in the galaxy. You all have a certain way of talking…it’s very distinctive.” She takes a bite of her own food, chews, and swallows before asking, “How’s the desert here treating you?”

Luke looks up at her in surprise, and his smile morphs into something more genuine. “It’s…different. Not bad, of course, but…the Call is different. No Krayt, no Sarlacc, no Storm. No Twins. The sand and wind…they behave differently, and it changes the Call.”

The rest of the table is looking at him oddly, their expressions still shot through with stricken disbelief, but now shifting towards perplexity. He ducks his head and coughs.

Suddenly, it’s all a bit much. What he has revealed of himself, somehow drawn out of him by a familiar face and unfamiliar surroundings. He stands, and meets Grogu’s push of concern reluctant-goodbye concern safe with reassurance safe goodbye soon-greeting.

“It was good to see you again, Cara. Mand’alor.” He inclines his head, and the Mand’alor returns the gesture after a beat. Luke turns and walks away.

It isn’t until he’s back in his lodgings - stripping off his robe and lifting himself one-handed into meditation - that he realizes that he’d completely forgotten to mention Skins and Master Yoda. Krayt.

Djarin is…nervous, as he approaches Luke’s door. Grogu has already been put to bed, but there’s been an uneasiness within him that refused to settle ever since the Jedi’s departure at latemeal. It couldn’t have been an easy Tale to share, and surely Luke couldn’t have known the significance of his sharing it, but Djarin knows. Tales - especially one such as that, so personal and obviously filled with pain - are sacred to his people. There is so much history that they have lost, so much yet to be regained, that every new Tale revealed to them is precious.

Luke is not a Mandalorian. Even so, Djarin feels that he is owed something, some gesture of thanks, for his Telling. 

So, he stands before Luke’s door, with a tray of food in one hand and the other poised to knock, when the blast door slides open on its own. Luke stands there, eyes bright and surprised; as he takes in Djarin’s figure at his door, and he smiles. It’s a weary smile, but a true one. Not like the ones he offered at latemeal: guarded and pained.

“Mand’alor,” Luke greets, inclining his head. Djarin nods back. Perhaps sensing that Djarin was caught off guard - one hand still raised to knock - he continues, “Sorry, wasn’t expecting you. Everything alright?”

His polite, curated accent has dropped, drifting into something distinctly Outer Rim. Right, Djarin reminds himself, he’s from Tatooine. Or…Upatau? Luke’s conversation with Cara had moved too fast for him to really keep up with. Djarin drops his hand.

“You didn’t eat,” he says. 

Luke’s eyes widen fractionally before settling, and he waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, I ate plenty. Really, s’fine. You-”

“You had two bites,” Djarin points out. He’d paid attention. Luke was his guest, and his son’s new teacher besides. Everything had happened so quickly that he hadn’t had a chance to speak to the Jedi at all, but he’d noticed.

Luke blinks at him. “I- well yeah, but-”

A squished kind of noise cuts him off, and Djarin realizes it’s the Jedi’s stomach growling. He tilts his head.

Luke sighs. “Thank you. D’you wanna come in?”

Djarin nods, and Luke shepherds him through the door, closing it behind him. Once inside, he looks for a place to put down the tray, and finds none. Luke smiles up at him.

“You can put it over there, if you want,” he says, and gestures at a low table tucked into the corner. An extremely low table. Djarin has to bend nearly double to set down the food, and when he straightens back up Luke is looking at him with tired amusement.

“It’s something I got used to,” the Jedi offers, “during training. Master Yoda isn’t that much bigger than Grogu, compared to humans. We take up most of his hut when we visit, nowadays.”

Djarin hums. There’s that ‘we’ again. He’s curious, but Luke has already given so much of himself today. Djarin doesn’t want to pry. Luke sits down to eat - cross-legged - and that should be the end of it. It should be, except Luke isn’t a Mandalorian. He doesn’t know what it means.

“I wanted to thank you,” Djarin starts, and Luke looks up at him curiously. Perplexed, but more guarded than he was just before. The Jedi is so close to the floor that Djarin is looming over him. The beskar won’t allow him to sit like Luke is, but he lowers himself to the floor and leans against the wall, legs outstretched. Better. “For my people, Tales are…important. At latemeal, you shared one. It wasn’t…easy.”

He doesn’t know the words for this. Doesn’t know how to tell Luke that his pain, and resolve, and pride were written across his face. That the sheer scope of his Telling - beyond what it means to him personally - is so important to the galaxy that no other could compare.

Djarin doesn’t know much about Darth Vader. He has heard that the man was evil, terrifying. That if you ever saw Vader, you might as well consider yourself dead. But hearing what he has tonight, sitting here with the man’s son, puts things in a different perspective.

He doesn’t know what to say; but Luke isn’t saying anything, so he says, “I’m sorry about your father’s passing.”

Luke’s eyes snap - unnervingly - to his own, even behind the helmet. The Jedi looks stricken. Beyond that, he looks young. Stars, he can’t be older than twenty-eight, can he?

Luke recovers quickly, looking down at his food and clearing his throat. A not-quite smile twists his mouth, but when he looks back to Djarin his expression is incredible sincere.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I- you’re the second person who’s ever said that to me.”

Djarin allows the sorrow of that statement to wash over him, for a moment. The way Cara was talking, this man is the savior of the entire galaxy. A hero. So why…?

Luke must sense his confusion, because he sighs and says, “Before tonight, the only people who even knew he was my father were my partner, Master Yoda, and my sister. I guess…”

He looks over at Djarin, and smiles. It’s a heartbreaking kind of smile, and Djarin feels his chest tighten. “I guess I just got tired of people…not knowing. Who he was, what he did. Everyone says I killed him, and the Emperor, and I…”

Luke closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath, and lets it out slow. When he opens his eyes, they’re clear, and the smile he gives Djarin is small but…peaceful.

“Thank you,” he says, inexplicably. Djarin is supposed to be the one thanking him. “For letting me say it. For giving me the space to talk about him. It really helped.”

Djarin is struck - suddenly, forcefully - with a memory from that morning.

“He wanted to help,” Luke had said of Grogu. An image of his son on the Jedi’s lap, looking up with concern and pressing a small hand to Luke’s neck. Luke, pulling Grogu’s hand away gently, so gently. “Thank you, little one. I’m alright.”

He hadn’t been alright. That much is clear now; he hadn’t been alright and Grogu had sensed it. Grogu had wanted to help , and Luke hadn’t let him. Had passed him back into Djarin’s arms before he began his Tale, a Telling which obviously pained him greatly.

A Telling he had never given before.

Even then, even caught in the maelstrom of his pain, Luke had thought to protect Djarin’s son. Beyond a Tale, beyond being the teacher Djarin had searched so long for, it is this that finally gives him the true measure of Luke Skywalker.

“Din Djarin,” he says. Luke’s expression shifts to confusion, and Djarin smiles behind his helmet. “My name, it’s Din Djarin.”

Luke gapes openly for a split second - young and vulnerable and so much different than Djarin had expected - and then he beams.

“Hello, Din Djarin, I’m Luke Skywalker. It’s so nice to meet you.”

Chapter Text

When they touch down on Dagobah, Master Yoda is already waiting for them. He stands still amidst the swamps as they disembark, and help Artoo out of his seat. When they come to stand before him, Luke smiles.

“Hello, Master Yoda.”

Yoda hmphs, narrowing his large eyes first at Luke, then at Skins beside him. “Brought someone, have you? Your attachment to this one, I can feel.”

Luke flushes, even as he takes Skins’ hand. “Yes. Master Yoda, this is Skins. My partner.”

It’s still a new enough development that a thrill goes through him at being able to say the words. It feels right. He and Skins have been attached at the hip since childhood, it only makes sense that they would eventually find themselves together in this way. Master Yoda taps his stick against the ground, expression displeased. Luke feels worry pierce through his sense of rightness, and consciously releases it into the Force, the way Master Yoda taught him.

“Dangerous to Jedi, attachments are. Forbid them, the Order did.”

Luke suddenly feels cold in a way that has nothing to do with the swamps. Forbidden? He grips Skins’ hand a bit tighter.

“Master Yoda, I don’t understand,” he says. His teacher may be strict, but he’s never discouraged Luke from asking questions. “Why would it be forbidden? How is it dangerous?”

“Your focus, attachments take. Fear and anger, they can inspire. To the Dark Side, fear and anger lead. Forego them, a Jedi must, to serve the will of the Force.”

That…doesn’t sound right. Luke frowns. Yes, he’s been afraid for Skins before, the same way that he’d been afraid for his friends when he went to find them on Bespin. He’s even been angry with him, when his stubbornness and protective streak cause them to butt heads. But those moments are all fleeting, almost nothing when compared to the lightness, the rightness, the love he feels when Skins is by his side. How could that ever lead to the Dark Side?

“That’s banthashit.”

Luke’s gaze - wide-eyed - snaps over to Skins. It’s the first time the younger man has spoken, looking down at Master Yoda with an expression that’s notable in that it isn’t a glare. His eyes are clear, certain, and he squeezes Luke’s hand reassuringly.

“What you’re talking about, those ‘attachments,’ they have a name. It’s called ‘love.’” His gaze flickers to Luke, and his face breaks out into the smile which never fails to make Luke’s heart skip. “And those emotions: anger, and fear? If we didn’t feel them, we wouldn’t be alive. What you’re asking…you’re asking him to be a shell. Love, pain, fear, joy…emotions are what give us connection to the Force in the first place. Without them, we may as well all be Force-null.”

Master Yoda stares at Skins for a long time, and Luke fights not to shuffle his feet. He takes a breath, and releases his nerves into the Force. The thing is, he doesn’t disagree. The Force has always been strongest with him when he was driven by his emotions. His need to protect those he loves, his righteous anger at the Empire for causing so much fear and pain in a galaxy which should be at peace. His fear of failure. His joy, his wonder at the Force itself - this power which connects every being in the galaxy with invisible string.

“Hmm,” Master Yoda hums at last, ears twitching. “Impertinent, this one is. Speak your mind, you do. But seen, you have not, the destruction attachments can bring.”

“Was it really the attachment?” Skins shoots back. Luke is surprised to see that even now, he isn’t angry. Argumentative, yes; but it’s a focused kind, driven not by anger but by the need to understand, and make himself understood in turn. “Or was it the suppression of it? You talk about fear, Master Yoda, but it sounds to me like it was the Jedi Order who were afraid.”

“Understand, you do not, that which you say,” Master Yoda scolds, but Skins only shrugs.

“You’re right. I don’t understand, because all the Jedi are dead, and maybe this is part of the reason. If they weren’t allowed love, these attachments you say were forbidden, then how could they have found the strength to fight?” Skin sighs and drops Luke’s hand to plop himself down on the muddy ground, eye-to-eye with the old Jedi Master. “Love is a strength, Master Yoda, not weakness. I’m able to be strong - even when I’m terrified - because of my love for Luke, and for our friends. My attachments make me a better man.”

Luke smiles down at him, heart swelling. He sinks down to join Skins on the ground, and laces their fingers together again. He opens his mouth to speak, but Skins isn’t quite done. “Master Yoda, Luke is very connected with the Force. He could do anything he wants with that power, but he wants to be a Jedi; because Luke is good. And he wants you to teach him, because Luke loves you.”

The old Master’s eyes widen, ears sticking up. This is the most surprised Luke has ever seen him. It would be comical, if it weren’t so sad. Could it be that Yoda didn’t know? Knowing what Luke does now, it could be that the thought never even occurred to his teacher.

“It’s true, Master Yoda. You’re strict, but also kind. You didn’t want to train me, but once you started, you never gave up on me. Even when I was being difficult, even…even when I almost gave up on myself. There’s nobody left in the galaxy who can teach me, but even if there was, I would still want you as my teacher.”

Luke takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to say what he knows he has to. Even the thought of the words upsets him, but it’s important. He breathes again and releases his fear into the Force. Do, or do not. He knows what he has to do.

“If my attachments mean you don’t want to teach me anymore,” His voice comes out too thick, and Skins squeezes his hand. “I’ll understand. I’ll be sad that I can’t see you anymore. I’ll grieve your company, but I won’t be angry; and I’ll still become a Jedi. But I want you to teach me, Master Yoda. Because in my heart, you’re family; and I love you.”

The Force around them rings with the truth of the statement. Master Yoda relaxes, eyes slipping closed as he listens to the Force. Then, he opens his eyes and smacks Luke with his stick.

“Foolish child,” he says, and hope blooms in Luke’s chest, “Teach you, I will. Gone, the Jedi Order is. Jedi, you will be, but new. Ever-changing, the Force is. Change with it, perhaps the Jedi must.”

Luke laughs, relieved and delighted. He leans forward and wraps his arms around his teacher, and doesn’t even mind the repeated whack whack whack of the stick against his back.

The morning dawns bright and cool, as it ever does on Mandalore, though Luke knows it will heat up quickly as the planet’s single star rises in the sky. It’s still a bit strange, feeling sand under his feet and looking upwards; expecting two stars and finding only one, but he’s adjusting quickly. He no longer lives under the watchful heat of the Twins, but the cloudless skies on Mandalore means he can always look up at night and find their position in the galaxy. Even from hundreds of parsecs away, the Twins are with him. It’s a comfort.

The pinch in his back from yesterday has morphed into a dull ache, and he stretches forwards to sooth it. He hasn’t been separated from his lightsaber for this long since he created it, but the pain isn’t too bad. He winces at the stretch and at the memory of Skins’ anger. It’ll all work out, he knows, but he’d rather that happen without his partner causing what Leia would call a ‘diplomatic incident.’ Still, he doesn’t quite feel comfortable asking for it back. If it helps the Mandalorians feel safe around him, he can deal with a little back pain.

The Mand’alor - Din Djarin, his mind supplies wonderingly - and Grogu approach his house shortly after he finishes his morning meditation. Their presences in the Force make for quite the pair: one star-bright, one totally blank. Luke is already at the open door waiting for them as they turn the corner, and he smiles when Grogu immediately perks up and grabs for him. Greeting happiness safety-question safety happiness flows over him, and he quickly releases his guilt into the Force before sending back greeting happiness safety reassurance apology. He hadn’t meant to worry the child, telling such an emotionally fraught story and leaving directly afterwards. The Mand’alor walks closer and Luke can see Grogu tilt his head in an adorable imitation of his father, sending confusion apology-question reassurance safety.

“Why are you sorry?” Luke reads between the lines, “It’s safe here.”

His smile widens, and he quietly marvels at the kindness, the goodness of this child.

“Hello, Grogu. Hello, Mand’alor,” he says when they’re within hearing distance. The Mand’alor stops in front of him and inclines his head. 

“I have given you my name,” the man says. Luke’s face flushes slightly at the reminder, and he can’t identify the emotion responsible in order to release it. Strange. “When we are alone, or with Grogu, you may use it.”

“Ah,” Luke says. He’s pleased, he realizes. He never releases his positive emotions when he can help it, and so his face burns even hotter. He smiles. “Then, hello, Din Djarin.”

“Hello, Luke,” the man replies easily, and Luke’s curiosity gets the better of him before he can stop himself.

“Is it the first or second that’s your Clan name? I don’t mind being formal, people call me ‘Skywalker’ all the time, but I thought I should ask.” Jedi Master he may be, but he’s still Luke, and his mouth gets ahead of him sometimes. His embarrassment is quickly released, and his brain catches up enough to add, “Of course, if that’s too-”

“Din is our Clan name. He is Din Grogu,” the vocoded voice cuts him off, and he lifts Grogu slightly in his arms. “Formal is fine, but…you could call me Djarin. If you want.”

Luke’s smile is threatening a grin, so he bites it back and nods. “Good to know. I thought we could train in the yard, if that’s alright with you?”

Djarin hums. “He won’t get…distracted?”

Luke chuckles.

“It’s possible, but learning to deal with distractions is part of the training. The desert is good for it, and on Mandalore especially. Not too much sound, but enough. My teacher trained me in a swamp. That was distracting,” he replies, turning to lead them to the backyard and talking over his shoulder. Djarin seems to hear the last as the joke it is, and huffs a laugh.

“The desert here. You mentioned yesterday that it’s…different?” He sounds casual, but genuinely curious. Luke sees no harm in answering.

“Mhmm,” he nods, “It’s hard to explain if you’re not from a desert planet. The desert…it has a certain life about it. The creatures that live there, of course; but also the way the sand and winds behave. What they’re made of, what they sound like. On Upatau, we say it’s the Call.”

“You…hear it?”

Luke hums. “Yes, but we also feel it. It’s like…a pull. Mostly it’s harmless, but back home there would sometimes be elders and young children who wandered into the desert, following the Call. Usually they would be found and treated - Call-sickness, we say - but sometimes they wandered too far out, or too quickly. Some elders, at the end of their lives, follow the Call by choice. Nobody knows where they go. The bodies are never found. It’s said that the Twins reclaim them to their side, but that could just be myth.”

Djarin makes a sound of acknowledgement, then is quiet for a long moment. At last, he asks, “The Twins, that’s…?”

“The Twin Suns. We don’t really worship them, as such; they’re just there. The planet’s proximity to the stars make life hard, but that’s just how it is. We respect them, and we appreciate that they continue to rise, day after day. Something to look forward to, for a people who don’t have much else.” They stop in the backyard, and Luke smiles at him. “It might seem a dismal life, to others; and it can be, sometimes. When I was young, I would stare out into the galaxy, wishing nothing more than to leave. Now…I wouldn’t change things - most things - but I wish I’d been able to appreciate what I had, back then.”

Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru. They’d loved him, raised him as their own. Knowing what he knows now, he can’t blame them for wanting to keep him hidden away on the farm, safe and loved - if not content. A simple life: racing speeders with Biggs and Skins, fixing droids, taking the occasional adventurous trip out to Anchorhead. Hearing the Call, always; something he hadn’t even known to miss until he could no longer hear it. Old Ben. A constant, distant presence throughout his childhood. Krayt, even the Jawas and Tuskens, with their strange customs and languages. Children of the desert, each and every soul.

He looks up at Djarin’s visor and smiles, releasing his wistfulness. 

“Anyway, that’s the past. The Twins will always be there, and I’m right where I need to be.” He says the last with a fond look at Grogu, this new student he’d never been sure he’d find. “That being said, training!”

“Right,” Djarin says, nodding. Then after a beat, “What…exactly is training?”

It’s a valid question. Luke has set two mats on the ground, facing each other, near the back of the yard; but they won’t be needing them today. “Today, it’s about establishing the foundations of a training bond. Grogu and I are both very connected with the Force, so we’ve got a bit of a head start, but a bond is about more than communication.”

He steps towards Djarin, carefully telegraphing his movements as he holds out his arms. “May I?”

Djarin hesitates for a second. Luke doesn’t begrudge him this, it must be difficult to consciously overcome instincts honed through constant danger and shared trauma. If a virtual stranger had asked him to trust them with Skins, Artoo, Leia, or any of their strange little Clan, he would struggle with it too. So he waits. Djarin’s hesitance is short-lived, and he nods firmly before passing Grogu into Luke’s arms. The child babbles happily and waves his arms.

Happiness, he sends, excitement greeting curiosity trust. The last one has Luke gasping softly, taken off guard. He’d be worried about how quickly Grogu has come to trust him, but Djarin seems a man able and willing to be mistrustful enough for both of them. Still…

“Is he usually trusting with people he doesn’t know well?” he asks Djarin, though he keeps his gaze on Grogu and sends greeting excitement safety trust-gratitude.

“No,” Djarin says. “He’s shy. Even when I trust people, it takes him a while. Once, I was arm wrestling with Cara. Grogu didn’t understand. He…I’m not sure. She couldn’t breathe.”

Djarin sounds…worried. It takes Luke a moment to realize that he’s worried about what Luke will think of Grogu using the Force to - in the child’s mind - defend his father. Luke glances up at him, smiling in reassurance. Though he knows the man’s armor will deflect it, he sends the feeling through the Force as well. Part of the training bond he is building with Grogu is the child understanding when Luke is using the Force when not directed at him, and why. So, he bends his head and speaks to Grogu softly.

“Your father is worried about what I will think, so I sent reassurance, ” he accompanies his words with a push of the feeling towards Grogu, to give the child a word for it, “even though he can’t feel it through the armor.”

“You did?” Djarin asks. Then, “I can’t?”

“Your armor is different than the other Mandalorians. The silver it’s made of acts as a sort of shield against the Force. It would probably be very hard for a Force-user to push you even a centimeter, and your emotions can’t be sensed through the Force with the armor on,” Luke explains. Djarin looks down at himself, raising his arms slightly. It’s a bit comical, but Luke doesn’t laugh, just smiles.

“I never knew. The material, it’s called beskar. It’s usually used as an alloy and mixed with other metals to create our armor, but mine is beskar entirely.”

“Makes sense,” Luke says, “With their helmets on, the other Mandalorians’ emotions are...muted. I can sense them, but I wonder if Skins would be able to.”

“Skins?”

Luke suddenly remembers - with an urge to smack himself in the forehead - that he still hasn’t told Djarin about Skins and Master Yoda. Who are arriving tomorrow. Ah, Storm.

Still, right now is a time for training, and that has a chance to be a long conversation. It can wait a while longer. For now, he just nods. “My partner. He’s not a Jedi, but he’s Force-sensitive. Mostly, his connection to the Force is mental. He can speak to me through our Force-bond, and pick up on the emotions of those around him. Though, not as easily as Grogu and I can.”

As he speaks, he opens his mind and pushes impressions towards Grogu. A mental picture of Skins, accompanied with love trust family safety closeness. Grogu makes an intrigued noise and sends back the same image, slightly warped, accompanied with curiosity excitement greeting-question. Luke smiles down at him. Soon-greeting, he sends, safety-reassurance trust-reassurance.

Excitement! Grogu sends insistently, ears going up, and Luke laughs.

“You’re…talking to him? Through the Force?” Djarin asks hesitantly. Luke realizes how the two of them must look; standing there without speaking, but reacting all the same. Luke smiles at the man.

“Kind of. Like I said yesterday morning, it’s not so much in words. We send emotions back and forth. As the training bond develops, we’ll be able to send images more easily, and words as he grows. I just sent him an image of Skins as I was talking about him. It helps the bond to put images and emotions to words, and vice versa,” he explains. Djarin hums, consideringly.

“So,” he says haltingly, and Luke gives an encouraging nod, “what exactly is this training bond? You said it was about more than communication, but what else does it do?”

Amused, Luke realizes that he may have gained two students instead of one. Djarin is so engaged, so curious about this part of his son’s life. He doesn’t understand, but he’s changing that. He’s learning, just as Grogu is. The man’s care for his son is beautiful.

“The training bond, when actively engaged, allows Grogu and I to sense when and how each other uses the Force. On my part, so I can show him how it feels - within the Force - to do certain things. Guiding his meditation, showing him what it feels like when I push or pull something with the Force.”

He sends Grogu images as he speaks. He and Grogu sitting down for meditation, Grogu using the Force to lift a rock. Grogu burbles and sends back an image of Luke in a handstand, of himself lifting a mudhorn into the air. Luke smiles, a bit wry. Mischievous little thing. Even so, he sends back confirmation pride.

“On Grogu’s part, the bond allows me to sense how he’s using the Force and correct him if he needs it, and to make sure that he’s not overdoing it. Force-exhaustion doesn’t usually have long-term effects, but we don’t want him to develop a habit.”

“Is that why he falls asleep?” Djarin asks, and Luke tilts his head at him. “When he lifted the mudhorn, or healed me, he fell asleep for a long time afterwards. Scared the kriff out of me, honestly.”

“Yes, that’s Force-exhaustion. Situations where adrenaline is high can allow Force users to access more of the Force than they might usually be able to, but it takes a toll. After I used the Force to evade my father’s TIE and guide the shot which destroyed the first Death Star, I fell asleep for three days,” he huffs a laugh. That had been fun explaining to a panicked Leia and Skins - and Han too, though he tried to hide it - when he hadn’t really understood it himself.

“You used the Force to destroy the Death Star?” Djarin’s head shifts forward, like he’s trying to hear him better.

“Yeah,” Luke says, shrugging. “I’m a great pilot and a good shot, but the impact window was so small that the targeting computer couldn’t lock properly. I only had one chance, and the Force just…flowed through me. Honestly, I don’t remember it very well.”

“Life-or-death situations will do that,” Djarin says, wry but without judgment. Luke chuckles.

“Tell me about it.”

Grogu taps a hand against Luke’s chest. Hungry. Luke laughs.

“Alright, little one. I think we made very good progress today, we can end training here,” he says. Pride assurance happiness acknowledgement. “And for doing such a good job today, I have a gift for you.”

Grogu’s ears perk up immediately at the word ‘gift,’ and Luke smiles fondly. Excitement curiosity self-question happiness. “Yes, Grogu. It’s for you!”

He steps forward and hands the child carefully back to his father, then goes to a wooden box in the corner of the backyard. Reaching inside, he pulls out a sizable desert lizard by the tail. It wriggles pitifully, and he sends apology to its Life-Force before turning back to his company.

The sight of the lizard has an immediate effect. Grogu’s ears go up, hands grabbing for the lizard while he squeals in delight. Djarin sighs, hanging his head slightly.

“Do you really have to encourage him?” the man asks, but his resigned tone is shot through with amusement.

“Well, there’s no frogs on Mandalore, so I thought lizards might suffice. Looks like I was right!” Luke opens his hand and uses the Force to guide the lizard through the air. Grogu tilts his head upwards, mouth opening and closing insistently. As soon as the lizard is within his reach, he leans up in his father’s arms and slurps it down whole.

Djarin sighs again. Luke looks on, fascinated.

“You know,” he says, “I’m kind of glad I’ve never seen Master Yoda do that. It would absolutely ruin his ‘wise old Master’ schtick.”

Djarin laughs, bitten off and startled, but Luke’s chest warms at the sound. He did that. He smiles, and crosses the yard to join the father-son pair. “Grogu said he was hungry. Force training can deplete the body’s resources faster than usual, so it’s to be expected. I have some things inside he might like, if you don’t have anywhere to be?”

Djarin’s helmet tips. “No, nowhere to be. Thank you.”

Luke leads them inside.

When Grogu has been installed at the low table in the corner with a small meal (mostly meat, though Djarin had insisted on a few re-hydrated vegetables) the two adults take a seat on the two chairs near the center of the room, angled to keep an eye on the child.

“Thank you for training him,” Djarin says after a moment of both of them watching Grogu fondly, “I don’t think I’ve said.”

Luke looks at him, and smiles. Djarin thinks that smiling might be his default facial expression. Maybe that’s why it felt so strange, last night, to see Luke without that ever-present smile. Not a bad strange. A Jedi Master he may be, but Luke is still a person. Djarin doesn’t want the Jedi to think he has to put on airs around him. 

“You don’t have to. Honestly, I should be saying it to you,” Luke says. He seems to warm to the idea, eyes sparkling, and turns in his chair to face Djarin fully. “Thank you, Din Djarin, for allowing me to train your son.”

Djarin feels wrong-footed suddenly.

“Why,” he asks, “are you thanking me?”

Luke’s smile becomes more subdued, and he looks back towards Grogu. “For a long time, I worried the Jedi would die with me. My sister Leia is Force-sensitive, but after I taught her how to control her powers, she took a different path. Skins is Force-sensitive, but he doesn’t have the connection with the Force that would allow him to be a Jedi, and he doesn’t want to be. Myself and Master Yoda…we’re the last.”

Djarin allows that to wash over him. He’s never experienced it himself, being the last of his kind; but he’s had Grogu for a few years now. He can’t tell if being the last of his species ever weighed on his child, but it weighed on Djarin. There was no one to tell him if he was raising his son right, if he was doing all that he should. Not until now.

“You’re teacher, Master Yoda,” he begins, and pauses. He knows what he wants to ask, but he isn’t sure if it would be an over-step. Luke turns to him again, expression open. Djarin takes the shot. “Does he have comm access? Or…could you contact him through the Force?”

Luke, still smiling, shakes his head.

“Master Yoda spent nearly the past three decades hiding from the Empire on Dagobah. For that to work, it had to look like the planet was uninhabited. So, no comm signals. I could probably contact him through our training bond, but Dagobah is so far away that it would only be for a few minutes, and I’d be sleeping off the Force exhaustion for a week,” he explains. Djarin tries not to let the disappointment get to him. It should be enough, just to know that another of Grogu’s species is alive. It should be, but dank farrik he wishes he could talk to him.

“Is this…do you want to ask Master Yoda about Grogu?” Luke guesses. Djarin sighs, and nods. Luke is silent for a moment, expression and posture shifting into something oddly sheepish. “I…I might have a solution for that.”

Djarin tilts his head. That’s a good thing, right? Why does Luke look so hesitant? “What is it?”

Luke looks away, and sighs heavily before looking back. He still looks nervous.

“Okay, so first of all: I want to say that I’m sorry I didn’t let you know sooner, but I thought I had a tenday and that was before I knew they were both coming, and I meant to tell you last night at latemeal but then everything happened and-”

“Luke,” Djarin cuts him off. “Relax. Breathe.”

Luke sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes fluttering closed. He relaxes in increments, shoulders un-tensing and breathing evening out. When he opens his eyes again, they’re clear. Focused.

“Thanks,” he says. Djarin has no idea why he’s being thanked, but he nods anyway. Luke breathes deeply one more time, then says, “Master Yoda and Skins, my partner. They’re coming here, to Mandalore. They should arrive tomorrow.”

Djarin’s breath catches. This is…he never could have expected this. This is better than anything he could have expected. More than just asking the only other living member of Grogu’s species about his son, he’ll get to meet him. Grogu will get to meet him. Emotion wells in his chest. How is it that Luke Skywalker keeps giving him gifts he has absolutely no hope of ever repaying?

“That’s…good,” he says, voice coming out too thick. He swallows. “That’s…how? Why?”

“Skins was always supposed to join me here. When I sensed Grogu, Skins had a Force-dream of the two of you. That’s how I knew you were on Mandalore. I came here and he went to Dagobah to let Master Yoda know that there was another of his species, but Skins and I don’t like being separated, when it can be avoided. He was supposed to join me seven days from now, but we talked through our bond yesterday; and the timetable got moved up, because he’s stubborn as they come.” Luke rolls his eyes fondly. 

“As for Master Yoda…well, I guess I was foolish for thinking he’d just stay on Dagobah after learning about Grogu. He hasn’t left for nearly thirty years, but of course he would want to meet him,” Luke says, shaking his head slightly. 

“I…see,” Djarin says. “But why were you so nervous about telling me? Surely you know- You’ve given me, given us, an incredible gift. Did you think I would be mad?”

“I…no?” Luke says, reaching into his tunic and drawing out a carved wooden pendant, which he begins to fiddle with absentmindedly. “I hoped not. But I’m so new here, and the other Mandalorians don’t trust me. I wasn’t sure how it would be seen, if I just…assumed they would be welcome.”

“Of course they’re welcome,” Djarin asserts. Luke isn’t looking at him. Seized by some insane impulse, Djarin reaches out and catches his gloved hand where it’s still worrying at the pendant. Luke looks up at him, startled.

Djarin - his brain quickly catching up with his traitorous hands, retreats hastily. At least Luke is looking at him, now.

“Luke, you are my son’s teacher. My people may not trust you, but they don’t know you. I do. You, your partner, and your teacher are welcome on Mandalore for as long as you want to stay,” he tells him. It’s important to him that Luke knows this. If Mandalore is to be the Jedi’s home for the foreseeable future, Djarin would have it be a true one. It can’t be that if Luke is constantly worried about overstepping.

“Thank you,” Luke says, and he’s smiling. Abruptly, the smile shifts into something wry, “but you might want to wait until you’ve met them to say that more publicly.”

Chapter Text

There is darkness. Shadow, odd flashes of light. Suddenly, the darkness is rent apart by two slices of brilliant color, one red, one blue. He can hear the sound of strange, heavy breathing. Red and blue meet, clashing against each other. A voice cries out in pain. Wind - violent and grasping - whips around him in a vortex. The same voice, crying out again with anguish so overwhelming that it feels like his heart will stop beating.

All at once, he recognizes the voice. Luke.

“Luke!” Skins is up and off his bed before he realizes he’s moving. He darts towards his closet, ripping his sleep clothes off as he goes, feeling around for his flight suit in the dark. His mind is still trapped there, in that darkness, with Luke screaming in pain and sorrow and Skins needs to go now.

He manages to get his flight suit on, somehow, and stumble out into the corridor. He’s halfway to the hangar bay before Wedge stops him, hands on his shoulders and dark eyes searching his face.

“Skins? What’s wrong? Where are you going?”

“It’s Luke, Wedge. He- he’s in trouble, he’s in pain, I have to go help him, he needs help-” He tries to step around, but Wedge blocks him with his body.

“Woah, slow down! What’s wrong with Luke? How do you know he’s in trouble?” Wedge is looking at him wide-eyed now, but Skins doesn’t have time for this. He has to get to Luke. Something terrible is going to happen if he doesn’t.

“I just know! I felt it, he’s- something really awful is going to happen to him, I need- I need to go help him, Wedge, please! ” 

Wedge stops him again. Skins can feel himself getting angry. Why won’t he let him go ? Doesn’t he get that they’re running out of time? Skins can feel it, every second that ticks away gets closer and closer to that terrible moment, that horrible darkness and pain and misery.

“I hear you, Skins! We’ll help him, okay? Just…where is he? Do you know where he is?” Wedge is asking, hands repeatedly squeezing and releasing his shoulders.

“I…no, I couldn’t see, it was so dark…but he’s- he’s somewhere out there, he’s in pain- He- He was screaming, a-and-” He makes another attempt to dart around Wedge, but the larger man holds him fast.

“Breathe, Skins! C’mon, think this through. You don’t know where he is, so he could be anywhere in the galaxy right now. You can’t just fly around aimlessly, hoping to find him before whatever this is happens! I don’t even know if you can fly right now,” Wedge says, and Skins snarls.

“I can! I can and I will! He needs me, he- I have to- I’ll find him. I don’t know how b-but I’ll find him and help him and-”

Wedge wraps him up in his arms. Skins struggles against the hold, but Wedge is stronger than he looks. He holds Skins around the shoulders, and no matter how much he pushes and jerks and fights, Wedge won’t let go.

“Luke!” Skins wails, his throat feeling scraped raw. He thinks he must have been saying it for a while. “Twins, oh Force, please! Luke !”

One of Wedge’s hands comes up to pet his hair. The man makes soft shushing noises, over and over again. “It- it’s okay, Skins. Shhhh, hush now. It’s okay. He’ll be okay, shhhh…you’re okay, I’ve got you…”

Skins stops fighting as his knees buckle. Wedge lowers them to the floor and pulls him into his lap, rocking him back and forth. Burying his face against Wedge’s chest, Skins sobs. Violent, full-bodied sobs that force their way out of his chest, breath wet and quick and ragged.

“Luke,” he cries, until his voice gives out on him.

“Luke,” he whimpers, feeling small and helpless, doing the only thing he can think of and praying: to the Twins, to the Force, to Krayt, Sarlacc, and Storm. To hundreds of half-remembered gods from all the planets he can think of. 

“Luke,” he whispers, as he finally cries and panics himself into the nothingness of sleep.

“Stars, Skywalker,” Wedge Antilles says, lifting his Squad-mate into his arms and starting off towards the med-bay. “You better come back before he wakes up. And…please, Luke. Please be alright.”

He comes awake in a blur. Head and eyes throbbing inside his skull, throat dry and scraped raw, chest tight with a panic he doesn’t understand until-

His eyes slam open, and he hisses as a bright light forces them closed again. Fighting against his body’s instincts, he pries his eyes open and stares - blinking rapidly - at the ceiling until his vision clears.

Luke, he has to get to Luke. Luke is hurt, Luke is-

“I’m fine, Leia, really. You don’t need to-”

“ I’ll damn well decide what I need to do, Luke Skywalker, and right now that’s making sure you stay in that kriffing bed. ” 

Skins snaps his head to the side so quickly that something in his neck pops. Luke is right there. Lying propped-up in a bed two down from Skins’ own, brow furrowed as Princess Leia Organa glares him into submission. 

For the second time that day, Skins is on his feet before he’s made the decision to move. His steps are un-coordinated, sluggish and jerking, but he drags his uncooperative body across the room until he’s close enough to clearly make out Luke’s face - and stops.

His best friend has a cut across his upper lip, the entire top-left half of his face bruised a dark purple. Luke’s hair is limp and streaked with blood, and where his right hand should be…

For the second time that day, Skins’ legs give out under him. He tries to catch himself on a stand of medical equipment, but he can’t drag his eyes away from the stump of Luke’s right wrist long enough to see where he’s putting his hand. Something sharp stabs into the meat of his palm. He barely feels it. The rest of the stand crashes loudly to the floor, instruments skittering in every direction. He doesn’t notice. Luke’s hand is gone.

Luke and the Princess whip their heads around at the sudden noise, eyes wide.

“Skins?!” Luke yelp, moving like he’s going to get up, but the Princess shoves him back down.

“Stay. There. I got him,” she says, then picks her way carefully through the medical debris and kneels on the floor in front of Skins.

“Lieutenant Suneater?” she tries. He hears her, but he can’t look away from Luke’s wrist. He was too late. He was right. Luke had been in terrible, terrible danger; had been in pain, and Skins hadn’t been there to help him. Tears leak silently from his eyes, spilling down his cheeks.

“Skins?” the Princess tries again. “Can you hear me?”

Yes, but his body won’t move. He’s frozen, paralyzed with the knowledge that his worst nightmare had come true, and he hadn’t been there.

“What’s wrong with him?” Luke asks, voice shrill with panic. He shouldn’t be asking that. Skins is fine, Luke is the one beaten and bloodied and missing a hand.

“I think he’s in shock,” says the Princess. “This is what happens when you disappear for months with no contact, and then come back with a life-changing injury, Luke. Colonel Antilles said he found him halfway between his room and the hangar, wearing his flight suit and panicked out of his mind. Wedge had to hold him there until he calmed down; except he didn’t calm down, he panicked and cried so hard he passed out.”

“ Storm, Skins,” Luke whispers. “Why- why would he do that? What happened? ” 

“According to Wedge he wasn’t making much sense, but from what the Colonel could understand, he thought you were in danger and was ready to go tearing off through the galaxy - half out of his mind -  looking for you.”

Skins would be irritated that they’re talking about him like he’s not here, except he’s not sure that he is. He feels…unmoored. Sort of floaty, and his limbs feel numb. Or, no, they don’t feel anything, because he can’t feel them. Is this shock? Skins isn’t sure he likes it. 

“Kriff, he’s dissociating. Luke, come here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, let me-”

Vaguely, Skins is aware of Luke slipping out of the bed and coming towards him. That isn’t right. Luke is hurt, he should be in bed. He should be healing, resting. He shouldn’t…he shouldn’t be kneeling on the ground, filling up Skins’ vision as the Princess pulls away; he shouldn’t be…close, he’s so close, he’s-

“Skins?” Luke says softly, almost a whisper. His hand - his left hand - comes up to press against Skins’ face, thumb wiping at his tears, and-

All of a sudden, it’s like his mind slams back into his body. His chest heaves on an inhale, his limbs unfreeze; and he throws his trembling arms around Luke’s shoulders, clutching at him desperately.

“Luke,” he rasps, voice barely audible. It hurts his throat, and he coughs. “Luke!”

Luke gets his hand - his only hand - out from between them and clenches it in the back of Skins’ shirt, holding on just as tight.

“I’m here, Skins,” he whispers. “I’m here. Twins, I’m so sorry. ”

“No,” Skins says, and coughs again. Twins, why won’t his voice just work? “No, I-I’m sorry, your hand- I- I couldn’t help you-”

“Shhhh,” Luke shushes him, hand letting him go for a terrifying second that has Skins clutching at him twice as frantic, only for Luke to push it into his hair. “I’m okay. I’m here. I’m right here, a-and I’m not going anywhere, alright? I didn’t mean to- I won’t leave you again.”

“Please,” Skins begs. He’s not even sure what he’s begging for. “Please, Luke, I can’t-”

“You won’t. You won’t ever have to go through that again. Twins, I never should have put you through that, I-”

“Love you.” The words wrench themselves out of him before he can bite them back. This is never how he meant to tell him, this isn’t what Luke deserves, but he has to know. He has to know that if Skins ever lost him, it’d be like all the stars in the galaxy going out at once. It would kill him. “I love you. I love you so much, I’m so sor-”

Luke wrenches backwards, abruptly, and Skins has a fraction of a second to experience pure, unfiltered panic before Luke leans forward and presses their mouths together.

It isn’t a good kiss. They’re both crying, for one; and their hysterics mean that it doesn’t last for more than a few seconds before they have to part, gasping for air. Luke kisses him again. And again. Skins’ hands detach from the older man’s shirt to cradle his face, Luke’s hand still tangled in his hair. Luke kisses him over, and over; until they’re smiling against each other’s lips, until laughter is mixed in with their tears.

Finally, Luke pulls back just enough that they can rest their foreheads together, and breathe. They stay like that for a while - Skins lost the ability to tell time about eight hours ago - just breathing with each other. 

“I love you,” Luke breaks the silence, softly. His hand leaves Skins’ hair to drift back to his cheek. “I’m so sorry I left you.”

“You’re here now,” says Skins. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

He opens his eyes to find Luke already looking at him. This close, Skins can pick out every impossible shade of blue in his eyes.

“You did save me,” Luke tells him. “When I…when I lost my hand, everything seemed so hopeless. So dark. I couldn’t see the way out, but then I remembered a promise I made to myself.”

He trails off, so Skins hums quietly, prompting. Luke’s eyes are burning into him. Skins has never seen a blue sky, but he thinks it might look something like this.

“Back on Hoth, I promised I would come back to you. We fought, and you were angry; but I swore on my water I would come back to you, that I would make it right,” Luke says, and fresh tears spill down Skins’ cheeks. It feels so long ago, now. He’s spent months torturing himself with their last conversation, cursing his own stubbornness, his temper. Now, with Luke right here in his hands, it feels so far away.

“When it was so dark, when I thought everything was lost, I just kept thinking about that promise. No matter what, I had to get away. No matter what, I had to come back to you.” Luke swallows, and there are fresh tears on his face now, too. “You did save me, Skins. You gave me a reason to come home.”

Luke feels it the second they enter Mandalore’s airspace, fifteen minutes before they break atmo. Master Yoda’s Force-signature flares to life in his mind, and his bond with Skins seems to sing at the proximity. For the first time in years - since his initial training on Dagobah - he tumbles out of his handstand, pure excitement and joy shattering his concentration. Thank the Twins that Djarin and Grogu aren’t here to see it. 

Luke, you read me? Skins sends through their bond, and Luke grins.

Loud and clear, Skins. How was your trip?

Clear as water. For someone who hasn’t been off-planet in thirty years, Master Yoda takes to ship-travel surprisingly well, Skins says, fondness and wry amusement flowing through the bond. 

I imagine it was a nice change of pace, Luke replies. See you in twenty?

Just about. If you aren’t wearing your ‘saber when I get down there, those Mandalorians are going to have Storm to pay, Skins sends, and Luke winces. Right, he forgot about that. Well, it’s a little too late now to ask Djarin if he can have it back, and Skins probably won’t be too harsh on them. Probably.

Careful on the landing. I love you.

Dodging the question hasn’t worked in the last sixteen years, Skywalker; don’t count on it now. Love you too. Then the bond fades out, and Luke closes his eyes to chase the pulses of love love love and lets them diffuse warmth through his chest and down his spine. It soothes over the ache in his back and the slight pinch in his ribs, and he sighs in relief.

Luke can feel two opposite-yet-complimentary Force presences coming down the street. Either Djarin’s people have an almost clairvoyant means of detecting incoming ships, or Luke lost track of time and they’re coming down for training. Either one is a possibility, this morning. He’s been so geared up that he’s had to release his excitement into the Force several times already, something he almost never does. He can’t help it. It’s all just so exciting!

He rolls the soreness from his shoulders where he fell and hurries to meet them in front of the house. When he catches sight of them, he can’t contain his grin. He walks down the street to meet them, and Djarin pauses to wait for him, body language reading confusion.

Ah. He’s never come to meet them before.

“They’re here!” he says, in place of his usual greeting. His excitement must be leaking out through the Force, because Grogu meets him with excitement-question excitement greeting curiosity excitement. Djarin tilts his helmet.

“Hello, Luke,” he says. “I assume by ‘they,’ you mean your partner and your teacher?”

Luke nods. “Hello, Djarin. Hello, Grogu. Sorry, I’m very excited this morning. Forgot my manners; but yes, I felt them enter Mandalore’s airspace a few minutes ago. They should be breaking atmo in ten.”

“Should we go to the landing pad and meet them?” Djarin asks, already turning to walk in the opposite direction. Luke grins, and falls into step beside him.

“Have you told Grogu they’re coming?” he asks. Djarin hums.

“I tried, but I don’t know how much he understood. You might have better luck.”

Luke shifts his attention down to Grogu as they walk. “Grogu, there are two people coming to see us today. My partner, Skins, who I showed you the other day. And my teacher, Master Yoda, who is of your species. He’s the teacher who taught me to be a Jedi, just like I’m teaching you.”

As he speaks, he shows Grogu the same image of Skins he had the other day, plus an image of Master Yoda. When he talks about training, he sends an image of himself in a handstand, Master Yoda standing nearby. Soon-greeting, he sends, trust safety love family. Grogu coos, and sends back the picture of Master Yoda along with excitement recognition self-question happiness.

“Yes, that’s right, little one. Master Yoda is like you! I’m sure you’ll have a lot to talk about,” Luke tells him, smiling. Confirmation. Happiness.

They reach the landing pad just as the two-seater ship breaks atmo; and Luke has to fight not to shift on his feet, to keep his breathing steady. He’s releasing a near-constant stream of excitement into the Force, now, and it’s still buzzing through him. Not wanting to overload Grogu, he carefully strengthens his mental shields.

The five minutes it takes them to land feel much longer. Patience, young Skywalker, he can hear Master Yoda say in his head; and he only knows it’s from his memories because their training bond lays dormant in the back of his mind. The fact that Master Yoda is close enough that he really could be saying it flares his anticipation to life once more. Luke breathes.

Skins barely has his boots on the ground before Luke is off and running. The younger man sees him coming, of course; and bends slightly at the knees, throwing his arms open just in time for Luke to slam against his chest. Skins lifts him up and spins him around, both of them laughing their delight.

“Skins!” Luke says, for no reason other than to say it, to feel the shape of it in his mouth.

“Luke!” Skins answers, tightening his arms around Luke’s waist before he sets him down. He places a hand against Luke’s cheek, smiling down at him with so much warmth that Luke can feel it burning through him. “I missed you.”

“As I missed you,” he tells his partner. Twins, he wants to kiss him; but Master Yoda is scrambling out of the ship with far more grace than his nine-hundred years should allow, and Luke turns away from his partner to greet him.

“Hello, Master Yoda,” he says, “Welcome to Mandalore.”

Yoda hmphs and taps his stick against the ground, kicking up sand. “My first time here, you think this is? Knew it, I did, when the grasslands stretched wide as seas!”

He looks around at the desert, ears drooping slightly. “Much destruction, the Empire wrought. But grows, does new life, even in such a place.”

“Yes, Master Yoda,” Luke agrees.

“You were right,” Skins says at his side, “The Call is different, but…I like it.”

Luke smiles up at him. “Right? It’s-”

He’s cut off by a loud, mechanical whistle and a series of disgruntled beeps. Artoo fires himself out of the ship and touches down at Master Yoda’s side, still beeping furiously as he repeatedly bumps into Luke’s leg.

“Hello, Artoo,” Luke laughs. “Yes, I’m sorry I made you go back to Dagobah, but it was important. Yes, I’m very glad to see you too.”

He places a hand on Artoo’s dome, patting indulgently. The droid stops ramming into him, but immediately starts in on the fact that Luke has dragged him to another desert planet.

“This isn’t like Upatau, Artoo. You’ll like it. Water.”

Artoo is skeptical, but his tirade is cut off as Djarin and Grogu finally make their way over to the strange little gathering. Djarin’s steps are as halting as he ever gets, and Grogu’s ears stand straight up and he stares at Master Yoda. Luke smiles fondly.

“Master Yoda,” he says. “I’m very pleased to introduce you to someone quite special. This is Grogu.”

Yoda’s ears twitch wildly, and his eyes go wide for a moment before narrowing. He hobbles forward, stopping a few meters from Djarin and the child. Djarin kneels down gently, silent as the last two members of a species - one old and one young - take each other in. After a long moment, Master Yoda speaks.

“Lost, I thought you,” he says quietly. “From the Temple creche, you are.”

Luke can’t help the way his eyes widen. The Jedi Temple? But…that would make Grogu at least thirty years old. He knew that members of their species were long-lived, but to still appear as a child - a toddler - after so long…

“You…know him?” Djarin asks, voice plainly shocked even through the vocoder. Master Yoda squints up at him, assessing.

“The child’s father, you are,” he says. It’s not a question, but Djarin answers anyway.

“Yes. I…I found him.”

Yoda hums. “Protected him, you have, from many dangers. Trusts you, he does. Earned it, I believe you have.”

Djarin seems to slump in relief without moving at all. “Thank you.”

Master Yoda whacks him in the helmet with his stick. Luke sighs, and Skins buries his face in Luke’s shoulder to smother his laughter. Artoo beeps in unholy glee.

“Thank me, why should you? His father, you are. Your son, he is. Thank me, hmph! The truth, it is. No thanks, for this, must you give me.” Master Yoda stares at Grogu for a long moment, then reaches out with one clawed hand to brush against the child’s ear. Grogu coos, eyes closing. Master Yoda looks back to Djarin. “Thanks, I must give, to you. Safe, you have kept him. The last, I thought myself, of my kind. A gift, to me, you have given.”

Luke has, admittedly, never wondered whether those of Master Yoda and Grogu’s species can cry. Grogu is such a happy child, and Master Yoda so in control of his emotions, that the thought has never occurred to him. Now, as he watches tears slide down his teacher’s wizened face and feels them spring to life in his own eyes, he doesn’t have to wonder.

Chapter Text

The landing pad isn’t exactly a great place for conversation, so after introductions are made, their little group heads back to Luke’s home. The Jedi Master Yoda and Grogu walk in front, hobbling along on their shorter legs. They don’t seem to be saying much; but the constant stream of cheerful trills from Grogu and various humming noises from Yoda tells Djarin that they’re likely communicating through the Force, like Grogu and Luke do. 

Grogu is still much smaller than Yoda. Every few moments as the child begins to fall behind, the Jedi Master waves a hand and lifts him clear off the ground, bringing him forward to keep pace. Luke’s partner does a bad job of hiding his snickers at the sight, but even Djarin can admit to the humor in it. He smiles behind his helmet.

The astromech droid - R2D2, Luke had introduced it as - lets out a series of distinctly irritated binary and shoots off ahead of their party. From behind Djarin where Luke is walking with his partner, he hears a sigh.

“Always so impatient. He’s going to have to wait for us anyway, why’s he in such a hurry?” Luke muses, tone distinctly fond. He’s fond of the droid in general, Djarin notices. It’s not something that he really understands, but Peli has a close relationship with her droids, too. Maybe it’s a Tatooine thing?

He slows his steps until he’s walking alongside Luke. Skins, on the man’s other side, gives him an assessing look. Djarin doesn’t know what exactly to make of that, so he ignores it. Instead, he inclines his head at the astromech and says, “It’s…spirited, for a droid.”

Luke throws his head back and laughs.

“That’s one way to put it. High-strung and stubborn, if you’re being less charitable. It’s to be expected, though. His memory banks have been pretty much untouched since the Clone Wars.”

Djarin falters in his stride, and has to do an awkward half-step to recover. Luke doesn’t seem to notice - or at least he doesn’t mention it - but the corner of Skins’ mouth lifts in an amused smirk. Djarin, once again, ignores it. “It remembers the Clone Wars?”

“Oh, sure,” Luke says, “He was my father’s astromech in the war. For whatever reason, his memory banks were never wiped. He found his way into the Alliance, and then we happened upon each other on Upatau, right before I left.”

A soft, thoughtful smile crosses his face. “Honestly, if I hadn’t met Artoo, I might never have left Upatau. Everything that’s happened since then…I owe it to him, in a way.”

“And he’ll never let you forget it,” Skins quips, but he’s watching the droid just as indulgently as Luke is. 

“I…see,” Djarin says, for lack of anything else. He doesn’t, really. Droids have always been purely utilitarian to his mind. He can’t imagine himself loving one as Luke clearly loves R2D2, but he supposes it fits with Luke’s gentle nature.

There’s a lull in the conversation, and Skins drops back slightly, meandering around Luke to come up on Djarin’s other side.

“ So, Mand’alor,” he says, smiling with something sharp behind his eyes. Luke sighs heavily, but doesn’t say anything. “Care to tell me why your resident Jedi doesn’t have his lightsaber?”

“Skins-”

“Luke.”

Luke sighs again. Djarin has no idea what’s going on, but he answers the question. “My general has it. She is…mistrustful, of Jedi. She would not be convinced that he should be allowed to keep his weapon.”

The smile has all but dropped from Skins’ face, now. “Did you attempt to convince her?”

“I…” He didn’t. He’d thought it was a useless measure - what with Luke’s connection to the Force - but he hadn’t pushed back against her. The thought that he should have is slowly creeping into the back of his mind. “I didn’t.”

Skins takes a sharp breath in through his nose, then lets it out slowly. It’s something Djarin has seen Luke do on multiple occasions; and though he doesn’t know exactly what it means, he’s pretty sure that right now it means that was the wrong thing to say. Even so, it’s the truth.

“Would it be possible,” Skins’ asks, tone going placid in a way that suggests he’s reigning in his anger, “for me to talk to this general? As soon as possible?”

Djarin nods. With a distinct sense of foreboding, he taps his comm over to he and Bo-katan’s private channel.

“General, do you read?”

“Yes, Mand’alor.” She doesn’t sound irritated, so at least he’s caught her at a good time. Unfortunately, he doesn’t see that lasting very long.

“Are you available now?”

“Yes. I am between meetings, my schedule is open for the next hour,” she replies, wariness already beginning to creep into her tone. Djarin bites back a sigh.

“Could you meet us at Master Skywalker’s lodgings? His…guest would like a word with you.” Djarin keeps his tone remarkably even. Small victories. “Bring Master Skywalker’s lightsaber with you.”

There’s a long beat of silence from the comm, in which he’s sure Bo-katan is cursing him out in her mind. When she speaks, it’s with the familiar irritation he’s used to. “Yes, Mand’alor. Ten minutes.”

She cuts the comm. Djarin doesn’t wince, but it’s not for lack of wanting to. He looks back to Skins, who’s already looking at him with a coolly expectant gaze. “She will meet us at Luke’s quarters in ten minutes.”

“Good,” Skins says, nodding sharply. He falls back again and returns to Luke’s side, taking the Jedi’s hand and swinging their arms idly as they walk. Luke smiles up at his partner, though the expression is tinged with exasperation.

“Try to avoid anything that’ll make Leia mad at us, alright, dear?”

“No promises,” Skins retorts. Luke just continues to smile at him. There’s a couple seconds of silence, then Skins folds, huffing and glancing away. “ Fine. But I’m not going easy on them.”

Djarin’s sense of foreboding is back in full force, but Luke just nods and leans into Skins’ side. “Of course.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence. Well. Comfortable for them; Djarin is distinctly un comfortable, but he doesn’t let it show. He doesn’t know why Luke’s lightsaber is suddenly such an issue. Honestly, he’d kind of forgotten about it entirely. A worrying thought is beginning to form in the back of his mind. They know so little of each others’ cultures, could Djarin and his people have been gravely offending Luke this entire time? Even now, the Jedi doesn’t seem bothered, but he’s so controlled that his being unbothered doesn’t say much. Skins is obviously irritated by the situation, but Djarin doesn’t know the man well enough to tell what that means for him. 

“So, the kid,” Skins speaks up, breaking Djarin out of his thoughts. He turns to face the man, looking over Luke’s head. “You adopted him?”

Djarin isn’t sure if it’s meant to be an olive branch, but talking about his son puts him back on stable ground, conversationally. He nods. “I got him out of a Imp lab. We were on the run for a while. When he wanted to start his training - to become Mandalorian - I adopted him officially into my Clan.”

Skins hums. While his demeanor isn’t friendly, exactly, he doesn’t seem inclined to be outwardly irritated with Djarin. “You saved him. More than that, you gave him a home. I know how that feels. I’m sure he’s deeply grateful.”

The words catch Djarin off-guard. For some reason, they strike a nerve. “I don’t need him to be grateful. I don’t- I just want him to be happy.”

Skins glances at him - sidelong - and for the first time, he smiles at Djarin. It’s a small smile, but it carries a clear impression of approval. Djarin doesn’t know what he’s being approved for, but he supposes it’s preferable to being borderline glared at. He wants to get along with Luke’s partner. The thought surprises him, almost halting his stride. It’s only natural, he tells himself. Luke will be teaching his son to be a Jedi, living on Mandalore for at least the foreseeable future; and Skins will stay with him, that much is clear. Getting along with the man is the best way to make sure everything goes smoothly.

“I’m sure my parents thought the same, when they took me in. Still, it’s not up to you wether or not he’s grateful. I was. It didn’t affect our relationship much, but it was important to me,” Skins comments, and shrugs. Luke smiles at him and squeezes his arm gently. Skins’ eyes flicker down the the Jedi, and his answering smile is so warm, so different from the one he offered Djarin. It almost feels like Djarin is intruding, so he moves his gaze forward to watch his son instead.

“He can feel however he wants. As long as he’s safe, and happy; that’s all that matters to me,” he says. Grogu is cooing happily, ears twitching, gazed utterly focused on the old Jedi Master beside him. The last living other member of his kind. Djarin allows a warm smile of his own.

Bo-katan is waiting for them when they reach the house, their group walking at a slower pace to accommodate for the shorter members of their party. As they move closer, Djarin can see Luke’s lightsaber at her hip. Skins breaks away from the group, striding towards her unhurriedly, but with clear purpose. Djarin looks down at Luke and finds him staring after his partner, bottom lip tucked between his teeth and brow creased. After a second, the Jedi closes his eyes and inhales deeply, then exhales slowly. His eyes are clear when they slide open. When he looks askance up at Djarin, the twist of his mouth is slightly apologetic.

“I think we better go join them. I can ask Master Yoda to wait outside the house, if you want to keep an eye on Grogu,” he says. Djarin looks over to where his son and the old Master have stopped in front of the house, still conversing inaudibly. The astromech droid hovers around them, rocking on its tracks and beeping periodically. When it gets too close to Yoda, the Jedi Master whacks it repeatedly with his walking stick; the metallic clang clang clang echoing across the yard. Grogu squeals delightedly.

“No, it’s fine,” Djarin says. Anxiety simmers low in his chest, but if anyone can be trusted alone with his child, it’s the only other being in the galaxy that might truly understand him. “They can go inside. Will your droid be alright?”

Luke huffs a laugh, though it’s slightly subdued. “Artoo and Master Yoda are always like that. It’s how they express their care for each other.”

Djarin looks at the scene in front of him, dubious. The astromech shrieks and rockets backwards into a fence-post. Yoda cackles. “If you say so.”

Luke looks over at his teacher, and suddenly the old Master is turning towards them. His head tips to the side, eyes narrowing in their direction, then at Skins and Bo-katan. Eventually, his gaze swings back to Djarin himself, and the Mandalorian has to fight not to straighten to attention on instinct. Yoda looks at him for a long moment, then nods and turns back to Grogu.

As the old creature leads the child into the house - the blast door sliding open on it’s own - Luke looks up at Djarin.

“He said to tell you that Grogu is safe with him, and not to worry,” the Jedi says, smiling reassuringly. Djarin nods, despite the stubborn bit of worry still lodged in his chest. Luke looks back towards where his partner has come to stand in front of Bo-katan, and sighs.

“Alright. Let’s get this over with,” he says, and starts off in that direction. Djarin - his earlier sense of apprehension rearing it’s head again - follows.

“-ou’re the General?” Skins is saying as they come to stand in a loose half-circle. Bo-katan is wearing her helmet, and her posture is straight and unyielding.

“Yes. What do you want?” she asks. Djarin rolls his eyes. She could at least try to be diplomatic, once in a while. He’s aware that the thought makes him something of a hypocrite.

“Luke’s lightsaber. I want it returned to him.” Skins matches her blunt demeanor perfectly, standing tall and meeting her gaze without flinching. 

“The jetii are ancient enemies. I will not allow him to be armed around the Mand’alor and his child,” she replies, voice cool. Unexpectedly, Skins laughs. The sound is mocking. Bo-katan doesn’t so much as twitch, but Djarin can see her hackles rising.

“He has the Force, General. Unless you intend to put him in nulling cuffs, he’s always armed.” He’s being snide, but there’s warning in his tone when he mentions the cuffs. Djarin wishes he could tell him that he doesn’t have to worry - they don’t even have nulling cuffs - but it doesn’t seem like the time. 

Also, Skins is echoing Djarin’s exact thoughts aloud, so he doesn’t want to push his luck by opening his mouth.

“Be that as it may, you can’t seriously tell me that a jetii with a lightsaber isn’t more dangerous than one without. I do not trust him.”

“So your mistrust translates to torture, then?” Skins retorts, the coolness of his tone thawing slightly with hints of true anger. Djarin feels suddenly cold, himself. Luke’s eyes widen slightly and he steps into Skins’ space, hands reaching out placatingly.

“Skins, that’s not-”

“Can it, Skywalker. You may be too self-sacrificing to tell them, but I sure as Storm can. It ends, now. ” His tone brokers no argument, but even as he speaks he reaches out to squeeze Luke’s hand before dropping it. He does not look away from Bo-katan.

“What are you talking about?” she asks, clipped. “The jetii has not been harmed during his time with us.”

Skins laughs again, and this time there’s something shrill and biting about it. Luke passes a hand over his face, wincing. “He’s been nothing but . Do you know - General - what a lightsaber is? ”

“A weapon,” she answers, voice betraying her mounting irritation. Skins shakes his head, lips thinning as he rolls his eyes. Djarin feels on-edge, like he’s missed something extremely important and the consequences are still outside his understanding.

“Yes, but that’s probably the least important function it serves. Lightsabers are conduits for the Force. They focus a Jedi’s connection, allowing it to be used with clearer intent and with less strain, even when they aren’t drawn.”

His eyes dart down to Luke’s lightsaber, fastened to Bo-katan’s belt, and his eyes narrow as he looks back to her. “When a Jedi creates their lightsaber, they take some of their own Living Force and put it into the ‘saber’s kyber crystal. This attunes the lightsaber to it’s wielder, creating a kind of bond. But the bond goes both ways.”

“I don’t need a history lesson,” Bo-katan snaps. Skins glares at her.

“Clearly you do, otherwise this never would have been allowed to happen! Listen : when a Jedi is separated from their lightsaber, they’re separated from a fragment of their Living Force. A piece of their soul. Brief separation may only cause some discomfort, but the longer it goes on, the worse it gets.”

Djarin has to fight to stay still, the words hitting him like a physical blow. Oh kriff. His sense of foreboding mutates into abject dread. How long has Luke been on Mandalore? Three days? Three days that he’d been without his lightsaber, a part of his life Force ; smiling and joking and teaching Djarin’s son like nothing was wrong. Like he wasn’t in pain. Pain that Djarin had caused.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks Luke quietly, unable and uncaring to keep the horrified note from his voice. Luke shrugs, either self-conscious or dismissive, Djarin can’t tell.

“It’s not that bad, really, just some aches in my back. I’ve had worse,” he says, not meeting anyone’s eye. Djarin shakes his head, confused and appalled. Even Bo-katan has shifted back a step, taken off-guard.

“But why? ” He can’t understand it. He can’t think of a single possible reason for Luke to subject himself to this, needlessly, just because he was asked to. It doesn’t make sense.

Luke smiles up at him, and it’s almost too much for Djarin. No, he wants to say, don’t look at me like that. I hurt you, I don’t deserve it.

“Your people don’t trust me,” Luke says. Without judgment or resentment, just stating a simple fact. “You’re their leader, and Grogu is a child. If being without my lightsaber makes them feel better about me being around you, makes them feel safer, then I can handle some aches and pains.”

“For how long?” Skins cuts in, his tone shot through with steel. Luke turns to him, light eyes wide and baleful. Skins shakes his head forcefully, shifting forward a half-step. “ No, Luke, this is serious. How long would you have let this go on? Would you have ever said anything, or would you have just let yourself waste away for however long the Mandalorians deemed you a threat?”

Djarin is asking himself the same question. Luke is a Jedi Master in his own right, strong and capable. Surely he would have said something, eventually, if the pain became too much for him. But Luke shrugs, and Djarin knows with dawning clarity that no, he wouldn’t. That maybe Luke is too strong, so used to pain and overcoming it that asking to be spared from it isn’t something he even considers. The thought, Djarin realizes, wouldn’t have even entered his mind.

“You wouldn’t let that happen,” Luke says plainly. Skins sucks in a sharp breath. This, too, is clear to Djarin. Skins had proved it correct almost as soon as he got planetside. Luke - as Djarin is beginning to see - is self-sacrificing down to his bones. Skins, perhaps as an adaptive behavior from being Luke’s partner, is similarly protective. Even now, as he glares the Jedi down, his eyes are alight with concern. Oh, there is anger there too, very close to the surface. But underneath it, Djarin can see the fear which motivates it. And - beyond the fear - the love which sits at it’s very core, coloring everything in broad strokes. 

He’s seen it in their reunion: the way Luke had dropped all of his careful maintained control the second he’d caught sight of Skins, the way Skins had pulled Luke close and spun him around - as easy as breathing; and the way they’d stood together, smiling at each other in a way that spoke of safety. Familiarity. Of coming home. 

He’s seen it in the way they orbit each other, even now. They aren’t touching, aren’t reaching out, but it’s clear they want to. He’s seen it in the way their hands brush and then link together, like second nature; the way they lean into each other’s space.

Djarin has never known or cared much about love, or romance. Still, you’d have to be completely insensate not to see it in these two men, flowing around and between them like an invisible current. 

Skins seems to draw himself up at Luke’s word, buoyed by his frustration; and then he exhales, and some of his anger leaves him. He sighs, more of a drawn-out huff.

“That’s not the point, ” he says, but it’s resigned. Like they’ve had this conversation before and he already knows the outcome. “Why are you like this? I won’t always be there to come save you, you know.”

Luke smiles at him, and the look that passes between them feels weighted with meaning beyond Djarin’s understanding. It speaks of a history shared, a wealth of memories.

“Yes,” Luke says, soft but utterly assured, “you will.”

Bo-katan is looking back and forth between the two men with an air that says she’s completely lost the thread of the conversation, and is looking for a way to reassert control. Djarin beats her to it.

“General,” he says, and her gaze snaps to him, “give the Jedi his lightsaber.”

She rears, and Djarin knows that she wants to fight him on it. She’s practically shaking with it, fists clenched tightly at her sides. He also knows that she won’t undermine his authority by arguing with him in public. He’s counting on it. Later, he’s sure to get a long, long lecture about ancient enemies and being too trusting, and he’ll take it gladly. Right now, there is a wrong that has been committed. Djarin needs to set it right.

“Yes, Mand’alor,” Bo-katan practically spits, un-clipping the sword hilt from her belt and tossing it unceremoniously at Luke. He catches it without looking. He’s looking at Djarin, expression filled with surprise and confusion. It feels like a bolt through the chest. He really didn’t expect to get it back.

As soon as his ungloved hand closes around the hilt, Luke sways slightly on his feet. Djarin takes an aborted step forward in alarm, but Skins’ arm is already around the Jedi’s waist, holding him up. Luke’s eyes flutter shut. A sigh falls from his mouth, so soft that Djarin knows it was unintentional. When he opens his eyes, there’s such unfettered relief there that Djarin feels guilt slam against the inside of his ribcage. The Jedi rolls his shoulders, clipping his lightsaber to his belt.

“Thank you,” he says to Bo-katan. “I will do everything I can to make sure you don’t regret it.”

“I already do,” she snaps at him, but it’s with significantly less venom than she’d had a minute ago. Bo-katan may distrust Luke - and the Jedi in general - but she’s not one to cause pain without the intention to do so. The revelation of what they’ve done to Luke has rattled her, too.

Luke just smiles.

“Mand’alor, if there’s nothing else,” Bo-katan says, and Djarin nods at her.

“No, nothing else. Thank you,” he replies, intentionally forgoing her title. She scoffs and turns abruptly on her heel to march away.

Leaving him alone with Skins and Luke. Djarin turns his body to face them, noting that Skins hasn’t let go of Luke’s waist even though the Jedi now stands steadily on his feet.

“There is no recompense,” Djarin says, echoing something he’d noticed when Luke gave his Telling about his father, “for what we have done to you. It was done in ignorance, but that is no excuse. If…if this changes our agreement regarding Grogu’s training, I understand. Truly, I-”

“Wait. Wait, hold on,” Luke cuts him off, holding up a hand. His eyes are incredulous, brow furrowed. “Why would this change Grogu’s training? If anything, I’ll be able to train him better now.”

Djarin just stares at him, he can’t help it. His people - Djarin himself - have been essentially torturing Luke since he arrived. Skins had spoken the truth about that. Luke would be well within his right to leave Mandalore this very day. He might even be right to take Grogu with him. What could Djarin offer his son, here, that compares to the connection of other Force-users? To being with the only other member of his species? He’s seen how quickly Grogu took to Luke and Yoda. He’d be safe. Cared for, probably better than Djarin could ever hope to on his own.

Why isn’t Luke angry? He doesn’t even look upset, just genuinely confused as to how a horrible slight against his person could relate to him wanting as far away from this planet as possible, as quickly as possible. Djarin stares at him, trying to get his brain and mouth to come up with something to say. Nothing comes out.

Skins chuckles, somewhat tiredly. He looks at Djarin, lips quirked into something that’s not quite a smile, but could be. “I know. He’s always like this, so better get used to it fast. Don’t even try to talk him around to being mad at you, either; it won’t work. He’ll just be confused, and you’ll feel even worse, and it’ll be an incredibly awkward conversation for both of you. Believe me, I know.”

He does smile, then; and the sight of it inexplicably loosens something in Djarin’s chest. It’s wry, but not lacking heart, and speaks to an understanding of the internal whirlwind Djarin is experiencing right now. Luke is looking between them, smile rising to his face as an unconscious mirror of Skins’. 

“You’re forgiven, Mand’alor. Doesn’t matter if you or I think you deserve it. Best to just accept it and move forward,” Skins tells him. Djarin wants to argue. He shouldn’t be forgiven, not so easily. He hasn’t done anything to deserve that forgiveness. But…if Skins - who undoubtedly knows Luke better than anyone - says that it’s useless to argue, he’ll have to accept that for the truth it is. Djarin sighs.

“Right,” he says, and nods. Skins nods back, eyes full of a rueful kind of empathy and something contemplative, as if he’s reworking his impression of Djarin himself. It’s a heavy look, too heavy for Djarin to begin to puzzle out right now. He looks away.

“Right!” Luke chimes, clapping his hands together. “Of course you’re forgiven; not that there’s anything to forgive (Djarin forcefully suppresses his argument) . Now, we should probably go inside. Everything is fine, but Grogu is starting to wonder where we are.”

Skins hums and starts towards the door, releasing Luke’s waist to take his hand. “You have a bond with him already? Kid must be pretty strong.”

“Just the foundations,” Luke says, going easily with a smile on his face, “but you’re right. His connection to the Force…I’ve never felt something like it.”

Djarin follows a few steps after them. He watches as Skins knocks his shoulder lightly against Luke’s and says, tone amused, “You only say that because you can’t feel your own Force-signature. The two of you are like a pair of stars; it’s kind of overwhelming. The Mand’alor is lucky he’s got that weird armor.”

Djarin doesn’t know how to tell Skins that no , he isn’t. He of course knows what Grogu’s… Force-signature feels like, now that he has a word for it. When they’re alone, when Djarin can take his armor off in the presence of his Clan, he can feel it. Star-bright, warm and encompassing like a blanket. He’d thought that it was just his own love for his son, swelling up inside him in those moments when he gets to look at Grogu without the helmet between them. Now, he knows what it really is, and he marvels at it.

What must it feel like, he wonders? If Luke’s Force-signature is similar to his son’s - bright and warm and everywhere - what would it be like, to feel both of them at once? Would it be overwhelming, like Skins says; or is that just for Force-users? Djarin still doesn’t understand practically anything about the Force, but he knows that it’s everywhere, all the time. Even for people like him, who could probably try for a lifetime and never accomplish anything close to what Grogu, and Luke, and Yoda, and even Skins can do.

He wants to know. He’s desperately curious to know what it feels like, when Grogu and Luke have their training sessions, and the thought is…It’s not frightening, exactly. Moreso it’s not a thought he should be having at all, because it will never happen. Luke Skywalker is not a Mandalorian, is not part of Djarin’s Clan. There will never be anything but beskar and a shared love of Grogu between them. 

Because Luke does love Grogu, Djarin has no reservations about that. Luke willingly subjected himself to pain without a foreseeable end just for the chance to meet Grogu. Continued to subject himself to it, for a chance to train him. Would have continued to do so, had Skins not rightfully protected him from it. Djarin sees it in every interaction, every smile and gift and gentle touch that the Jedi offers his son. Luke loves Grogu. It makes sense, the kid is easy to love. Still, the knowledge that his child has one more person in the galaxy - someone strong and true - to love him and keep him safe, is comforting.

“It’s not ‘weird,’ it’s beskar,” Luke laughs, and Djarin twitches out of his thoughts. “And joke all you want, you’re as taken with Grogu as I was when I first met him.”

“Of course I am,” Skins replies. From his position Djarin can only see the man’s profile, which does nothing to diminish the soft warmth of his smile. Djarin’s steps falter. “He’s adorable. And he…he’s so bright. When he saw me, he- it was-”

“I told him about you,” Luke admits, somewhat sheepish. “Showed you to him, let him feel that you’re safe, and that I love you. He was very excited to meet you.”

“I was excited to meet him too,” Skins says, and Djarin can tell that Luke’s words have affected him. His voice has gone quiet. Thoughtful. Djarin doesn’t know why; but then Skins continues. “We’ve been looking for so long, but it feels-”

He pauses. Luke drifts, as if by gravity, into his side. The Jedi hums, prompting gently; and Skins does the intentional inhale-exhale that Djarin has come to recognize as he and Luke re-centering themselves. Skins swallows, then says, “It feels like it was supposed to happen this way. It feels like the Force is with us.”

Luke beams. As they reach the door to his home, he glances at Djarin over his shoulder.

“Everything alright?” he asks, brows furrowing even as the smile remains on his face. Djarin realizes he’s stopped a few paces back from them and moves to catch up. It shouldn’t have surprised him, to hear that Grogu had the same affect on Skins that he has on everyone. Grogu is the most loveable person in the galaxy, after all. But the way Skins had smiled when talking about his son, so much like Luke’s warm fondness, struck him where he stood. It’s a warmth that Djarin hasn’t seen directed at anyone but Luke himself since Skins arrived.

“Fine,” Djarin says as he joins the pair, “Good. Everything’s good.”

Luke shoots him a puzzled smile, but doesn’t comment. The Jedi opens the door.

Yoda is standing on the kitchen counter, grunting as he whacks the astromech droid repeatedly with his stick. Grogu is held in his other arm, secure to his chest, burbling excitedly. 

“Insolent, this one is!” Yoda exclaims, “Says superficial things, he does!”

Luke sighs deeply. Skins snickers, quickly smothering it behind his hand. Djarin freezes in the doorway, unsure what to make of the scene in front of him.

“Artoo, what did you do?” Luke asks, reproachful the way one might be towards a misbehaving child. The astromech beeps furiously. Yoda hmphs in clear offense and continues to beat his stick against it’s dome. Luke goes very still, and Skins bursts out into startled laughter.

“What did it say?” Djarin asks carefully. Skins sucks in a breath, trying to pull himself together enough to respond, but it proves futile. The man puts his face in his hands and giggles helplessly. Luke whacks him lightly on the shoulder.

“Oh, can it.” He turns to Djarin, lips pressed together to suppress his own laughter. He draws in a breath, then releases it and tells Djarin in a low tone, “He said that he’s not sure that Grogu and Master Yoda are the same species, because Grogu’s so cute and Master Yoda is…well, I can’t exactly repeat it in polite company.”

“Insolent, it is!” Yoda is unrelenting in his assault. “Jedi Master, I am! Nine hundred years, I have seen! Cute, of course I am not! Nonsense, this droid speaks!”

Skins lets out a pained noise and drops to his knees, face still hidden, laughter reaching a desperate pitch. Luke loses his internal battle and presses his ungloved hand over his mouth, eyes bright and shoulders shaking. Grogu squeals in delight, perhaps picking up on the mirth in the Force around him; and Djarin, in the middle of it all, shakes his head and allows his own helpless chuckle to break from his chest.

It is strange company he finds himself in: two Jedi Masters, a foul-mouthed droid, a Force-sensitive stranger, and his son. Yet he feels lighter than he has in recent memory, bogged down with questions though he may be; and as numerous as those questions are, they don’t feel urgent. He has time.

Grogu is safe, on a planet where every person he meets will be one who cares for him. He has a teacher - something Djarin had searched for, for so long - who loves him, and will train him well. He’s here, with Djarin; when Djarin had been resigned to the fact that reuniting Grogu with his people would mean never seeing his son again. His son is reunited with his people, with someone Djarin hadn’t even known was alive, three days ago. 

It feels like, for the first time since he found Grogu, Djarin has time.

Chapter Text

Skins is running out of time. He knows it with the same certainty that he knows the Twin Suns rise each morning, and he’s equally as powerless to stop it. Biggs is already a year gone for the Academy, and Skins doesn’t begrudge his older brother that. The three of them - Biggs, Luke, and Skins - have talked about leaving Upatau to become pilots since they were kids. Biggs had ruffled his hair the way Skins always pretends to hate, before he left; and Skins hadn’t had the heart to pretend. He’d leaned into his brother’s touch. Biggs’d sighed, and sniffled, and crushed Skins against his chest with a promise to visit as soon as he could. Luke had gotten pretty much the same treatment, except that he’d pushed Biggs off him after a few seconds, laughing and teasing.

“I’ll be out there with you soon enough,” he’d said, “No reason t’get all mopey!”

For Biggs, it had been a reassurance. For Skins, it’s the thing that keeps him up at night. He feels guilty about it - Luke has wanted nothing more since Skins has known him - but he can’t seem to rid himself of the dread. He knows that Luke chafes more and more with each season that Owen keeps him here, and Skins will take it to the sands that he secretly thanks the man for it. 

He hopes to himself - selfishly, in the middle of the night when he’s rung out and hurting - that Owen will keep Luke on for a few more seasons, and they can go to the Academy together. Even in the midst of his pain, he always scolds himself for it. Luke wants, almost needs, to get off this “rock” as soon as possible. It eats away at him, day after day; like the sands weathering stone. Skins would never ask him to sacrifice himself just to spare Skins a few months of pitiful loneliness. 

Because Luke would. Sacrifice is practically built into his genes, no matter that Skins only knows a handful of things about Shmi Skywalker and even less about her son. They must have been self-sacrificing almost to a fault, just like Luke; to leave him alone, the last of his Clan on a planet he hates.

Skins doesn’t hate Upatau. It’s boring, and hot, and life is hard; but on those quiet nights with Luke, he spends more time listening to the Call than looking at the stars. It’s beautiful, in a wild and unknowable way. He wonders if the hundreds of smugglers, and slavers, and bounty hunters that pass through even hear it. Wonders if they know the power of the desert, the strength of its Children, the fierce love tempered under the heat of the Twins. He wonders, and decides that they probably don’t care. To them this is Tatooine, a backwater dustball with nothing to offer but danger, credits, and sand. The thought should anger him, he’s been pissed off for less, but it doesn’t.

Why should he care about the opinions of people who stumble blind in the desert? If anything, it just makes them stupid; coming to an ancient world with no understanding of the shifting sands under their feet. One day, the chains will be broken. One day, the Hutts will be slain, and the Twins will rise, and the desert and its Children will remain. As they always have.

Skins sighs and curls around his pillow.

One day, Luke will take off into the stars; and Skins will ache, and ache, and ache until the moment when he can follow him. But that day isn’t today, he reminds himself. In the morning, he’ll make the small walk to the Lars homestead and knock on the door. Beru will let him in with an indulgent smile, and Owen will offer him a gruff nod; and when Luke comes down the stairs and finds him already at the table, he’ll smile - bright and warm - and the horrible ache in Skins’ chest will loosen for a while.

Six months later, when Owen buys two droids from a Jawa caravan and changes all their lives irrevocably; Skins will look at the burnt bodies of Luke’s aunt and uncle and wonder if this is somehow his fault, a consequence of his foolish wishing.

Luke is catching up with Master Yoda, filling him in on Grogu’s progress, when Skins approaches the Mand’alor. It’s difficult to see where the man is looking with his helmet on, but Skins would bet that he’s looking at his son. The child - Grogu - has been relinquished by the old Jedi Master and is now burbling curiously at Artoo. The droid beeps back periodically, and Skins thanks the Twins that he seems to be keeping the profanity to a minimum. He doesn’t think Grogu can understand binary, but better to be safe than sorry.

“Mand’alor,” Skins says, trying to remember all the lessons on diplomacy that the Princess had beat into his head, after it became clear that he and Luke were married in all but name.

“Like it or not,” she’d said, “Luke is the face of the Alliance. I won’t have the two of you causing a diplomatic incident just because you never learned your p’s and q’s.”

They’d tried to argue that even growing up on a backwater planet, they’d still been taught their manners. Leia had remained unconvinced, and so had begun what was easily the most boring week of Skins’ life. Etiquette lessons, she called them; but Skins thought of it as a special kind of torture. Forks , he never knew what a Krayt-damned headache forks could be.

The Mand’alor tilts his head at the greeting, but doesn’t move his gaze from his son. Skins watches the kid too, unable to help the smile that comes to his face as Grogu radiates happiness and excitement into the Force.

“He’s a cute kid,” he comments. The Mand’alor grunts, seemingly in agreement. They stand in silence for a moment. Skins sighs, one hand coming up to fiddle with the carved pendant of Sarlacc that he keeps tucked under his shirt. “I wanted to apologize for my…rough introduction. It-”

“We wronged your husband. Grievously. You don’t owe me an apology for correcting that wrong,” the Mand’alor cuts him off. Skins nods slowly. Apparently the man is at least somewhat reasonable. Then the rest of the sentiment catches up with him, and he chuckles.

“He’s not my husband,” he corrects. The Mand’alor turns to look at him then, for the first time. It’s strange, being on the receiving end of a look he can’t see. Even so, the Mand’alor’s body language reads confusion pretty clearly.

“He’s…not?”

Skins can’t help it. He laughs, shaking his head slightly as Luke glances over at the sound. The Jedi smiles and returns to his conversation with Master Yoda. “We’re not married. Traditional marriage isn’t common in our culture. So, just ‘partner’ is fine.”

“I…see. You’re both from Tat- Upatau?” the Mand’alor catches himself quickly. Skins wonders if Luke had corrected him, or if he picked up on the planet’s true name himself. The pilot hums.

“We are. I’m sure you’re aware of our homeworld’s reputation?” he asks casually. The Mand’alor shrugs.

“It’s a desert planet in Hutt space. Lots of bounties come out of there,” he says, as if speaking from experience. So a former bounty hunter, then? Or just familiar from his days on the run with his son? Skins marks the comment to ask Luke about later.

“It’s a slave planet,” he says, simple and blunt. To his credit, the Mand’alor doesn’t seem taken aback, merely nodding in acknowledgement. “There isn’t much use for marriage, not like there is in the Core. Slaves don’t own anything; and it’s not as if the Hutts care about contracts, even regarding the Freeborn. If you want to be with someone, you’ll be with them until you die or you no longer want to be. Simple.”

He finishes with a shrug. Honestly, he’s never understood the concept of marriage. He hadn’t even known about it until Leia had asked if he and Luke were going to get married. In his defense, they’d been pretty busy during the war, with little time to learn the cultural customs of planets other than their own. When she’d explained it to him, he remembers finding the whole concept rather pointless.

Whatever he and Luke - or anyone else - have between them is their business alone. Why should he have to notify the Senate that they’re together, that the Force itself will have to tear him from Luke’s side to separate them? What does it have to do with them?

“You have no Vows?” the Mand’alor asks. He sounds curious, not judgemental, so Skins answers the question easily.

“Not formally, though it varies from person to person. Life on Upatau is hard. There’s no guarantee of tomorrow, so for most people it’s enough to have someone at your side,” he says. The Mand’alor looks at him for a moment, then turns to watch his son.

“Yeah,” he says softly, “I get that.”

Skins supposes he would. Life on the run is already difficult - and he would know - he can’t imagine what it would be like to take care of a child on top of that. The Mand’alor must have been on edge for a very long time, never knowing where the next attack would come from, or when. Skins had enough of that during the war; when the only thing he could hold onto was Luke and his friends at his side, or the promise that they soon would be. He can understand the Mand’alor’s devotion to his son.

“Anyway,” he says, straightening out his back, “I just wanted to make sure we didn’t get off on the wrong foot. I appreciate your hospitality, and you trusting Luke with your kid. We’ll try not to make too much trouble.”

Surprisingly, the Mand’alor laughs. It’s a warm sound, if a bit dry.

“You’re surrounded by Mandalorians,” he says, “There’ll be trouble whether you make it or not. But…you’re welcome here. All of you.”

The strangest part is, Skins believes him. The General was enough evidence that the Mandalorians at large probably don’t trust them; but here - in Luke’s little house that is now theirs - he feels like he might be able to finally make a home.

They have a modest midmeal, and then Djarin is left alone with Grogu, Master Yoda, and the droid. Luke and Skins head out towards the desert - hand in hand - with a promise from Luke to be back within two hours. Djarin desperately wants to ask him to stay, but bites back the feeling twice as hard. Luke hasn’t seen his partner in days, and Djarin does not need a safety blanket. He very carefully does not think about why Luke occupies that space in his mind.

Grogu dozes in his arms, full and warm, his face turned into Djarin’s chest. Djarin smiles down at him, bringing a hand up to gently stroke the top of his son’s head. The child coos softly in contentment. When Djarin looks up again, the old Jedi Master is watching him.

He tries not to shift his weight under the creature’s scrutinizing gaze. He’s the Mand’alor for stars’ sake, he will not be intimidated by an old monk one-third his height.

“Thank you for coming,” he says, completely genuine even as he’s trying to break the awkward silence in the room. “I… didn’t hope to see another of his kind, let alone meet you.”

Yoda hmphs in the way Djarin is coming to see as habit for him. “Come, of course I would. Unnecessary thanks, you continue to give me.”

He hobbles closer. Djarin keeps a suspicious watch on his stick. The old Master is surprisingly fast with it, and packs an unexpected punch. Yoda doesn’t seem inclined to hit him, however. He comes to stand in front of Djarin, eyes softening as he looks at Grogu’s sleeping form.

“Many hardships, this one has been through. Spare him from them, I could not. Happy he is, here with you,” Yoda says. Djarin feels his chest tighten and swallows it down.

“Is he?” he asks. His voice is too soft. He pauses to swallow again, then continues, “I’ve tried my best, but I don’t know what he needs. He can’t speak to tell me, and I don’t know anything about children of his - your - species. I don’t-”

Yoda smacks him in the leg with his stick. Djarin can’t feel it through the beskar, but from the sound he can tell it carried some force behind it.

“‘Tried?’ No such thing, is there. Do, or do not. Done your best, you have. Better, you will do, with young Skywalker now here to guide him,” the Jedi Master chastizes, and Djarin is reminded abruptly of The Armorer. She’s spoken to him in such tones many times. The thought relaxes him somewhat.

“Luke has been helpful,” he says. “I was surprised Grogu took to him so quickly.”

Yoda laughs. Cackles, might be a better word: high-pitched and sudden. “Bright in the Force, young Skywalker is. Like a star, he is, to us who can sense it. Quick to love, he is also. And good, as a Jedi must be . Sense this, your young one did.”

Djarin thinks of the way Luke’s entire face softened when the Jedi first laid eyes on Grogu. How gently he took him from Djarin’s arms, how he had cried when Grogu placed a hand against his face. Djarin thinks of Luke passing Grogu back into his arms to spare the child unnecessary pain. He thinks of how Luke had taken worse pain onto himself without mention, just to allow Djarin’s people their comfort. He thinks of the way Luke says his name. Djarin, warm and pleased to see him.

Yoda looks up at him, the Jedi’s wrinkled face taking on a distinctly amused cast. “Force sensitive, you need not be, to see it yourself.”

Djarin reels slightly, mortified to feel his face flush even though it can’t be seen. Are his thoughts really so obvious? Luke said that the beskar makes it impossible to sense his emotions, but Yoda has had a lot more practice than Luke. Can the old Master sense…whatever the feeling in Djarin’s chest is, when he thinks about Luke?

“I- How did you-” He’s stuttering now, and he shuts his mouth to spare himself the embarrassment. His face burns. Yoda cackles again.

“Mandalorians, I have met. Trusting, you are not. Yet trust young Skywalker, you do. Not long, he has been here. Typical of him, this is,” Yoda says, shaking his head fondly. “The same he was, when to me, he came. Alone, I had been. Alone, I wished to remain. Insistent, he was. Quickly, a place for himself, he made.”

All at once, Djarin feels a certain kind of resonance with the words. After all, hadn’t he been the same, before Grogu? He’d been alone - mostly - and content to remain so, at least that’s what he told himself. And yet his son had wasted no time in carving out a place for himself in Djarin’s heart, before Djarin even realized it was happening.

Yoda’s words are that of a father; and Djarin quickly readjusts his understanding of Luke’s relationship with the old Jedi Master. The parallel causes something warm to lodge in his chest. Luke had found Yoda and showed him what it meant to have a family. Djarin found Grogu, but sometimes it feels like the kid saved Djarin more than the other way around.

“I know what you mean,” he tells Yoda. The old Master hums and narrows his eyes suspiciously, but doesn’t strike out with his stick. It’s a small victory, but Djarin will take it.

“Changed, this planet is, from last I saw it. Terrible things, the Empire has done. Yes, to your people…and mine,” Yoda says. Djarin cannot help but think of his son. Three cultures the late Empire had tried to take from Grogu: that of his birth, that of his spirit, and that of his family.

“Lucky,” he manages to grit out, “that they aren’t around to finish the job.”

Yoda does not hmph. Yoda does not strike him with his stick. Instead, the Jedi Master looks - with the same uncanny ability Luke seems to have - into his eyes behind the helmet, and says, “Exist, luck does not. If give thanks, you must; to Skywalker, you must give them.”

Mand’alor he may be, but Djarin will admit that it’s disconcerting to look into the eyes of a being that’s seen three-hundred of your own lifetimes. The Jedi Master’s gaze is both piercing and serene; and as the words dawn Djarin is struck with the realization that his gratitude for Luke hasn’t been sufficient. He thought he understood his thanks for the Jedi training his son, his thanks for Luke’s non-judgement and understanding. His incredulous thanks for Luke’s forgiveness, despite the wrongs Djarin and his people have done to him. He was wrong.

He realizes that he may be a fool. Luke gave his Telling, after all. Djarin - of course - knows now that Luke Skywalker walked into a room with the Emperor and walked out again. Palpatine didn’t. But Luke said that his father…

Yoda is still looking at him. Skywalker, he said.

My father, Anakin Skywalker, Luke had said, expression distant and rigorously controlled. He saved me. He saved the galaxy.

If you see Vader, you’re already dead.

Forgiveness.

Yoda hums. “Yes. Much do we owe, to young Skywalker’s tender heart. Not unlike young Din, is he. Much will young Din flourish, under Luke’s teachings.”

The expression on the old Master’s face can only be described as fond, tinged though it is with the memory of old hurts, of grief that cannot be rectified. Djarin never though to have anything in common with a being so old, sure that so many years of experience would have stripped the burden of grief and the warmth of love; or else muted them, somewhat. It is something he has worried over, regarding his son. Djarin has known practically since he found Grogu that his child will outlive him. It is a strange knowledge, one he still cannot grasp fully, but he will do everything in his power to make it so. That being said, he has worried that the years will eventually take more than Grogu’s father from him. That Grogu’s brightness, his warmth and love and Light would dim over time, as the centuries take their toll. It is a thought Djarin cannot countenance.

Looking at Yoda, he is given hope. The Jedi Master is sage and cryptic, sometimes speaking in riddles and rarely voicing his full emotions; yet Djarin can see that he still feels, very deeply. The years have not taken his emotions from him, have not dulled them in the slightest.

“You love him,” Djarin says to Yoda, certain he will be smacked for his presumption. The Jedi Master’s ears twitch, but no strike comes. Yoda is silent for a long moment.

“Yes,” he says at last. Quietly, but certain. “Last of my padawans, Luke is. Cared for them all, I did, as a Jedi must for all things. Loved them, perhaps. Know, I do not. Allow myself, I did not.”

It seems a sad existence to Djarin, to care for someone but not let yourself love them. He doesn’t know if he would have the strength for it, were he in Yoda’s place. He is impressed, however, with how easily the Jedi Master admits to not knowing. He would expect the opposite; for one so old to be set in their ways, stubborn and unyielding. Djarin thinks of Luke and comes to the conclusion that it’s probably a Jedi thing.

Yoda’s ears twitch again as his lips pull into a dry smile. “Allow me to deny it, Luke did not. Love to me, he gave freely. Not attachment, no. Refuse to train him, he thought I would; and loved me still, he did. The will of the Force, it was. Resist, I could not. Love him, I do.”

Once again, Djarin is struck with the strangeness of relating to a being so much older than him, even as he snorts in commiseration.

“Yeah,” he says softly, “That sounds about right.”

Chapter Text

Their hands brush and clasp together as they make their way into the desert. No words pass between them, but none are needed. In this close proximity, their bond sings in the back of their minds - emotions exchanged and colored by one another before being passed back. It’s instinctual, effortless. Their bond need not even be truly active, still lying mostly dormant, but purring like a dozing lothcat. 

The Call draws them deeper, steps whispering across dark sands. Luke does not allow himself to sink into it - or the Force - fully, not yet. Instead, he tilts his head to watch his partner. The warm tones of brown stand out in Skins’ dark hair, revealed by the ever-bright sun of Mandalore. His dark eyes are closed, long lashes shadowing his cheekbones, listening with a cocked head to the sounds of the desert. He has been taller than Luke since their teenage years, but during and after the war he had become broader, too. His back straight and shoulders wide, sturdy and sure-footed. Luke knows Skins’ face better than anyone else’s, better even than his own. He has watched it change as they grew up, slowly losing baby fat to become angled and - in Luke’s not at all biased opinion - unbearably handsome. He has seen every emotion possible play out on his partner’s face: joy, bone-deep fear, abject devastation, raging anger, and love. Love above all else, coloring all others, ever-present and all-encompassing.

Twins, but he loves this man. Amusement trickles through their bond, and Skins opens his eyes to smirk sidelong at him. “You’re staring.”

“Am I not allowed to?” Luke asks, furrowing his brow playfully, “That seems a bit hypocritical, dear; given how often I’ve woken up at ungodly hours to find you staring at me. ”

Skins huffs and shakes his head, petulance twining with his amusement. “That’s different. If you recall, my impossible Jedi, that was after the war ended. Had to watch you and make sure you didn’t take off on any more self-sacrificing missions without me.”

Luke squeezes his hand, unable to help the guilt which flows through the bond. Skins squeezes back. Reassurance. Guilt-acknowledgement. Safety.

“Well,” Luke says aloud, tone still light, “If it counts for anything, I don’t think our current mission with require much of that.”

Skins hums doubtfully, but his side of the bond lights with acknowledgement relief even as he says, “Knowing you, you’ll find a way.”

Then, as if remembering the reason they’re out here in the first place, he sobers. Anger-frustration trickles through the bond, carefully contained in a way that tells Luke it isn’t directed at him, at least not primarily. Softly, Skins continues, “You already have, isingane. ”

Luke sighs, looking away from Skins and out into the desert. He could apologize, but there would be no point. Skins would be able to feel he doesn’t mean it. He isn’t sorry for giving up his lightsaber, nor does he think it was the wrong course of action. Luke is only sorry that he has caused Skins pain, but that is no basis for an apology, not when he doesn’t regret the action itself.

Skins must sense his conflicting feelings, though they flicker so quickly that even Luke has trouble naming them. He squeezes Luke’s hand and halts his steps, turning Luke gently to face him. He waits - silent - until Luke turns his head to meet his eyes. Skins smiles down at him, warm but slightly rueful. His end of the bond envelops Luke’s cascade of emotions, encompassing them and pushing back acceptance. Reassurance. Love.

“I am aware of who my partner is, Luke. You are my umaqondana. There is nothing about you that I do not know, nothing about me that I have not also given to you. Self-sacrificing isn’t something you do, my love. It’s who you are. I couldn’t ask you to stop it just as I couldn’t ask you to stop using the Force.” He readjusts his grip on Luke’s hand and lifts it between them, palms pressed together and fingers interlocked. “All I ask is that you remember our promise to each other.”

Luke feels choked up, eyes burning in a way that has nothing to do with the sand. He takes a deep breath and lets his gratitude fill him up until it overflows into the bond. He doesn’t know - has never known - what it is about him that makes him deserving of such devotion. He only hopes to be worthy of it. He smiles, still a bit watery but true, up at Skins.

“If we are parted, I will always come back to you,” he says. It’s not a Vow, not in the way some cultures think of them. It is a promise Luke has made to himself, as much as he has made to Skins. Breaking this promise will not break their bond, will not sunder their love for one another; but Luke hasn’t broken it yet, and he never intends to.

Skins returns his smile, fond. His own eyes are misty. “I will be by your side through all things. I will protect you when you cannot, even from yourself.”

Luke knows, to his bones, that he stands with the Light. Luminous, the Force as his ally. But he is aware - ever aware - of what he could become, should he allow himself to waver. He cannot, will not allow that to happen. Skins is the one person in the galaxy that Luke entrusts with all of himself. No hiding, no evading. If there were anyone who could love him, see him enough to save him, it would be Skins. Leia and Yoda and all of his friends are Clan, and Luke trusts and adores them. But there are parts of his mind that he shields from even Leia behind thick walls.

With Skins, if he asks, there isn’t so much as a single sheet of flimsi. He steps closer and leans up on his toes to press a quick kiss to his partner’s mouth.

“C’mon,” he says, walking again and pulling Skins along beside him, “I wanted to show you something. We’re almost there.”

Skins huffs but follows along dutifully, amusement love curiosity flowing through the bond. They reach the crest of a dune, and Luke stops walking. His partner glances at him in confusion, before his eyes drift out into the desert before them and he gasps aloud.

They stand on the edge of a small valley, wider across but less deep than Beggar’s Canyon. The whispering wind gently dislodges sand from the surrounding dunes to trickle in falls down into the valley, which is formed entirely by huge, dark sheets of-

“Glass,” Skins breathes. Luke nods, allowing his partner’s awe to draw him deeper into the Force, allowing the Force to sharpen his senses to the Call. Beneath the valley sits a large underground acid-spring, teeming with blind fish. Desert lizards skitter between crevasses in the glass, scales adapted to the jagged edges. Hard-shelled insects move in tight formations, hiding from reptilian eyes, tiny legs moving in tandem and creating small waves of sound. The falling sand makes soft, almost crystalline susurrations as it slides down massive black-green planes. The wind is funneled by the walls of the valley. Its whisper becomes a voice, soft and blending with the sounds around it.

The bond sings to life in his mind. Wordlessly, he and Skins take up seated positions on the sand, their linked hands a physical tether between them. He doesn’t have to look to know that Skins has closed his eyes, and Luke does the same. For long moments, there is only the Call and the Force: amplified as they both listen and transfer understanding across the bond, hearing the same song with different interpretations. 

Luke has long wondered whether the Call is connected to the Force, if it is a specific path available only to those who were raised in the desert. Even the most Force-null Child of Upatau can hear the Call, but Ben had never been able to, even after nineteen years. Still, they are so intrinsically linked in Luke’s mind that he can’t help but feel that there’s a connection.

It’s so strange, Skins sends, I can almost make out what it’s trying to say, but if I focus, it’s gone.

Luke knows exactly what he means. The Call of Upatau sings of hardship, and resilience. It sings of the same low-simmering anger in the heart of every slave and Free-born Child, of the fierce love and kinship between Clan. Of an ancient legacy, a history which has been lost to time and occupation. It sings defiance, and protection.

The Call of Mandalore is different. Some notes are the same, but not enough to understand the Call itself.

It’s young, Luke sends back. Mandalore has been a desert planet for less than a thousand years. And it's changed so much...I don’t think it knows what it should be, yet.

He feels the vague brush of Skins’ acknowledgement through the bond, before they both sink back into the Call. Luke can feel the drag of Skins’ interpretation on his mind, deeper than Luke himself has ever been able to hear. Luke was raised on Upatau, as his father and grandmother had been before him, but Skins was born there. Luke’s partner had been born to the sands, screaming and red. Skins’ connection to the Force - latent as Luke’s own had been, but still present - had only strengthened his sensitivity to the Call.

When they return to Tatooine - something neither of them ever thought they would do - Luke can tell that his partner is affected by the Call before they even break atmo. Skins’ shoulders untense as he draws a deep breath, eyes slipping shut. 

“Do you feel it?” Skins whispers, almost reverent. Almost the same way he had when their bond finally snapped into place on Dagobah, but somehow more. It is in that moment that Luke realizes that Skins is a Child of the desert, more than he is Luke’s. More - even - than his partner is connected to the Force. The thought strangely warms him. The Force is his ally, his destiny.

Skins’ ally is the desert, the Call. Through their bond, Luke can feel the strength of far-off sandstorms. He feels the Beasts of Upatau rear their heads. He feels the wind caressing cheeks of the Children, the ever present rage and protection of the desert.

He knows then: that Skins is powerful in a way that Luke could never be. Skins has a sandstorm raging beneath his skin. Skins is a Desert Sage, and the realization takes his breath away.

What do you hear? Luke sends. There is no reply for long minutes as Skins listens.

Pain, comes at last, consideringly. And strength. Resilience, and protection. But that’s just what’s familiar. It’s…none of them are the same, but they’re similar. But it feels like…there’s healing, too. More than there ever was back home.

As Skins speaks, Luke feels the notes of the Call as described filter through the bond. He hears it too, now, and allows the Force to flow through him.

The abject devastation strikes him in the chest, and he gasps. Releasing the feeling into the Force, he pushes deeper. Skins tethers him, the warmth of their clasped palms and strength of their bond allowing Luke to delve further. Pain. Desolation. Growth. Hope.

The Force sings with rightness despite the pain. Luke thinks of Djarin. A man who has endured so much; a deadly warrior who has nothing but gentleness for his son. A leader of a scattered people who had not asked for such burden, but taken it on all the same. The Mand’alor. A father. Din Djarin.

Dry amusement sparks through the bond.

You have a crush on him, Skins sends, and it brings Luke closer to the surface of his body. Where he would usually splutter - were they speaking verbally - he is quiet. Gathering his thoughts. His initial reaction is to deny it, but Skins would be able to sense the untruth.

Because it is an untruth, as much as Luke wishes it were otherwise. He’s been on Mandalore for three storming days, and yet…

Skins feeds his own frustration embarrassment acknowledgement back to him, tinged with amusement acceptance love.

A crush doesn’t mean anything, Luke sends, unable to help the petulance that leaks through their bond. He’s not sure if Skins’ answering chuckle is audible, but he hears it all the same.

You can hide from yourself, umaqondana , but not from me. Does he make you happy? 

Luke considers it, the Call of Mandalore singing in his mind. He thinks of Djarin, originally reluctant to let a stranger around his son. He thinks of the way Djarin’s mind is always bent towards Grogu, without the Force able to tell Luke so. He thinks of Djarin showing up to his door with a plate of food and a listening ear, not there to interrogate but to understand.

Yes, Luke answers. He does.

Then I thank him for it, Skins sends. There is no jealousy, no wistfulness seeping through the bond. It’s not something that they’ve discussed much, but it’s not uncommon on Upatau to see partnerships of more than two people. The desert is unforgiving, and love is a gentleness that should be protected, in any form. Even the warlike Tuskens raise their children in communal groups. Even so, Luke has to check.

You aren’t upset? he sends. Surprise flickers through the bond, quickly followed by amusement exasperation fondness.

No, my star, Skins replies, I’m not upset. Love isn’t a finite resource. It’s endless, like the Force. Loving someone else doesn’t mean you have less love for me, it means you have more love in your heart. It’s a good thing.

I…wouldn’t say love, Luke sends, knowing that the bond betrays the flustered emotion curling through him. It’s too early for that. He appreciates Djarin’s gentleness and dedication as a parent, his curiosity about the Force, the consideration he has for Luke himself; but he doesn’t know the man well enough to say that he loves him. 

That’s alright, Skins replies easily, but don’t deprive yourself of the opportunity because of me, Luke. You deserve to be happy. If the Mand’alor makes you happy, then we share a common goal.

Luke allows his love and appreciation for Skins to flow uninterrupted through the bond. He is constant reminded of the goodness in Skins’ heart, constantly discovering new ways that Skins cares for him and treats him with gentleness. It would be understandable for Skins to have reservations about Luke’s…crush. For many couples, it would even be expected, perhaps dreaded. But Skins offers him only understanding and gladness. Luck does not exist, there is only the Force; but Luke sends his thanks to it for bringing them together, for guiding Luke to someone who loves him so purely.

Skins sends his own love back across the bond, followed by a twinge of mischief protectiveness.

If he hurts you, the pilot sends, tone light but absolutely sincere, I will be causing a diplomatic incident.

Still deep in meditation, Luke doesn’t sigh or laugh, though he wants to do both.

For Leia’s sake, he sends, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

Chapter Text

As promised, Luke and Skins return a little less than two hours later. Djarin watches them come up the street, shoving and joking with each other like foundlings. When Luke meets his eye, the Jedi’s face seems red. He must have gotten sunburnt.

“Artoo wasn’t too much of a terrible influence, was he, Mand’alor?” Skins asks as they approach, and Djarin suppresses a laugh.

“If any of us but Master Yoda could understand binary, maybe. As it stands, I think Grogu remains uncorrupted,” he replies. Skins smirks, but his gaze is too sharp, too considering, Djarin looks away.

“We can offer each of you accommodations within the settlement, if you want,” he says. “Not many of our people have answered the call, so we have a lot of empty houses.”

Luke and Skins exchange a look, then. Skins smiles, and Djarin feels abruptly as though he has overstepped.

“I’ll stay with Luke,” Skins says, “But if you could allow Master Yoda a place to stay, we would be grateful.”

“Of course,” Djarin hastens, “He can stay in the Royal Wing with us.”

From the open doorway behind him comes a loud hmph! Djarin turns and looks down at the old Jedi as he toddles out of the house. 

“No say, have I? To protect myself, too old and decrepit am I?” he asks, eyes sharp as he looks up and into Djarin’s eyes behind the helmet.

“No, Master, that isn’t-”

Djarin’s hurried defense is cut off by Luke’s fond sigh as the younger Jedi approaches them. 

“He’s messing with you,” he tells Djarin, then crouches down to eye-level with his teacher. “Master Yoda, the Mand’alor wishes to honor you with a place in his household. It’s no hut in the swamps, but somehow I think you’ll manage.”

Djarin winces slightly at the teasing in his tone. Predictably, Yoda smacks Luke on the shoulder with his stick. The Jedi barely seems to feel it, just continues to smile serenely at the ancient Master. Yoda hmphs again.

“Insolent, my padawan has become! Too much time with the droid, you spend! ‘Manage,’ hmph! Stayed there, have I, on diplomatic missions. More familiar to me, it is, than these young Mandalorians,” Yoda says, tapping his stick against the ground decisively. Djarin realizes then the extent of the boon he has been granted, with Yoda’s presence on Mandalore. Beyond being of the same species as his son, Yoda’s memories contain so much knowledge about the planet itself. Knowledge that might have been lost to his people forever, had Luke never come to them. Had Luke never inserted himself into the old Master’s life.

Much do we owe, Yoda had told him, to Young Skywalker’s tender heart.

Yes, Djarin thinks. Very much indeed.

Luke grins at his teacher and stands, clapping his hands. “Great! I’m sure the Mand’alor would love to hear about what his planet was like, before the Purge. You’ll have to make time to spend with him and Grogu, okay, Master?”

Yoda hmphs again, but at this point Djarin is beginning to recognize it as something of a habit, and less an expression of any particular emotion.

“Time, I will have, for Young Din and his father. Long has it been, since I conversed with my own kind. The last, Yaddle was. Since her passing, too long has it been. Grateful, I am,” he says. Djarin wonders if this kind of conversational whiplash is commonplace with him, and gains a new appreciation for Luke and Skins, who must have had a steep learning curve, to be as at ease with the Jedi Master as they are now.

Well, he says that, but as Yoda speaks the two Upatauans exchange a look of surprise.

“Yaddle,” Skins says hesitantly, stepping closer to Yoda and - incidentally - to Djarin, “She was another of your species. She sat on the Jedi High Council when you were Grandmaster, right? You don’t speak about her, much.”

Yoda looks up at his student, ears drooping slightly. “Too painful, it was. The last, I thought myself, of my kind. No point, I thought, in speaking of old memories. Purpose, there now is, in sharing her memory with Young Din.”

“Would you share it with us too, Master? Luke would love to hear about another Jedi Master, and…well, I’m curious.” Skins offers a shrug and a roguish grin, and it emphasizes the sharp angles of his face even as it softens them somewhat. He’s handsome, Djarin realizes. Sharp and smooth in a way Djarin’s own weathered face has never been. A strange, uncomfortable feeling lodges in his chest at the thought. He ignores it, clearing his throat discreetly.

Well, he thought it was discreet, but now the two Jedi and Skins are looking at him. Dank farrik.

“I…admit to being curious as well,” he says, for lack of anything else, “I’ve spent so long wondering about Grogu’s species that I would appreciate any Telling you’re willing to give, Master.”

Yoda’s eyes narrow at him, and Djarin again wonders if the ancient Jedi’s connection to the Force is strong enough to ignore beskar. Nevermind that he doesn’t even understand what he’s feeling right now. But then Yoda nods and taps his stick on the ground, saying, “Tell you all, I will, but not now. A time for settling, it now is. A time for Telling, later it will be.”

Luke and Skins both nod their heads respectfully, deferring to their teacher. Djarin hums his own acknowledgement. Always more comfortable when the conversation turns to business, he turns to Skins. “Do you need help unloading anything you brought with you?”

Skins looks back at him, eyes focused on his face but thankfully lacking whatever ability allows Luke and Master Yoda to look directly into Djarin’s eyes.

“Not really,” Skins says, shrugging. “I tend to travel light: old habit from the war. I’ve got a few changes of clothes, but Luke already brought most of what we need with him. Master Yoda didn’t bring anything besides his stick and his lightsaber, and he’s got both of those on him already.”

Djarin glances back to the old Jedi, but can’t see any hint of a lightsaber hilt on his person. It makes sense, Djarin supposes, what with Yoda being in hiding for the past thirty years. He’s likely made a habit of hiding anything that would mark him as a Jedi carefully out of sight.

“So no keepsakes, or anything you’d be uncomfortable leaving on your ship? We don’t have very many problems with thieves, here, but I won’t say stealing never happens.” He isn’t ashamed to admit it. His people have been through uncountable hardships, and sometimes stealing is the difference between life and death. He’s worked hard to ensure that his people know that they will be provided for, that they will have no need to take from others, but habits honed through survival are difficult to break.

Skins shakes his head. “People from our culture keep their important items on their person at all times, and Master Yoda is a monk. If he has keepsakes, we’ve never seen them. Like I said, there are only a few changes of clothes on the ship. If someone feels the need to steal those, they’re welcome to them. I can make more.”

Of course. Skins had said that Upatau is a slave planet. He and Luke would be no strangers to the concept of theft as necessity, would not ascribe the actions of a desperate few to the entirety of Djarin’s people. Even so, it’s nice to hear.

“Right,” Luke says, clapping his hands gently. “We’re all good here, Mand’alor. Although…”

His head tips to the side, eyes going far away as he listens to whatever the Force is telling him. A grin breaks across his face. “Grogu is getting a bit antsy, and I’m not sure we can trust Artoo to hold the profanity if Grogu starts Force-lifting him like he’s thinking about doing.”

Djarin lets out a fond, soft sigh and shakes his head. Trust Grogu to get into mischief as soon as he’s left relatively alone for a few minutes. He turns and walks back into the small house, three sets of footsteps following behind him.

“Kid,” he says as he catches sight of Grogu, one clawed hand already reaching out for R2-D2 as the droid bleeps erratically. “Let’s leave the droid alone, okay? Master Luke and Skins are back.”

That gets Grogu’s attention, and his hand falls away from the droid before two tiny arms shoot into the air, grabbing for Djarin. Large, shining eyes look up at him  - distinctly pleading - and Djarin chuckles fondly before scooping his son into his arms. He turns back towards the others, Grogu already leaning forward in his hold. Surprisingly, it isn’t Luke on the receiving end of the child’s grabbing hands, but Skins.

The man looks momentarily taken aback, surprise causing his eyes to widen. Luke nudges him forward with his shoulder; and dark eyes glance first down at Luke, then to Djarin, before finally settling on Grogu.

“Go on,” Luke says softly, a gentle smile on his face, “say ‘hi.’”

Skins takes a halting few steps forward, stopping a couple feet from Djarin. Far enough away that - even if he were to make a grab for the child - he’d never reach Grogu before Djarin had a chance to retaliate. It’s an obviously calculated gesture, but one Djarin appreciates.

“Hello, little one,” Skins says, unintentionally echoing Luke’s words from the Jedi’s first meeting with Grogu. “My name is Sand Suneater, but everyone calls me Skins. Your teacher Master Luke is very dear to me, so I’ll be staying with him while he trains you. Is that alright?”

Just like with Luke, it doesn’t seem to be a rhetorical question. Skins is legitimately asking. Djarin wonders idly what his response would be, if Grogu wasn’t alright with it. It’s mere curiosity, of course. Grogu has already made up his mind, at least where Skins is concerned. Of that, Djarin has no doubt.

This is further proven when Grogu coos happily, still reaching out for Skins. Skins smiles at him, eyes unbearably warm, but it’s Luke he looks to for confirmation. For some reason, the Jedi looks a bit thrown; but he shakes it off easily when the attention in the room focuses on him. He smiles at Grogu, a perfect match to his partner’s expression.

“He says that’s good, and that he’s very happy to meet you. He…oh!” Luke looks surprised for a moment, then grins happily. “He wants to know if you and I are Clan.”

“Can you not hear him?” Djarin interjects, looking at Skins. He doesn’t really want to interrupt, but he’s curious. Skins has the Force, so shouldn’t he be able to hear Grogu like Luke and Master Yoda do? Skins, for his part, doesn’t look annoyed by the question. He hums.

“I’m not as connected with the Force as Luke, or Grogu, or Master Yoda are. Grogu’s emotions are very bright in the Force, so I can feel them to some extent; but Luke’s Force-connection and training bond with him allows for more…nuance. Grogu could probably push his feelings to me directly, but since we don’t have a bond it would tire him out pretty quickly.”

Djarin nods, satisfied with the answer. Skins’ attention shifts back to Grogu, and he smiles gently as he says, “Yes, little one. Master Luke and I are Clan, like you and your father are. We’ve known each other for a long time, and we made a promise to stay with each other.”

Luke’s head tilts, and Skins doesn’t have to look at him for the Jedi to relay, “He wants to know if we’re a Clan of two, like his.”

Skins shakes his head gently. “Oh, no. Our Clan is a bit bigger than that. There’s Master Luke and I, and Master Yoda, and Artoo. There’s also another droid named C-3PO, a pilot named Wedge Antilles; Master Luke’s sister Princess Leia, her husband Han Solo, and his friends Chewbacca and Lando Calrissian.”

Grogu’s ears shoot up and he squeals. Skins apparently needs no translation for that,  because he laughs and says, “I know, it sounds like a lot. It can be, sometimes; but that’s what it means to be Clan. Even when your Clan is as crazy as ours, you stand by them. You protect them. I’ll bet you and your dad have protected each other a lot, right?”

Grogu coos, ears twitching. A Clan of ten. It’s hard for Djarin to wrap his head around, when he’s only ever had Grogu that he would want to be Clan with. Even more baffling is the inclusion of the two droids. He knows that Luke and Skins are fond of R2-D2, that much is evident from spending any amount of time around the droid. But to include it in their Clan? Can droids even feel the emotions which serve to bind Clan members together? Can droids feel at all?

He glances over at the astromech, which has rolled up next to Luke and is uncharacteristically quiet as the Jedi gently pats its dome. It trills quietly, lights blinking slowly. Almost as if it’s…content. Djarin puts his questions away for later, focusing back on the still-ongoing conversation.

Luke laughs suddenly, full-bellied and joyous. At Skins’ questioning look, he explains, “I showed him our Clan as you were talking about them. He’s very interested in Chewie. I don’t think he’s ever seen a Wookie before.”

Skins looks back to Djarin, expression amused. “That true?”

“To my knowledge, yes. We didn’t run into any while we were travelling, and I don’t think he would have ever been to Kashyyyk,” he says. Then, because he’s curious and because Luke has never refused to answer his questions, he asks, “So in your Clan, you have two droids, a Wookie, and one of Yoda and Grogu’s species. Are the rest of you human?”

Skins narrows his eyes but answers evenly, “We are. From all over, though. Luke and I are from Upatau, the Princess is from Alderaan, Han and Wedge are Corellian, and Lando is…”

He turns to Luke. “Where is Lando from again?”

Luke hums, pressing his gloved hand against his cheek in thought. “Socorro, I think? Han met him on Numidian Prime, though. I didn’t really meet him properly until after Bespin.”

He says the name of the planet like it’s an event, an occurrence, and Skins reaches out to squeeze his free hand briefly. There’s obviously a story there, but Djarin doesn’t think it’s the time to ask. “You came together during the war, then?”

Luke nods, smiling. “We did. Apart from Lando and Master Yoda, Skins and I met the rest of our Clan over the span of a couple days, sort of co-current with us joining the Alliance. It all happened rather quickly.”

Skins snorts. “‘Quickly’ is an understatement. First, these two droids show up acting incredibly weird, then the next thing we know we’re getting scammed by Han and Chewie in a cantina; rescuing the Princess from the Empire, then Luke tears off with Wedge to go blow up the Death Star. All in - what - less than 48 hours?”

Luke sighs, but the sound is fond, if slightly exasperated. “More like 30 hours, but yes. Twins, I’d almost forgotten how hectic that day was.”

“Well I didn’t, considering I spent most of it worried out of my mind while you were off being incredibly, stupidly brave,” Skins gripes, but there’s no heat behind it. It sounds like a conversation they’ve hashed out many, many times; and at this point Skins’ protest is perfunctory. 

“How old were you?” Djarin muses quietly, mostly to himself. Skins, standing so close to him, hears anyway.

“I was 17, Luke was 19. Since I was technically still a kid, the others didn’t want me in harm’s way if they could help it. I get it now, but at the time I was…not pleased,” he explains. Luke steps up beside him and takes his hand, huffing and shaking his head.

“Oh, you were furious.” To Djarin, he says, “He refused to talk to me for a week and a half after I woke up, after the Death Star. Of course, the cold shoulder was somewhat ruined by the fact he wouldn’t leave my side; but eventually I poked at him enough that he blew up at me, and we talked it out.”

“I don’t do that anymore, though,” Skins cuts in, looking strangely insistent and…nervous? He’s looking directly into Djarin’s eyes, just when Djarin thought he didn’t have the same strange ability Luke and Yoda seem to have. Djarin has absolutely no idea what the man could possibly have to be nervous about, when all he’s doing is talking about their past. “The uh, the ‘blowing up’ thing. I was a kid, and we’d been through a lot in a really short amount of time. Not an excuse, but-”

“A reason,” Luke cuts him off. His black-clad thumb runs idly over the back of Skins’ hand. “Besides, I pushed you on purpose. I knew you would yell at me. I wanted you to. Better to have it out in the open than bottling it up inside, right?”

“To the Dark Side, suppression leads,” Yoda interjects sagely. “Alive, fear and anger make us. Natural, they are. Said this to me, who did?”

Skins sighs. “I did, Master Yoda.”

“Then forget it, you should not. Young, you were. Angry and frightened, were you. Lost a loved one, you had; and afraid of losing Young Luke, were you as well. Needlessly punish yourself for this, you will not.” The old Jedi’s tone brokers no argument, and Skins smiles abashedly.

“Yes, Master Yoda.” He is still looking at Djarin, anxiety bright in his eyes. Suddenly, Djarin understands. Skins is worried about what he will think of him. He’s worried that Djarin will judge him for an emotional outburst that happened years ago, after what sounds like one of the most stressful events in the man’s life. Djarin doesn’t understand why his opinion matters to this man; but he can absolve him of this worry, at least.

“I’m Mandalorian,” he points out, “Yelling at people is practically a cultural pastime, especially if we’re worried for them. Sounds like he gave you a lot of reasons to worry.”

He nods towards Luke, who - for his part - simply smiles and nods, utterly unapologetic. It’s a side of him Djarin hasn’t yet seen: still gentle and serene, but speaking to a unabashed reckless streak that Djarin is beginning to grasp, however loosely. Skins looks taken aback for a moment before he giggles, high-pitched and sudden. 

“Oh, you have no idea. If making people worried for him was a sport, Luke would be the galactic champion. Just you wait, I’ll give it a week before you have your first Luke-related crisis,” he says. At his side, Luke brightens.

“Oh, are we betting?” he asks. Skins turns and points at him accusingly.

“Absolutely not. Remember, you aren’t allowed to bet anymore; not since Leia found out you’d been using the Force to fleece Han at sabacc.” He seems to remember something, then, and snaps his fingers. “Oh, that reminds me! Call your sister. I managed to call her on our way from Dagobah to let her know what’s going on, but you know she feels better hearing from you.”

Luke pouts - honest to stars pouts - when Skins talks about the no-betting rule. It makes his face look incredibly boyish, and once again Djarin is struck with just how young Luke - and Skins, by extension - is, to have been through so much. “Okay, but that’s sabacc. How could I use the Force to give the Mand’alor a crisis?”

“You wouldn’t even have to use the Force for that, dear,” Skins replies cheekily, “You’d just do something characteristically heroic and reckless, and give the poor man a heart attack. He isn’t prepared for you, yet.”

“Honestly,” Djarin says, their playful banter somewhat infectious, “I think my first crisis has already been covered, this morning.”

There is still guilt churning low in his stomach over Luke’s lightsaber. If he’d known it would cause the Jedi pain, he never would have allowed it to be taken from him. He reminds himself that if Bo-katan had known, she likely wouldn’t have demanded it in the first place. Even still, Luke’s easy forgiveness baffles him. That probably counts as a crisis, right?

“Yeah,” Skins says lightly, though his eyes on Djarin’s own are sharp, “I’d say so.”

Djarin is spared from interpreting that look by Grogu shrieking in his arms. All attention in the room immediately shifts to the child, and Skins and Luke immediately summon matching expressions. Soft eyes, gentle smiles. Djarin feels like something has caught in his chest, and coughs.

“Sorry, Grogu,” Skins says, “All this adult stuff must be boring, huh? Is there anything that you’d like to know about me, or our Clan?”

Grogu burbles and waves his arms. Luke listens through the Force for a moment, then says, “He wants to know if you’re a Jedi.”

Skins chuckles and shakes his head. “No, I’m not a Jedi; but I’m still connected to the Force. Princess Leia isn’t a Jedi either, but she’s even more connected to the Force than I am. Do you know anyone else like that?”

Luke startles slightly, eyes flickering to Djarin and back. He doesn’t understand, until Luke says, “He…he said buir. It’s the Mando’a word for ‘parent.’”

For a moment, the words refuse to register. When they do, Djarin has to fight to keep his reaction in check. Sure, now that he has a word for it, he knows that what he’s feeling when he removes his armor at night is Grogu’s Force-signature, radiating happiness and love. It just never occurred to him that the Force must be with him, to be able to feel it at all. To Djarin, the Force is a nebulous, mysterious thing; something that happens to other people. Certainly not to him. But if what Luke has told him of the Force is true, if it exists within all things, then why not him? It’s a strange thing to come to terms with. He certainly can’t do it right now, so he shoves it aside to deal with later.

Or at least, he tries to; but Skins is looking at him with a considering, slightly amused expression. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, Mand’alor?”

Djarin doesn’t know how to respond, so he decides on honesty. Shrugging, he says, “News to me, too.”

Skins only hums and turns his attention back to Grogu. “Your dad, huh? That must be nice. I’ll bet his Force-signature is really comforting to you, right?”

At Skins’ side, Luke sucks in a sharp breath, very softly. His partner turns towards him in concern, but before Skins can open his mouth to ask what’s wrong, the man freezes. His eyes flutter and he gasps just as Luke had done, quiet but audible. When he opens his eyes, they’re wide with shock as he glances at Djarin.

Djarin, who has absolutely no clue what just happened. He looks to Luke, but the Jedi’s expression is equally startled as his partner.

“What-” Djarin starts to ask, but a laugh from Yoda cuts him off.

“Strong, your Force-signature is. Shared it with Young Skywalker, did Young Din. Felt it through our bonds, did Young Suneater and I. A shock, it came; to them, I think,” the ancient Jedi explains. As he speaks, Djarin watches both Luke and Skins’ chests rise and fall slowly, deliberately. When he looks back into their eyes, the shock is gone. Luke looks faintly embarrassed.

“As Master Yoda said,” he begins, “My apologies. I was…caught off guard.”

There is a blush spreading across his cheeks, betraying the tight control that the Jedi usually keeps over his emotions. Skins is grinning.

“That’s an understatement. You don’t usually feel a signature that strong from a non-Force user. Maybe your dad should join you in training, hm?” The last sentence is directed at Grogu, who coos happily in Djarin’s arms. Luke’s expression shifts into one of amusement, lips pressed together to keep from laughing. Djarin isn’t sure that he wants to know what Grogu has just shown him. What he is curious about is-

“What- what does it feel like?” he asks, without really meaning to. But they’re all looking at him now, so he buckles down. “My Force-signature.”

Skins and Luke share a look he has no hope of deciphering, before Skins hums in thought.

“It’s…warm. Like a candle waiting to become a blaze. Protective. Steadfast, might be a better word. I only felt it second-hand, so Luke might be able to say it better,” he says, glancing over at his partner. 

The blush on Luke’s face deepens, but the Jedi’s voice is steady as he says, “It feels like Krayt bones lying under the Twins. Immovable. Warm, like Skins said. And very strong, as Master Yoda said. Skins was joking earlier, but honestly - with some training - you might be able to use the Force.”

“I can’t remove my armor,” Djarin says, because if he thinks of the actual implications he’ll have his second crisis of the day. Luke nods in understanding.

“Which I know and respect; but you’re a warrior. You should know what avenues are open to you, should you choose to pursue them. Just because other Force users can’t feel you through the armor doesn’t necessarily mean you can’t access the Force while wearing it. The Force exists within all things, even beskar,” the Jedi says. He must somehow sense that Djarin is quietly freaking out a bit, because he hastens to add, “That’s just a theory, though. We could look into it, but it’s ultimately your choice.”

“Right,” Djarin says, for lack of anything else. Him, a Force user? There is precedent for such things, as the Darksaber on his hip can attest, but Djarin is having trouble reconciling that with himself. As he’s done many - perhaps too many - times today, he pushes it aside to think about later. He foresees a quiet freak-out in his near future, after Grogu has gone to bed.

“Speaking of training,” Skins cuts in, “I think our arrival has disrupted your schedule. Master Yoda, Artoo and I can wait here, if you’d like to-”

“I think the little one is a bit too distracted for training, today,” Luke says, smiling softly at the happily burbling child in Djarin’s arms. The Jedi’s gaze shifts to Djarin, and the smile does not dissipate. Djarin’s roster of things he is Not Thinking About is rapidly becoming overfilled. “If the Mand’alor permits, could we see where Master Yoda will be staying?”

Djarin nods. Business, he can deal with business. “Of course.”

He tightens his hold on Grogu, hugging his son to his chest before setting him back on the ground. The child immediately toddles over to Skins - still just a few paces away - and raises his arms imploringly. Skins stares down at him with wide eyes that flicker over to Djarin, obvious question written plainly. Djarin nods again.

“It’s fine,” he says. Usually, he wouldn’t be so comfortable with a virtual stranger picking up his son, but nothing about this situation is ‘usual.’ Besides, this is Luke’s partner; someone the Jedi trusts enough to give his heart to, and Djarin trusts Luke’s judgement.

Skins - eyes still slightly too wide - bends down and gently lifts Grogu into his arms. The child trills happily, immediately reaching up to place a hand against Skins’ cheek. There is a soft gasp as his son uses the Force to communicate, and Skins’ dark eyes grow watery.

“Yeah, kid,” he whispers, “Yeah, I’m really glad to meet you too.”

Chapter Text

About a week after Skins and Master Yoda’s arrival, the Upatauan pilot pulls Djarin aside when he brings Grogu down for training.

“You’re with me today,” Skins says. Luke looks away from a happily burbling Grogu to smile reassuringly in their direction, and shares a nod with his partner. Thoroughly confused, Djarin tilts his head.

“What…do you mean?”

“Luke said that he and Grogu have a strong enough training bond that they can work alone; and it’ll be better for Grogu’s meditation if you aren’t here to distract him,” Skins explains, words blunt but not unkind. “So you’ll be working with me today.”

Blind-sighted, Djarin blinks. Surprisingly, he has no issue leaving Grogu alone with Luke. He knows no harm will come to his son under the Jedi’s care. But that still leaves him with a rather pressing question. “‘Working’...doing what, exactly?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” Skins says, and raises his voice to call out to Luke, “We’re going!”

Luke smiles and tells Grogu, “Your dad is going with Skins for a while, little one. Is that alright?”

Grogu squeals and waves his arms, and Luke translates, “He says have fun, and be safe.”

Djarin narrows his eyes behind the helmet. “Did he, now?”

Luke doesn’t even look sheepish. He offers a bright, unapologetic grin. “Something to that effect, at least!”

Djarin sighs, then crosses the yard to kneel in front of his son. He places a gentle hand on the kid’s head. “Thanks, bud. I’ll see you later. Be good for Master Luke, alright?”

Grogu squeaks and pats his hand. Smiling softly, Djarin stands and makes his way back over to Skins. “Alright, lead the way.”
Skins nods and they start off, leaving the yard and walking down the road towards the outskirts of the settlement. For a while, they walk in silence, before Djarin’s curiosity gets the better of him and he asks, “Will you tell me where we’re going, at least?”

Skins glances sidelong at him, steps purposeful but unhurried. ‘Out into the desert. You’ll be able to hear better.”

“Hear what?” Djarin asks, growing tired of the secrecy. Perhaps noticing his frustration, Skins smirks.

“The Call,” he says. Djarin stops walking. The pilot quirks an eyebrow but halts as well. Questions swirl through Djarin’s mind, but he can’t seem to give voice to any of them. He’s heard Luke and Skins talk about the Call: the strange phenomenon unique to desert planets and those that live there. It’s even more mysterious to him than the Force, and he’s baffled by Skins’ apparent belief that he’ll be able to hear it. Also: “I can’t remove my armor.”

Skins shakes his head, eyes rolling. “You can still hear through the helmet, right? The Call isn’t like the Force, beskar shouldn’t do anything to dampen your sensitivity to it. If it does…we’ll call it an experiment.”

“So I’m your lab rat,” Djarin says with a sigh. Skins’ eyes go sharp, locking onto his visor. The man shakes his head again.

‘You’re the Mand’alor. This is your planet, your home, your responsibility; and there’s a large part of it that you don’t understand. If you don’t at least try, you’ll be worse off for it,” he says in that blunt, straightforward way of his. Djarin stares at him in surprise.

“You…care about that?” he asks before he can stop himself. Skins’ priorities are easy to glean, though Djarin hasn’t known him long. Luke comes first, of course; then the rest of his Clan. Grogu too, maybe. Djarin never thought his efficacy as a leader fit into those priorities.

Skins looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Mandalore is my home too, at least for the time being. Of course I want it to thrive.”

Ah. Right, that makes sense. All of Djarin’s people - Mandalorian or otherwise - would benefit from a competent leader. And Djarin will admit to being curious. What does the voice of his ancestral home sound like? Will he be able to hear it at all? He nods at Skins and starts walking again. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Skins lets out a quiet huff; amused or annoyed, Djarin can’t tell. Still, he falls into step at Djarin’s side, and they continue on towards the shifting sands.

The Mand’alor is quiet as Skins leads him out into the dunes; and the pilot can’t tell if it’s because he’s lost in thought or he just has nothing to say. It’s strange, being alone with the man. He doesn’t act like the sovereign of the entire Mandalorian diaspora, however impressive his armor looks. Skins has never seen him fight, either; though he knows the man must be very skilled. The title of Mand’alor is won through combat, after all.

Skins doesn’t mind the quiet, but it does make him realize how little he knows about this warrior in gleaming silver. He knows the Mand’alor is older than he and Luke, but not by how much. He knows that the man used to be a bounty hunter with one of the more traditional Mandalorian coverts, which is how he’d met Grogu. He knows - above all else - that the man would do anything for his son. That’s about it. He doesn’t know where the Mand’alor is from, his past other than bounty hunting, if he has any Clan besides Grogu. Skins could ask - could try and fill the silence - but somehow he feels that it’s not his place. If anyone should get those answers, it’s Luke, not him.

Eventually they reach the top of a tall dune, overlooking the area around it. The Call is already alight in his mind, trying to pull him in; but Skins resists it for now. He stops walking.

“Here,” he says, kneeling on the sand with his feet tucked behind him. The Mand’alor hesitates for a second before kneeling across from him. The feather-light winds of Mandalore play through Skins’ hair and whisper past his ears, and he realizes that the helmet mat be an issue, after all. Oh well, only one way to know for sure. “Can you feel anything?”

“It’s hot,” the Mand’alor deadpans, and Skins snorts but tips his head in curiosity.

“You can feel temperature through the beskar?” he asks, and the man across from him nods.

“The metal is reflective, so it keeps a lot of it out. A Mandalorian in beskar alloy would feel it more, but I can feel some,” he says. Skins hums in acknowledgement.

“Good to know. Okay, it’s hot. What else?” he prompts. The Mand’alor is silent for a moment. When he does speak, the words are hesitant.

“...Sandy?”

Skins fights down his laughter but can’t hide his amused smile. “Right. What kind of sand? How is it moving?”

More silence, and then: “It’s…dark. Grey, not gold. And it…flows, kind of like water, but slower.”

Skins nods. “Good. It’s dark because it’s made of glass and ash, not rock or shell. It’ll be lighter, where the seas used to be. And do you see how it moves more between the dunes than on top? That’s because the wind is stronger when it’s funneled between them. Can you feel wind through the armor?”

The Mand’alor shakes his head. Skins hums. “That’s alright. Can you hear it?”

They lapse into quiet once more, this time purposefully. The Call sings in Skins’ ears. He blocks it out as best he can, fighting the urge to close his eyes and slip into it. After a while, the Mand’alor sighs softly.

“It’s…quiet. Very quiet. I can’t hear it well,” he says, sounding almost sheepish. Skins offers him a reassuring smile.

“You’re right. Because of the thinner atmosphere and lack of clouds, the winds of Mandalore aren’t very strong. But they’re still here, and they’re important,” he says. “All the things you’ve noticed: the heat, the sands, the wind - they all make up the Call. Change any of them, even a tiny bit, and the Call changes too.”

“You and Luke have mentioned that the Call of your homeworld is different,” the Mand’alor says, and Skins nods.

“It’s fiercer, and older,’ he explains. “Much, much older. Mandalore wasn’t always a desert planet, and it’s Call hasn’t fully settled yet. It doesn’t know what it’s meant to be.”

“How can you tell?” The man sounds plainly curious, so Skins shrugs and answers easily.

“Comparison, mostly. And well, I can cheat a bit, since I’m also Force sensitive. The Call is similar to the Force in a lot of ways, so I can use one to better connect to the other.”

The Mand’alor hums, then says, “I can’t remove my armor.”

Skins sighs, an exasperated smile on his face. “I told you, that’s fine. You don’t need to be connected with the Force to hear the Call, it just helps. Now close your eyes, and listen. What do you hear?”

Silver beskar glints in the sun as the Mand’alor bows his head slightly, eyes presumably closed. Skins waits.

Djarin listens. He feels a bit foolish, sitting in the desert with his eyes closed in front of a virtual stranger. Skins won’t ambush him - he has no reason to - but Djarin still has to fight down his own apprehension. The pilot is quiet, only the soft sound of shifting sand under him letting Djarin know he’s there at all. Wait-

He hones in on the sound, barely-there and oddly uniform. It isn’t just where Skins is kneeling, he realizes: it’s everywhere. Now that Djarin knows what he’s listening for, he hears it all around him. A soft, ghosting noise that doesn’t end, rising and falling ever-so-slightly as the wind shifts.

“The sand,” he says softly, “It’s…whispering.”

Not in words, but Djarin can’t call it anything else. Across from him, Skins makes a satisfied noise and says, “Good. Follow that sound. What does it feel like?”

Djarin contemplates the question. He’s never given much thought to what a sound feels like, but he tries. The shifting sands sound…hesitant, almost shy. Djarin can feel the openness of the sky above him, and thinks the sands sound…empty, too. Lonely, maybe. He relays these thoughts quietly to Skins, trying not to feel self-conscious about it. Skins makes another noise, this one distinctly pleased.

“Good! Now try to keep those feelings in your mind, and keep listening. Open your eyes,” he says. Djarin tries - really, he does - but as soon as his eyes slide open the noise and emotions grow fainter, slipping away. He huffs softly in frustration.

“It faded, right?” Skins asks, as if he’d expected it. His gaze is free of judgement, making it easier for Djarin to nod and grunt an affirmative. Skins returns his nod. “It’s hard to focus on more than one sense at once. Don’t worry, the fact that you heard it at all is a good sign.”

Djarin sighs. This is hard, much harder than he thought it’d be. His mind feels like he’s been planning an assault, instead of listening to nature. Isn’t this kind of thing supposed to be relaxing? He finds he has a much greater respect for Skins and the man’s understanding of the Call. “How are you so good at this? I’m already tired, and I haven’t done anything.”

Skins chuckles, shaking his head. “It might feel that way, but you’ve done plenty. You aren’t just sitting here; you’re trying to tap into the voice of an entire planet, something much older and larger than yourself. It takes a lot out of you.”

Djarin narrows his eyes. “You seem fine.”

“I have more experience,” Skins points out. “And I am tired.”

“...Really.”

Skins shoots him a sharp look, but his voice is even as he answers, “Yes, really. Look: it takes more of my energy to resist the Call than to listen to it.”

“‘Resist?’ Why would you do that?” Djarin asks, perplexed. Skins gives him a dry smile.

“I’m…oversensitive, you might say. Even in the middle of the settlement I can hear the Call, and out here it’s even stronger. But I’m teaching right now, so I can’t afford to sink into it like my mind wants to. I’d be pretty useless to you, if I did.”

Djarin nods slowly, but he still doesn’t quite get it. His curiosity wins out over his reticence, and he asks, “Can you show me?”

Skins’ eyes widen, obviously taken aback. Before Djarin can recount his question, the pilot is already speaking. “Sure. Don’t know how interesting it’ll be, but if you really want me to…”

“I do. I’m…curious,” Djarin admits. Skins’ expression is slightly baffled, but he shrugs casually all the same. 

“Alright. Come sit next to me, then.”

Djarin blinks, remaining in place. Skins smirks at him, but explains, “I can anchor myself in the Force-void your beskar creates. If I’m drawn too deep, it’ll pull me back.”

The words go mostly over his head, but Djarin stands all the same. He settles himself next to Skins, and does not twitch when the man settles light fingers against his vambrace. Skins inhales deeply, eyes fluttering closed.

The effect is immediate. Djarin wasn’t expecting…well, anything really; and is caught off guard when the previously muted sounds of the desert suddenly sharpen. The wind picks up just slightly, playing with the ends of Skins’ hair. The pilot exhales slowly, and the sands around them are pushed away, forming a small ring with Skins at the center. Further down the dune, a couple of lizards crawl from the sand and stare towards them, unmoving. Then - bit by bit - they crawl forward, until they’re close enough for Djarin to touch, and stop. Djarin watches them watch Skins, eyes wide behind his helmet.

He feels…something. Some indescribable emotion, deep and raw and unfathomable. It causes his breath to catch, and he clears his throat. Skins doesn’t seem to notice. He is still, breath even, face relaxed. The winds seem to shift with every breath he takes; flowing towards him, then away, like a tide. The sands move with them, swirling into sprawling patterns that Djarin can almost make out before they change again. It’s…this is…

This is different from what Luke and Grogu do with the Force. Grogu can lift a mudhorn, and Luke can blow up a space station; but right now it feels like the desert itself - the very planet - is reacting to Skins. Like it’s listening to his Call, and not the other way around. Djarin’s never seen anything like it. He sits silently, marvelling at the man beside him.

He isn’t sure how much time passes, but the sun is slightly higher in the sky when Skins’ hand twitches against his vambrace, and the pilot’s eyes slide open. He breathes deeply, then looks askance at Djarin, expression bemused, but also…hesitant. “See? Not very exciting.”

Djarin turns his head to glance at the ring of sand around them, then looks very pointedly back at Skins. The man ducks his head, but says nothing.

“That…I felt that,” Djarin says, unable to keep the mystified note from his voice. “How did you do that?”

Skins looks back to him, eyes widened in clear surprise. “You did? What did it feel like?”

Djarin narrows his eyes at Skins’ deflection, but attempts to remember the feeling of the Call. Admittedly, he’d been paying more attention to Skins himself; but he tries. “Old. And…big. Very big. It was…a lot.”

Skins levels him with an even look, but something like approval gleams in his eyes. “Yes, it is.”

“How did you do that?” Djarin asks again, unwilling to let it go. He’s never seen a power like this. With his previous occupation, it’s rare that he encounters something entirely new; and his curiosity eats at him like a physical beast. Several emotions flicker across Skins’ face. He looks momentarily uncomfortable, then guarded. He draws a deep breath - centering himself in the Force - then meets Djarin’s eye with plain resolve.

“On Upatau, they’re called Sages,” he begins, his grave tone holding Djarin’s full attention. “No one knows why, but some people are born with the Call loud in their hearts. For very young people or elders, this can be dangerous.”

 “‘Call sickness,’ Luke said,” Djarin offers, and Skins nods. Djarin wonders if he imagines the slight surprise which cuts through the pilot’s serious expression.

“Yes. You know that I am a foundling,” he says, and it’s Djarin’s turn to nod. Skins had mentioned it the day of his arrival, when speaking about Grogu. “When I was five years old, I suffered a bout of Call sickness and wandered into the Junland Wastes. My parents found me, half-dead and unconscious. I had wandered so far that my birth parent couldn’t be found; and so I gained new parents, and an older brother.”

He vaguely remembers Skins mentioning a brother; but he can’t remember a name, nor anything about the man. Unwilling to pry when Skins has already revealed so much, he hums in understanding, sensing that the pilot has more to say.

He is proven correct seconds later. “All I have of my birth parents is my name. The desert took all memory from me, except that.”

Something aches deep below Djarin’s ribcage. Even he has snippets of memory, impressions of his parents from before the droids came. He cannot imagine going through life without them, able to conjure nothing of the people who gave him life. He says, “I’m sorry.”

Skins’ gaze turns razor sharp.

“Why?” he asks. “I’m not.”

Djarin blinks at him - unseen - and tries to come up with a response. He must take too long, because Skins sighs. “There is only one life I have known. Only one set of parents who I call mine. The person that I am was born from the desert, and the person that I was died there.”

Djarin is surprised by how deeply the words resonate with him. After all, couldn’t the same be said of him? Whoever he might’ve been - had his parents lived - is long dead. Has been dead since Djarin first put on his armor.

So too is the person he might’ve been, had he never found Grogu. It’s a less apparent sort of transformation, but somehow infinitely more important. The person he is can be tied back to that single moment: when he saw a child in danger and decided he could not stand aside.

Skins is watching him with searching eyes that are difficult to read. Daring or nervous, Djarin can’t tell. Like Luke, it seems Skins is also adept at giving gifts without realizing he is doing so. Already this morning he has given Djarin the opportunity to hear the voice of his ancestral homeworld; and now he gives a Telling. He has no way of knowing if Skins realizes the significance behind the gesture, but Djarin wants to give him something in return, even so.

“I understand. I am a foundling as well. While I have some memory of my parents, the person I was then is not who I am now. Not for a long time,”he says, hoping to reciprocate Skins’ openness. The pilot looks taken aback, then nods. There’s a small quirk to his lips that could possibly be called a smile.

“Right,” he says, then seems to recall the topic of conversation, and sighs. “Anyway: Sages aren’t that uncommon on Upatau. Sages that survive to adulthood…less so. And even then, well; the Hutts - historically - aren’t so tolerant of spiritual leaders among their slaves.”

Disgust curls through Djarin’s gut at the words, though he knows them to be true. He puts it aside in favor of the meaning behind Skins’ words. “So, you…”

“Among my people, I am a spiritual leader. Out in the galaxy, I am a backwater wives tale. And among those that know me, I am a man whose oddities are far outpaced by my partner’s. You can take your pick, Mand’alor,” Skins says, and something in the dismissive tone of his voice rubs Djarin the wrong way. He’s opening his mouth before he’s thought of anything to say.

“None of them sound like you,” he says, then pauses as he realizes what he’s said. Skins is looking at him quizzically, but it’s not like Djarin can take the words back. Not when they’re true. So - with no other option - he awkwardly forges on. “You’re powerful, I’ve never seen anything like…but I don’t think…you aren’t outpaced. But you’re also not…you’re just a person. So is Luke.”

As he speaks, Skins’ expression shifts to patient amusement, then outright shock. Djarin has never seen him more surprised, or at least not so openly. It is unfortunate that Djarin can think of nothing more to say to assuage the pilot’s perplexity. After a long moment, Skins draws a deep breath. His eyes clear of their shock, and he smiles a bit helplessly.

Almost to himself, he mutters, “Krayt, of course it would be you.”

Djarin doesn’t know what that means. Skins must read the wrong footedness in his silence, because the man pats Djarin on the shoulder and leverages himself to his feet. The pressure of his weight on Djarin’s pauldron is dulled by the beskar, but somehow it still feels heavy.

“C’mon,” the pilot says, looking down at him in faint amusement, “we should go back.”

Nodding in acknowledgement and grateful for the out, Djarin stands. They begin the trek back, walking in-stride. Like the walk into the desert, they are quiet. Djarin takes the time to consider what he has learned, reworking his impression of the man at his side. There is now a kinship between them that he never thought to find with Luke’s partner. Two foundlings, reborn in the crucible of near-death. It strikes him that if Skins were still on Upatau, his people would be looking to him for guidance. There is a weight on the pilot’s shoulders, a responsibility he carries that he did not ask for.

When the edges of the settlement come into view, Djarin stops walking. Skins gets a few paces ahead, then turns to him in obvious confusion.

“My name is Din Djarin,” he says, and watches as Skins’ eyes go wide. If he thought the man was surprised before, it is nothing compared to the abject shock now written plainly across his face. Skins’ mouth opens, then closes. His brow furrows. He draws a deep breath and turns to face Djarin fully, shoulders squared. Skins presses his palms together in front of his chest, and bends low at the waist. When he straightens, two words cross his lips.

 “Sand Suneater.”

It is Djarin’s turn to be surprised. It seems that this is their dynamic: constantly being surprised by one another. He knows the name, had overheard the man give it to Grogu; but it had not been given to him. Not until now. He bows his head in respect and - recalling a phrase from one of his first conversations with Luke - replies, “Witness.”

Skins blinks, once again taken aback. Then he laughs, eyes crinkling. He is smiling when he meets Djarin’s gaze. “This is the Way.”

Perhaps it is. The Way, the Call, the Force…perhaps they are - all of them, across hundreds of planets and moons and parsecs - talking about the same thing.

Behind the helmet, he smiles. They continue on.

Chapter Text

His brother is dead. It’s something that Skins has to keep reminding himself in the aftermath of the Battle of Yavin - as they’re calling it - while he sits silent and unmoving at Luke’s bedside. His friend has been asleep for days. No-one knows why, or how to wake him. And Skins’ brother is dead. Their brother is dead, because Luke is as much a brother to Biggs as Skins is. Was.

It doesn’t feel real. Skins hasn’t seen his older brother in over a year, and they barely have time for an adrenaline-fuelled, bewildered reunion before Biggs and Luke are climbing into their X-wings and heading into almost certain doom. Skins begs, pleads with the Princess and the General to let him go with them, but he’s refused. He does put his foot down firmly when they try to usher him out of the war room.

“My brother is out there. My best friend is out there. I’ve crossed a quarter of the galaxy in just over a day to save your Princess and bring you these blueprints. I deserve to be here, General,” he says, glaring at Dodonna across the console. The General glances sidelong at the Princess, who stares at Skins for long moments before nodding crisply and turning back to the comms. And so Skins stays, and listens as the pilots of Red-Gold Squad are picked off one-by-one, his hands maintaining a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the console. He listens with his heart in his throat, and feels like crying in relief every time Biggs or Luke speak over the comms, still alive. Still flying, still trying to complete the mission and save them all. Seconds pass, then a minute. Wedge pulls out, and Skins finds himself praying.

‘Light of the Twins. Krayt, Sarlacc, Storm. May the sands hide you,’ he repeats like a mantra in his mind. But there are no sands here. No Krayt, no Sarlacc. No Twins. He squeezes his eyes shut. ‘May the Force be with you. May the Force be with you. May the Force-’

Biggs shouts in alarm, and then his comm goes dark. When Skins opens his eyes to look over the console, the words “RED3: LOST” glare at him, bright and irrefutable. Skins’ legs give out from under him, and he barely catches himself on the edge of the table.

“Get the kid out of here, he doesn’t need to see this,” someone says, but Skins can’t look away from the console long enough to snarl at them the way he wants to. Turns out that he doesn’t need to, because the Princess’ voice cuts in right after.

“No. His family is out there. Forcing him out won’t stop him from worrying, and it won’t stop them from dying. He deserves to know,” she says. The words are harsh, but he appreciates them more than he can say. Nobody tries to remove him, after that.

The seconds tick by, and the tiny red dot that is Luke’s X-wing draws closer and closer to the target. The target, which no other pilot has been able to hit. Their window is closing. And then Luke turns off his targeting computer. 

Around the war room, Alliance officials are looking at each other in bewilderment. The General tells Luke that his computer is off, as if he doesn’t know. Luke insists that he’s alright, and Skins feels…something. Something huge and tugging, like the Call of his homeworld but different. There is no fierce protectiveness, no swirling love and rage bundled into one all-encompassing emotion. This new feeling is pure, devoid of emotion but distinctly guiding, and all at once Skins knows that it’s the Force. His gaze flickers up to meet the Princess’ across the console - and from the slight surprise on her tense face - he knows she must feel it too. He  nods at her gravely. 

Overhead, klaxons start blaring, and the announcement comes that the Death Star has cleared the planet. Skins’ grip tightens on the console and he leverages himself to his feet. If he’s going to die, he’s going to do it standing.

There’s a new voice over the comms, a victorious shout, and Skins recognizes the voice as none other than Han Solo. The TIE fighters dogging Luke’s X-wing suddenly veer off course, and Skins hears Luke gasp over the comms as the seconds tick down. Then he pulls out, and they’re away. Luke, Wedge, and the Falcon scream back towards Yavin IV as fast as they can; and the Death Star explodes behind them in a great ring of fire and debris.

Skins collapses to the floor in sheer relief, and the cheers begin all around him. He can’t bring himself to join them. His brother is dead.

Luke collapses into his arms almost as soon as they leave the hangar bay, and it’s only thanks to Han and the Princess walking at their side that he doesn’t drop the newest hero of the Alliance. At first, they think it’s simple exhaustion and adrenaline crash, but as the hours and days go by without Luke waking up, they start to worry. Several attempts are made - by Han and the Princess, then Threepio, and even Artoo once the droid has been repaired - to lure Skins away from Luke’s infirmary cot;  but he refuses to budge. Eventually, they give it up and switch their efforts to making sure he eats and showers and sleeps, when he can manage it. Skins feels…unmoored. None of the past few days feel real. He keeps wondering if he’ll wake up in his parents’ house on Upatau, the Twins still below the horizon and Luke sleeping soundly on the floor beside him. With Biggs gone to the Flight Academy, not present but alive. But every time he manages to scrape together a few hours of sleep, Skins wakes not to the Call, but to the steady beeping of Luke’s monitoring equipment, and he knows that it’s all real.

Owen and Beru, Old Ben, and now Biggs. It hasn’t even been an entire tenday since the Lars’ had bought Threepio and Artoo from that caravan, so how is it that they’ve lost so much? Will they ever see their home again? Does Luke even have a home, now that his family is dead? He does, Skins reminds himself viciously. As long as Skins himself is alive, Luke will always have a place where he belongs. But will they ever have a place to belong together, ever again? He doesn’t know.

In the middle of the night - when everyone else has left and it’s just he and Luke in the infirmary - he begs Luke to wake up. Quietly, holding his best friend’s hand in both of his and leaning over to press his ear to Luke’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “Please, Luke. You’re all I have now, and I…I can’t do this alone.”

Han and Chewie, the Princess and the droids are all kind to him, in their own way. They take care of him and watch him and Luke with equal concern, but he doesn’t know them. He doesn’t know anyone on Yavin, besides the man currently in an unexplained coma. He would have been able to talk to Biggs, even if his brother would have ruffled his hair and called him a worrywort, but he can’t: because Biggs is dead.

He doesn’t cry. He can’t. He tries, even; making himself miserable with memories and mental images of Biggs, of their childhood. His eyes sting and his throat grows tight, but no tears fall. In the end, he just ends up making himself even more frustrated. He stops trying. 

Luke wakes up late into the evening on the third day following the Battle. Skins leaps to his feet when the blonde lets out a quiet groan, eyes fixed on Luke’s fluttering eyelids. Blue eyes blink open, red-rimmed and crusted from being closed for so long, and Skins can’t restrain himself. He crawls onto the bed next to Luke as quickly and gently as he can and throws his arms around his best friend’s neck. He buries his face into Luke’s shoulder, and trembles.

There are hands on his back, running over his shoulder blades in soothing patterns. Luke whispers his name, but Skins shakes his head and pushes himself even closer. Luke sighs softly, but doesn’t say anything more as they lie there for what could be minutes or hours. Eventually, the Princess comes into the room and - seeing that Luke is awake - calls for Han and the medical droid. It is only out of concern for Luke that Skins finally manages to unlatch himself. When he pulls his face away from Luke’s shoulder, he finds that the older man’s fatigues are wet. Confused, Skins lifts one hand to his own cheek, and stares down at his fingers when they come away tacky with half-dried tears.

Luke catches the motion and looks at Skins with sorrowful eyes. Skins clears his throat as he climbs off the bed and mumbles, “Waste of water.”

Still, some of the choking frustration he’s been plagued with the past few days has lessened. He settles into his chair at Luke’s bedside, unable to take his eyes off Luke as the medical droid checks him over. Han and the Princess are asking him all kinds of questions, seeming to grow more more perplexed when Luke answers that he’s not sure what happened, either. Their confusion reaches a pitch when the medical droid reports that nothing is physically wrong with Luke, just as it hadn’t been when he was brought in. Eventually, the Princess drags Han into the hallway and their ensuing argument is cut off as the blast door slides closed. Skins barely hears any of it.

Now that Luke is awake, Skins finds that he’s angry. Beyond angry. Not at Luke, but at everything. He’s angry at the Empire for killing Luke’s aunt and uncle, and destroying the Princess’ homeworld. He’s angry at Old Ben for telling Luke about his father and dragging him out into a war that has nothing to do with him, then dying. He’s angry at the Alliance for failing to keep track of their battle plans in the first place, for not protecting the Princess well enough, for recruiting his brother with lofty ideals only to send him to die. He’s angry at the Princess for getting captured, and angry at Han and Chewie for leaving only to come back at the very last minute. He’s even angry at the droids, for being the impetus for the whole Krayt-damned thing.

He knows his anger is unfair and misplaced, for the most part. The droids were only doing what they’d been told to do. The Princess and the Alliance had done all they could to avoid the Empire, but had ended up in the worst possible scenario. Biggs was always going to join the Alliance, that’s just the kind of man he was. And Han and Chewie had come back, had saved Luke’s life and Skins’ own as well. And Old Ben, as wise as he was, surely hadn’t known about the Death Star, or that he would die. 

Skins knows this, but the grief and loss and unfairness of it all burn through him all the same. Luke is staring at him - expression knowing - and Skins wishes he would stop it. Wishes he could go hide himself away to pick up some of his own shattered pieces, except that he won’t leave Luke. Luke is all he has. He is all Luke has. Still, there is anger burning like the Twins within him, and he doesn’t want Luke to see it.

It’s a futile wish. Luke always sees his anger, as well as his joy. Luke knows what Skins is feeling before Skins himself, sometimes. But the pilot doesn’t push, doesn’t ask. He just reaches out and takes Skins’ hand, squeezing hard, then goes to pull away. Skins catches his hand. No words pass between them, and the contact is nowhere close to enough, but it’s something.

Sometimes, that’s all you have.

As they make their way towards the center of the settlement for latemeal, Luke finds himself releasing his nerves into the Force. The Mandalorians have been more-or-less polite to him since his first day on Mandalore, or at least what passes for politeness for a warrior people. He still gets stares and curious looks, but they keep him at a respectful distance, and don’t ask any more about his past. Honestly, he wishes they would be less polite. He’s never been good at the ‘aloof Jedi Master’ thing, not like Ben and Master Yoda, and their careful respect reminds him of the awkward New Republic banquets that Leia had previously made him attend.

If that was all, though; he wouldn’t be so nervous. No, his nerves are entirely born from the fact that this will be Skins’ first latemeal on Mandalore, and his partner is many things, but respectful is not usually one of them. Respect from Skins has to be earned, and there are few people in the galaxy who have achieved that honor. Even fewer who are not part of their Clan. Luke loves that about his partner, but the uncertainty of Skins’ reaction to the Mandalorians - and vice versa - is putting him slightly on edge.

Skins, walking at his side, slips a hand into his own. Their arms swing gently together as they walk. Slight reassurance flows through their bond. “I won’t start a fight, love; stop worrying.”

Luke snorts, shaking his head. “It’s not a fight I’m worried about. Even if you did, they’re Mandalorians. I don’t think getting into a fight would change their opinion of you, except positively.”

“So what’s the matter? I’m not here for them, I don’t care what they think of me,” Skins points out. This is true, but…

Luke sighs. “This is our home now. I don’t want to be kept on the outside, even if we are outsiders. I want them to trust us. I want…”

Skins squeezes his hand. Understanding love acknowledgement. “You want to help them, and they won’t ask for help if they don’t trust us. I get it. But Luke, you already are helping them. You’re training their Prince, bringing him closer to his culture and his power. The more connected with the Force he gets, the more he learns to use it, he’ll be able to help them. To guide them. You’re already doing plenty.”

“I suppose…” Luke says, but he knows that his discontent at the thought seeps through the bond. He wants to help the Mandalorians rebuild, to help them recover a fraction of what they’ve lost. But he also wants this to be a true home. He wants it so badly that it startles him, a bit. He and Skins haven’t had such a thing for almost ten years, not since the Empire burned his childhood home to a hollowed-out shell and they’d left their homeworld for the first time. It feels right, to be here - on Mandalore - more so than any other place they’ve come to settle in the past years. But a home is more than a place: it’s a community, and they won’t be able to truly settle here if the Mandalorians continue to keep him - and Skins, by extension - at arms length.

Skins squeezes his hand again, and sends reassurance patience through the bond. “These things take time, my star. You make friends everywhere you go, and Mandalore won’t be any different. But these people have been through a lot, and they’re less trusting of Jedi than most. You already have the trust and respect of the Mand’alor. That means something to them. Just be patient, and the rest will follow.”

Luke looks sidelong at his partner, a small smile creeping onto his lips. “When did you get so wise?”

Skins scoffs, but there is a slight blush to his cheeks and a smile on his face as they near the pavilion. Luke spots Djarin and Grogu in their usual spot and tugs Skins gently by the hand towards them. He feels slight surprise as they get closer and Master Yoda comes into view, sitting in Luke’s usual spot besides Grogu; but he quickly releases the feeling. Of course Master Yoda would accompany Djarin and Grogu to latemeal: he has to eat, too. Grogu burbles happily when he catches sight of them, and Luke smiles as a wave of the child’s emotions wash over him.

Welcome excitement hungry happiness hungry. At his side, Skins laughs as the emotions trickle through their bond. “Kid’s got his priorities straight, it seems.”

They approach the table and bow slightly in unison. Luke greets, “Mand’alor, Master Yoda, Grogu. May we join you?”

“Of course,” Djarin replies, the warm tones of his voice seeming to warm Luke, as well. Two spots have been left vacant on Master Yoda’s other side, and he moves to sit down. Skins lets go of his hand and does the same, but freezes right before he steps over the bench. Luke glances up at his partner in confusion, only to find that Skins is staring narrow-eyed across the table. He follows the pilot’s gaze and sighs to himself when his eyes land on the red-headed Mandalorian General, who is staring back at Skins with an equal amount of apprehension.

“Alright?” Skins asks after a beat. The General regards him with sharp eyes for a few moments longer before giving a sharp nod and returning to her meal. Skins’ shoulders relax - so fractionally that Luke is certain he was the only one to notice - and he sits without further comment. Luke gathers himself a portion and turns to Master Yoda.

“Hello, Master Yoda. Have you settled into your new lodgings well?” he asks easily. There’s a bowl of stew in front of his teacher that Luke doesn’t see anywhere else on the table, and he shoots Djarin a curious glance. The beskar - of course - gives away nothing. Master Yoda hmphs. 

“Well, yes. Different, this palace is, from the one in Keldabe. Different too, from my ‘hut in the swamps.’” He sends Luke a sharp look, and Luke once again remembers a reason why he has always cherished mealtimes in Yoda’s presence. With both hands occupied, the old Master can’t reach for his stick. (Of course, that doesn’t mean much, with Yoda’s connection to the Force. Luckily, there’s only one very memorable occasion of Master Yoda using the Force in that particular way, though Skins’d had the resulting bruises for a tenday afterwards.) Thus, his subtle reprimand of Luke’s joke is relatively painless. Luke smiles.

On Master Yoda’s other side, Djarin has looked up from his meal at the mention of Mandalore’s capital city. Still smiling, Luke flicks his gaze to the man before turning back to his own plate and picking up his spoon. “Thank you for allowing me my life today.”

He takes a bite and hears Skins quietly echo the words a moment later. The words don’t evoke the same bewilderment from the Mandalorians around them as it had that first night, but a good bit of curiosity trickles into the Force around them, even dulled by beskar as it is. Content to let it be, Luke turns back to Master Yoda and opens his mouth to ask-

“What?” Skins beats him to it, glancing around at the table’s other occupants with his spoon halfway to his mouth. Ah. Luke might be content to let the Mandalorians’ confusion around their social customs pass without comment, but Skins isn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t be. Leia asking them not to cause a diplomatic incident is far less of a joke than it should be; and largely caused by Skins being forced to attend New Republic events, with politicians and military men who are a lot less tactful than they should be. The drunk senator from Corellia who’d asked if Skins had once been a “servant” of Jabba’s had deserved worse, honestly. 

None of the Mandalorians are saying anything, and Luke finds himself wishing Cara were here. Unfortunately, the former Lieutenant Dune has not yet arrived, and so he’s treated to a long, pregnant pause as the usually-reticent Mandalorians try and figure out how to ask about the customs of a culture not their own. For such a domineering people, they’re surprisingly hesitant when it comes to conversation. Luke takes another bite, and waits. Skins can hold his own against much worse than a table full of confused Mandalorians.

At last, the red-headed General makes a sound of disgust and fixes her nearby compatriots with a glance to match. “Dank farrik, what is wrong with all of you? He is an aruetii, not an akaan’ade! If you must ask, then ask.”

Luke glances at Djarin, but the man only tips his head to the side, casual and overly-innocent in a way that causes amusement to bloom through his chest so abruptly he has to release some into the Force, lest he start laughing at an awkward time. The Mandalorians around them are quiet still, and the red-head scoffs again before pinning Skins under a fierce glare.

“What do they mean, the words you and the jetii say before a meal?” she asks sharply, as though she’d really just like to get the answer quickly so she can return to eating in relative peace. From the irritation exasperation curiosity curiosity-refusal that slips into the Force around her, Luke assumes he’s mostly right. Skins looks at her evenly. Through their bond, Luke gets a quick spike of amusement and holds back a fond sigh. As much as Skins is proud of their homeworld, he’s also an incorrigible little shit when he wants to be, and when he thinks someone deserves it. It seems the General has earned that distinction.

“Well since you asked so very nicely, General,” Skins drawls, and her gaze turns somehow even more venomous, “they mean just what they say. You have given us food and water from your table. You have given us the means to live another day. To our people, this is no small gift; and so we offer our thanks.”

“I see,” the General says, and turns back to her meal with no further comment. Still, Luke can feel the thoughtful turn of her emotions through the Force, and knows that the answer has met with a small fraction of her approval. From the small hum Skins gives at his side, he must feel it too. The pilot casts one last glance around the table, then begins to eat. Luke smiles at him, then turns back to Master Yoda.

“Master Yoda, you mentioned the palace at Keldabe. Have you stayed there before?” he asks, and the attention of the Mandalorians around them sharpens. The General’s included - though she hides it well - as does Djarin. Even Grogu is watching the old Jedi with wide, sparkling eyes. Master Yoda glances sidelong at him.

‘On purpose, you did that,’ filters through their training bond. Luke simply cocks his head, smiling politely. Yoda slurps at his stew and then hums thoughtfully. “Long ago, yes. Treaties, we had. Moved to Sundari, the capitol had not yet been. Not yet Grandmaster, was I, but curious. Warriors, the Jedi are not. Warriors of discipline, I wished to meet. Enlightening, it was.”

Around the table, the faces he can see furrow their brows in concentration, trying to decipher Master Yoda’s pattern of speech. The General seems to have no difficulty at all, and scoffs under her breath. Master Yoda lifts his gaze to her with a patient expression. It is only through Luke’s bond with him that he detects his teacher’s amusement. “Disagree, do you?”

She looks up from her plate to meet the ancient Jedi’s eye. While she had been waspish with Luke and Skins, it seems that making eye contact with Master Yoda gives her pause. Only for a moment before she rallies, but Luke wonders if it’s Yoda’s centuries of experience or Grogu that she’s thinking about. “You say the jetii are not warriors.”

“Warriors, the Jedi are not. Disagree, you do,” Master Yoda says, and Luke watches the General’s tightly-controlled expression slip just barely, the corners of her mouth and brow twitching. Through the Force, he feels her frustration anger exasperation and is surprised by the flicker of sympathy recognition in himself. Skins - at his side - echoes the emotions back to him, along with surprise-recognition . A lesson from Master Yoda has a steep learning curve: made steeper still by the fact that very few have received them for the past thirty years. Jedi younglings and Masters alike have been subjected to such teachings for hundreds of years, but they are all now dead; and Master Yoda himself has lived in obscurity until very recently. Neither Luke nor Skins begrudge her the frustration.

“You say the jetii are not warriors, and yet you have consistently waged wars. Against the Empire, against the Separatists, against our people. If you aren’t warriors, what are you?” she asks, voice sharp but lacking the expected vitriol. Her hatred is secondary to her desire to understand, and Luke senses both Skins’ and Master Yoda’s respect for her grow.

“Wars, we have fought. Fight, we do; when no other option, do we see. Balance, we desire - not bloodshed,” Yoda counters. His ears droop for a moment, and he hums softly. “Easier, it would be: were we warriors, perhaps. If from violence, we did not balk. Know, I do not. Dead, most of us are. Changed, the past cannot be. If the Jedi, you wish to now know; then Young Skywalker, you must ask.”

The General blinks, then fixes her expectant gaze onto Luke. He feels a momentary panic rise within him, and releases it carefully into the Force. Inhale, exhale. While he has largely accepted his role as the first New Jedi following the Empire’s purge, there are still times - such as now - when the full weight of that responsibility bears down on him. Skins shifts closer, pressing their shoulders together.

“For my part, I don’t consider myself a warrior,” he says plainly, meeting the General’s eye. “The Force is not meant for war. I fought in the war against the Empire, yes; but not because the Emperor was a Sith. I fought because…”

He trails off. Skins sets down his bowl and spoon and reaches out to take his hand. Grogu coos softly from between Djarin and Master Yoda. Djarin is watching him - Luke can see the dark slice of his T-visor from the corner of his eye - and he anchors himself in the Force-void of pure beskar. Inhale.

Exhale. “I fought because they killed my aunt and uncle.”

The General’s eyes go slightly wide, but Luke isn’t finished. “I fought because they killed my mentor, and my brother. I fought because I was a child who had lost almost everything, and I didn’t have a choice.”

Chapter Text

Luke is seven when the Darklighters find something in the desert. He knows they’ve found something because his Aunt Beru gets the comm call in the middle of the day, and Uncle Owen calls Luke in from the garage so they can all go over to the Darklighters’ on the speeder. Uncle Owen never stops work in the middle of the day, not even when the sandstorms roll in and he can barely see the vaperator he’s working on. So Luke knows the Darklighters have found something interesting on their trip back from Anchorhead, and he’s excited. Nothing new ever happens around here.

When they arrive, Biggs’ Da meets them at the door, his expression very different from the easy, boisterous smile he usually wears. He’s frowning, brow furrowed and shading his eyes. He looks tired, clothing and hair ruffled. As he’s speaking to Uncle Owen in hushed voices, Luke watches him drag a hand through his hair. Ah, that would be why. Uncle Owen looks very serious, and he comes back over to where Luke is waiting by the speeder with Aunt Beru. One of her hands is lightly holding Luke’s own; but when Uncle Owen leans in to speak quietly into her ear, her other hand raises to her mouth and she gasps. Her eyes are very wide.

“What’s wrong, Auntie?” Luke asks, because very little surprises his Aunt and they usually aren’t good things. “They found somethin’ right? That’s why we came over here even though it’s daytime, right? Is it something bad?”

His Aunt and Uncle glance down at him, then share a look that usually means he’s asked a question they don’t want to answer. Mostly, those are the questions about his father, or Crazy Old Ben who lives in the Wastes. (Luke doesn’t think Old Ben is really crazy, but everyone calls him that, so he does too. Once when he was younger, Luke wandered too far from the homestead and wound up on the edge of the Wastes. The womp rat hadn’t been that close to him, but Old Ben had shot it from almost a hundred paces. Luke didn’t see where he’d come from, but the old man led Luke back home by the hand, stoic and unspeaking.)

Aunt Beru kneels down to look him in the eye, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “It’s not bad, dearest. Someone lost something very precious, and it’s sad that they lost it, but very good that it was found.”

Luke tilts his head, thinking that over. There are some combs of Grandmother Shmi’s that Aunt Beru keeps in a box on the mantle-piece. Luke would be sad if those got lost, even if he never met her. He would be sad if he lost the Bantha toy he’d gotten for his third birthday, too; because he knows that his Aunt and Uncle had to have bought it from somewhere, and that year was really dry. But it would be good if someone found his Bantha, and it wasn’t left sitting all alone somewhere.

Luke nods. This makes sense. “What is it, though?”

Aunt Beru glances up at Uncle Owen, and now Luke is really curious. It’s gotta be something cool, if they don’t want to tell him about it. Uncle Owen clears his throat. “Luke, why don’t you go find Biggs and play, while we talk to his parents?”

Luke frowns. Usually, playing with Biggs in the middle of the day when he’s supposed to be helping Uncle Owen would be the best thing he could imagine. Right now, though, he really wants to know what the Darklighters found, and why his Aunt and Uncle don’t want to tell him about it. Still, he knows that arguing won’t get him anywhere, not when Uncle Owen has that look on his face. Luke sighs deeply and trudges off behind the house to find Biggs.

Biggs is in the garage, right where Luke knew he would be; but he’s not working on his mini-pods or tossing darts at the battered wall. Luke instead finds his friend crowded up against the side of the Darklighters’ speeder, curled in on himself and sniffling softly.

“Biggs?” Luke rushes to his best friend’s side, curling up next to him and wrapping his arms around the older boy. “Hey, what’sa matter? Didja hurt yourself? Let me see.”

“M’ fine!” Biggs mumbles, lightly trying to shove him off. Luke rolls with it, leaning out of the hug to check his friend over for signs of pain. Biggs isn’t clutching his hands or feet, so he probably didn’t smash his finger with a hammer or drop something. Luke doesn’t see any burns on his arms or legs, and he’s not leaning strangely to make up for a bruised rib. 

Biggs looks totally fine, besides the puffy redness of his face. Luke frowns. “What’s wrong? Does it have somethin’ to do with why your folks called us over here? They found somethin’ on their way back from Anchorhead, right? My folks wouldn’t tell me what it was.”

Biggs sniffles again, muttering something into his knees. “...Kid.”

Luke rears back in offense. “Hey, I’m just tryna be helpful! I’m only a year less that you-”

“I said it’sa kid!” Biggs shouts over him, and Luke sits with that for a second. A kid? In the Wastes?

“Whadya mean, a kid?” he asks, because it doesn’t make sense. Sure, there are kids on other farms around the Wastes, but none that the Darklighters would have run into on their way back. Biggs deflates, curling further into himself. 

Luke leans against his shoulder, both for comfort and to hear better when Biggs mumbles, “It’sa kid. A little kid, littler’n you. I didn’t see them good when my folks brought ‘em in, but they were all red n’ burnt up. My Ma’s been in the house with ‘em since they got here. I think I head my Da say somethin’ about ‘em bein’ Call-sick.”

Luke doesn’t know what to think about that. He’s never seen anyone with the sickness before, but everybody knows about it. If you listen too close to the desert, it draws you in. Apparently an elder out Anchorhead way followed the Call a couple seasons ago, but this is the first time Luke’s ever heard of it happening to a kid. It’s a scary thought, and Luke suddenly understands why Biggs is so rattled. On Upatau, kids are taught to be smart and prepared, and that’s usually enough to keep them safe. But the Call is something bigger, something older, something you can’t outsmart or be prepared for.

“Hey, Biggs, it’ll be okay. Your Ma is a real good doctor, and your Da and my folks will help her. That kid’ll be up and runnin’ around in no time, you’ll see!” Luke says. Mostly to make his friend feel better, but also because he really believes it. There’s just something telling him that this strange child from the desert will be okay.

Over the next tenday, Luke asks his Aunt and Uncle about the kid so often that Uncle Owen eventually sighs, rubbing his brow; and that evening after dinner they climb into the speeder and make their way over to the Darklighters. Luke clambers out of the speeder and bounces on his toes as his Uncle climbs out at a much slower pace. They walk to the door, and before Uncle Owen knocks, he puts a large hand on the top of Luke’s head.

“I know you’re excited, chum,” he says, “but remember that he’s still sick, alright? He needs to rest.”

“Yes, Uncle Owen!” Luke chirps, and doesn’t even roll his eyes. He knows that, he just wants to meet the kid. It’s not like Luke is gonna drag him out of bed to play as soon as he sees him! Uncle Owen sighs and knocks on the door, and moments later Biggs’ Ma is opening the door with a kind smile.

“Hello Owen, hello Luke,” she says. “I understand you’re here to see our newest addition?”

“Hi, Mrs. Darklighter! Yes, please! Can we?” Luke says, bouncing on his toes again. He can’t help it: ever since the boy was found, Luke has felt like there’s something telling him that he has to meet the kid. It’s more than curiosity, more than the excitement over a potential new friend. It feels important, like there’s a reason, he just can’t figure out what that reason is. It’s frustrating, not knowing why he feels this way, just that he does. Hopefully meeting the boy will make the weird feeling go away.

Biggs’ Ma smiles and leads them inside. She shares a few quiet words with Uncle Owen as she steers them deeper into the house, but Luke isn’t really listening. In his head, he’s imagining what the boy might look like. Blonde hair, like Luke? No, his hair is probably more like Biggs’. He’s smaller than Luke, but how much smaller? Is he a baby, or closer to Luke’s age? A baby probably couldn’t wander into the Wastes, he realizes, and is even more excited. 

They stop in front of the door to Biggs’ Ma and Da’s bedroom, and Uncle Owen puts a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “Remember, not too excited. We don’t want to scare the tike, do we?”

“No, Uncle Owen,” Luke says, and takes a deep breath to calm himself down. He stops bouncing. Uncle Owen nods down at him in approval, and Biggs’ Ma pushes open the door.

At first, all Luke sees is a pile of blankets. It’s an impressive pile, all bunched up towards the headboard of the bed; and Luke takes a second to study it. It blinks at him.

He blinks back, then smiles wide. Uncle Owen’s hand falls off his shoulder as he steps closer to the bed, every step watched carefully by glinting eyes. When he’s standing by the edge of the bed, he stops and offers a wave.

“Hi, I’m Luke! What’s your name?”

The pile of blankets shifts, and a tuft of dark, curly hair emerges from the folds. Ha, he was right! The boy stares at him for a while, and Luke waits patiently. When he caught that fever a couple seasons ago, it made his thoughts slow and sluggish. The Darklighters’ new son still isn’t over his sickness, so it makes sense that he would take a second to answer. Eventually, a high, quiet voice says, “Sand.”

Luke tips his head. “‘Sand?’ Is that your name?”

The blankets shift again as the boy - Sand - nods. Luke beams. “It’s real nice to meet you, Sand! How old are you?”

Sand’s eyebrow furrows like he’s thinking really hard, and then his eyes get all bright the way that people’s do when they’re about to cry. “I don’t…I dunno.”

“That’s okay!” Luke hurries to say. He doesn’t want to make his possible new friend cry the first time they meet! “I’m seven cycles, and you look younger’n me by a little bit. Maybe you’re six cycles? Or five? Ya don’t look young enough to be four.”

Sand’s eyes flick over Luke’s face and shoulders, the only parts he can see over the edge of the bed. He nods. “I…I like five.”

“Izzat your favorite number?” Luke asks. His favorite number is three, ‘cause that’s how many people live in his house, and 3 after Twins-height is when Aunt Beru calls them in for mid-meal every day. Sand nods slowly, and Luke smiles at him again. “Then you can be five!”

“Hold on now Luke, we don’t know-” Uncle Owen starts to say, but Biggs’ Ma cuts him off in a soft, kind voice.

“It’s alright, Owen. Honestly, five was our best guess, too. Your boy is rather observant,” she says. Luke doesn’t quite know what ‘observant’ means, but it sounds like a compliment, so he grins at Mrs. Darklighter happily.

“Thank you, ma’am!” he says, because Aunt Beru says you should always thank people when they pay you a complement. It’s manners. She returns his smile softly, the same way that Aunt Beru does. It always makes him feel warm. Safe. He turns back to the bed.

“Are ya feelin’ better? Mrs. Darklighter is a real great doctor, she takes care of all the farmers and their families when they get sick. It’s good luck she found you!”

The blanket bobs again. “Yeah. Doesn’t hurt no more, just…”

Sand’s brow furrows again, eyes getting wet, and Luke doesn’t even think about it. He climbs up into the bed and wraps his arms around the bundle of blankets, hugging the smaller boy close; like he does for Biggs. Uncle Owen takes a step towards the bed, but Biggs’ Ma puts a hand on his arm and he stops.

“It’s okay,” Luke says softly, trying for the comforting tone that Aunt Beru uses when he’s sick. “It’s all fuzzy, right? Your mind doesn’t wanna think right, and it makes you all frlusterated.”

Sand nods into his shoulder, the blankets hiding his face. Slowly, two blobs emerge from the pile; and weak, blanket covered arms wrap around Luke’s middle. “S’scary. I can’t ‘ member anything! Ev’rybody’s real nice, but…how’d I get here? They won’t tell me!”

Luke looks at his Uncle and Biggs’ Ma, confused. Why wouldn’t they tell Sand what happened? It happened to him, he should know! Maybe it’s the same as when Luke asks about his father or Crazy Old Ben, but…no, it’s not! Luke may not remember his father, but he remembers lots of other things! Sand doesn’t even remember how old he is.

“You were in the Wastes,” Luke tells him quietly. Biggs’ Ma is looking at them with worried eyes, but she doesn’t stop him from talking. “Sometimes, folks get sick because they listen to the desert too close, and they wander away from home. That’s what happened to you. Mr. and Mrs. Darklighter found you and brought you back here, so you can get better.”

It’s quiet in the room for a long time, broken at last by a voice so quiet that Luke almost misses it. “It was…hot. And I was thirsty…but somebody…somebody was singin’. An’ then, I was so tired, so I laid down…”

“Can you remember anything before that? Where you came from?” Luke whispers. He knows that this is important, that the adults should probably hear; but it feels like Sand is telling him a secret. You should only tell secrets if someone could get hurt because of them, and Sand is safe now. The blanket shifts, and Luke can’t tell if it’s a nod or what, but then Sand speaks again.

“I…I can’t!” he cries, and begins to shake in Luke’s hold. Luke squeezes him just a bit tighter, and pulls one of his arms away so he can stroke Sand’s hair, like Aunt Beru does when he cries. The younger boy must not understand what he’s doing, because those weak arms are suddenly holding him very tightly, blanketed hands gripping at his tunic. “Don’t leave!”

“‘M not leavin’,” Luke says, “I just wanted to touch your hair. My Auntie does it for me when I’m sad, it helps. Can I?”

Sand nods against his shoulder, grip releasing only a tiny bit. Luke carefully lifts his hand and drags it gently over slightly tangled curls. “It’s okay. You’re here now, s’all that matters. The Darklighters are real nice, they’re gonna take good care of you. Have you met Biggs?”

A sniffle, then another nod. Luke smiles, even though he knows Sand can’t see it. “He can be your umfowethu, and his Ma and Da can be your Ma and Da. I’ll bet that would make ‘em all really happy, right?”

He says the last part to Biggs’ Ma, who steps closer and kneels next to the bed. She’s got tears in her eyes, but she’s smiling. “That’s right, little one. We’re going to try and find where you came from, because I’m sure they must be missing you a lot. But if we can’t find them, then we’d be very happy to call you ours. Does that sound alright?”

The blanket shifts, and Luke glances down to see that Sand is looking at her with dark, wet eyes. “You’d be my Mama?”

“That’s right,” she says, her voice gone raspy the way it does when people cry. “And my partner would be your Da, and our little Biggs would be your big brother.”

“What about him?” Sand asks, and it takes Luke a second to realize that he’s talking about him. Biggs’ Ma smiles softly, glancing at Luke then back to Sand.

“Luke is Biggs’ best friend, so I’m sure he’d be your best friend, too. Am I right, Luke?”

“Yeah!” Luke says, probably too loud because Sand flinches against his side. “Oops, sorry. Yeah, ‘course I’ll be your friend, Sand. I’ll come see you lots, even if I gotta drive the speeder over here by myself!”

Uncle Owen - still standing by the door - chuckles. “Two more seasons before driving lessons, Luke. You know that.”

“Aw, but Uncle Owen, what if you’re busy? Sand is stuck in this room ‘til he’s all better, he needs cop- coman-” Luke huffs, struggling over the long word.

“Go slow, chum,” Uncle Owen says, so Luke takes a deep breath.

“Com- pan -yun-ship.”

Uncle Owen smiles proudly. “Nicely done. And I think you’re forgetting that your Aunt can drive the speeder just as well as I can, chum.”

“Don’t fool yourself Owen, she’s a better pilot than you are,” Biggs’ Ma teases, eyes still wet but voice even and warm. “I’ll be nice to see Beru more often, we haven’t had much time to chat since the boys were born.”

“I won’t argue that,” Owen says easily. Luke looks back to Sand with a grin.

“See? So I can come see you lots until you’re all better, an’ then me an’ Biggs can show you how to have fun around here!” he says happily. Sand looks at him with wide eyes, and then something amazing happens.

The small boy smiles, lips pulling up at the corners and dark eyes sparkling hopefully. It’s a small smile, nowhere close to Luke’s beaming grin; but it is a smile, and Luke made it happen. Pride swells in his chest, and he puffs up happily. He pulls slightly away from Sand, and puts the hand he’d been stroking the boy’s hair with on his blanket-swamped shoulder.

Meeting hopeful dark eyes with his own, he says, as seriously as he can manage, “We’re gonna be together all the time; and I’ll teach you stuff, and whenever you get scared or sad I’ll help you feel better. Water.”

Sand’s eyes are glittering, his face red from crying; but when he meets Luke’s eyes, all Luke can see is trust. He’s gonna be the best best friend ever, and give Sand so many new, happy memories that he won’t even be sad about the ones he forgot. Luke knows that the Darklighters are looking for Sand’s family, but he has a feeling - the same feeling that made him so eager to meet the younger boy - that they won’t find them. Sand is here to stay.

Even though it’s sad that Sand got lost, Luke can’t bring himself to be sad that the Darklighters found him. It feels like Sand was always supposed to be here, like Luke was always supposed to know him. Maybe the Twins made a mistake, with his first family, and it used the Call to fix it? Luke doesn’t know, but he does know that Sand being here feels…right. Like something Luke didn’t even know he was missing until he found it again. 

He feels sad for Sand’s first family; because already Luke knows that if he ever lost Sand, it’d be worse than losing Grandma Shmi’s combs and his Bantha and his utility belt all at once. He doesn’t know why: but Sand is important. Really important.

‘Don’t worry,’ he thinks to himself, and to Sand’s first family, wherever they are. ‘We found him. And he won’t get lost again. We’ll keep him safe, on my water.’

The table is quiet following Luke’s revelation, and Djarin is hit with a punch of deja-vu. He fights back a sigh. When will his people stop ambushing the Jedi with sensitive topics at late-meal? He understands their curiosity, of course; he’s equally if not more curious than they are. But really, do they have to keep doing this in public? Thankfully, Luke doesn’t get up and leave, this time. He simply picks up his spoon and returns to his meal, while the table around them processes their surprise. Skins hand is still beneath the table, no doubt gripping his partner’s for comfort. The pilot sweeps his eyes along the table, eventually landing on Bo-Katan and not flinching away when she stares right back.

“We weren’t warriors, General,” he says, and Djarin’s people within hearing distance make a good show out of listening without looking like they’re listening. Skins must pick up on their interest anyway - right, his Force specialty is emotional sensing - because he huffs quietly and pitches his voice louder. “We were soldiers. We weren’t fighting for glory, or even because it was the right thing to do. It was, but that isn’t why.”

He goes quiet, waiting for Bo-Katan to take the bait. She does, with an irritated tone. “Why, then?”

Skins’ eyes are hard and far-away as he answers, “Because it was either fight, or die. We were barely adults when we joined the Alliance, out of our depth and ignorant of what we were really doing. By the time we realized…well, the Empire wasn’t known for just letting people go. We were on their radar, and running wasn’t an option. Not for us.”

“Why?” Cara asks, and Djarin’s hand twitches against the table. He hadn’t noticed her arrival. Skins looks at her, the same recognition flashing in his eyes that had in Luke’s, that first night. “I did. After Hoth, when I realized we were just biding time until the Empire ran us down. I got out on the transports and tendered my resignation the next day.”

Skins nods at her. “Good to see you, Miss Dune. I had wondered.”

“Likewise, Lieutenant. But you didn’t answer my question,” she says, a sharp look in her eye beneath the casual bluster. Skins sighs, a rueful smile rising to his lips. His hand that isn’t holding Luke’s picks up his spoon, but he doesn’t take a bite. He stares down into his bowl for a moment, then looks up to meet Cara’s eye.

“We had nothing left to run to,” he says, a melancholy note creeping into his voice. Luke - still eating neatly and methodically - leans over to gently press their shoulders together. Djarin watches the slow rise-then-fall of Skins’ shoulders. When the pilot speaks again, his voice is strong and even. “Where could we go? Back to Upatau, where the only family we had left were my aging parents? Put them in danger? No. Our Clan was in the Alliance, and I’d dare you to convince Princess Leia Organa to abandon her post in the middle of a war.”

Cara grimaces. Djarin has heard a bit about this Princess - Luke’s sister - over the past tenday. She sounds like a formidable woman. She’d do well on Mandalore, he thinks. Though he shudders to think of what a meeting between her and Bo-Katan might be like. Skins marks the former soldiers’ expression and laughs, the sound dry.

“Exactly. We were in too deep, and we had nothing to lose besides ourselves and the people we’d come to know in the Alliance. We fought for them, not for some great Jedi cause. It was war, not some glorious battle. And if we never see it again, it would be too soon.”

Skins takes a pointed bite of his meal, obviously done talking. Cara looks at him with empathy and quiet understanding, just for a moment, before she smirks and raises her cup. “You can kriffin’ say that again!”

Skins and Luke offer her matching, wan smiles. After that, the meal passes easily; a tacit understanding seeming to spread amongst his people. The newcomers have shared enough, this night. It’s not enough to stop the contemplative and curious looks shot their way, but at the very least, no-one asks any more questions.

Cara does - about halfway through the meal - look up from her bowl to meet Master Yoda’s eyes across the table. She blinks, spoon halfway to her mouth, then drops it sloppily back into her bowl. Staring wide-eyed at the old Jedi, she doesn’t look away until Grogu coos loudly at Djarin’s side. Some of her shock seems to leave her, though her eyes dart back and forth between Master Yoda and Grogu in quick succession.

“A holo, perhaps you should record,” Master Yoda says after a few moments, not looking up from his meal. “Last longer, it would.”

Cara flushes bright red and dips her head in apology. “Sorry, uh, sir! I didn’t know that- for a second I thought-”

“That Grogu had grown to adulthood over night?” Djarin says, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. Cara glares at him.

“Well, I didn’t know that there were two of him now, did I?” she snaps, and Luke’s boyish laugh comes from further down the table. Djarin looks towards him, and finds both Luke and Skins smiling with obvious humor.

“Apologies, Miss Dune. This is my teacher, Jedi Master Yoda. He was quite happy to learn of another of his species, and has decided to join my partner and I on Mandalore, for the time being,” Luke says, smile not waning a bit at Yoda’s resulting hmph.

“To speak for myself, unable am I?” the old Jedi gripes, but Luke merely turns his serene smile onto his teacher.

“Of course not, Master Yoda. I only thought introductions would go more smoothly, if I explained your presence here to Miss Dune,” he says, tone completely guileless but a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Djarin winces quietly, too quietly to be picked up by his vocoder. It seems Luke is taking full advantage of the fact that both of his teacher’s hands are occupied.

Yoda - for his part - doesn’t respond, merely narrowing his eyes at his student and turning back to his meal with another hmph. Cara seems to recover admirably fast, and nods to the old Master.

“Pleased to meet you, Master Yoda. I didn’t know there were any more Jedi; besides Skywalker here,” she says, and Yoda hums. He looks up to meet her eye, and Djarin feels his mouth twist in sympathy when she freezes for a half-second before relaxing. The knowledge and age contained in the old Jedi’s eyes is intimidating, when faced head on. Cara rolls with it admirably.

“Two, there are. Luke, and myself. Three, perhaps, should Young Din choose that path for himself,” he says. Djarin tilts his head.

“Choose?” he says quietly to himself. He’s been under the impression that the end goal of Grogu’s training was to become a Jedi. After all, he’s very connected to the Force, like Luke and Master Yoda. Evidently, he isn’t quiet enough, because Yoda turns to stare up at him.

“Choose, yes. Many paths, the Force offers. One path, the Jedi walk. Other paths, we can teach. Young Din’s choice, will it be, which path he takes,” the Old Master says. Djarin nods, but internally, he is reeling a bit. If Luke isn’t here to train Grogu as a Jedi, to save his dying Order, then why? Why would he cross half the galaxy for a child he’d never met, offer to train him, and undergo unnecessary pain just to be allowed near him? If not for the Jedi, then what?

He thinks back to the day of Skins and Master Yoda’s arrival, the words that Skins had said. ‘We’ve been looking for so long…’

Looking for potential Jedi, Djarin had thought at the time. But now…It strikes him suddenly, and the sympathetic loneliness he feels at the realization nearly punches the air from his chest. They had been looking for any Force sensitives, potential Jedi or not. But how is that possible? Luke said that the Force exists within all things, so how is it that there could be so few Force users left in the galaxy?

The Empire. Of course, Djarin thinks, mentally kicking himself for being so naive. It wouldn’t have mattered to the Emperor if a Force sensitive wasn’t a Jedi, only that they had the potential to be one. The Purge would have eradicated anyone connected to the Force, not just the Old Jedi Order. Only by going into hiding or being hidden, like Master Yoda and Luke, could have saved them. Over the years, as more and more were found in hiding, not even that. 

He pulls Grogu into his lap, just to feel the comforting weight of his son against his chest. Grogu coos at him in question, but Djarin just strokes a careful hand over his ears. His son has been so, so very lucky. Luck doesn’t even begin to cover it. So many times…so many times that Grogu could have been lost to him, before Djarin had even found him. No, he realizes. It isn’t luck at all.

‘It feels like the Force is with us,’ Skins had said on that same day. Djarin doesn’t understand much about the Force, but he’s beginning to. Sitting there, cradling his son with the knowledge of how close he came to never holding him at all, Djarin sends his thanks into the Force. He doesn’t know if he does it right, it doesn’t feel any different, but he does it all the same.

Thank you, he sends, to that ancient and all-encompassing tide, Thank you, thank you.

Thank you for keeping him safe.

Chapter Text

The darkness is vast, broken only by the shining pinpricks of distant stars. It’s a familiar sight, made even more so because he’s seeing it through the window of a cockpit. The stars drift by almost lazily. He should feel comforted; he often is, when he sits in the pilot’s seat of his X-wing. Except this isn’t his X-wing. The shape of the hatch is wrong, as are the controls he can see in the corner of his vision. He is certain he has never been in this ship.

It is silent except for the hum of the engines. Too silent, and it unnerves him. Something about it is wrong in a deep, instinctual way. There is something missing, something absent that never should be.His heart aches, panic growing in his mind. Where is it? What is it? He reaches out with his mind-

And finds nothing. Realization slams into him, followed by abject horror. The Force. He can’t feel it; cannot hear the subtle, ever-present hum of energy that guides all things. There is only silence, absolute and terrifying. His mind screams that this is wrong, so very wrong.

The engine of the ship kicks, hyperdrive roaring to life; and the stars blur into a thousand streaks of brilliant light. He has never been able to let go of the wonder he feels at the sight, but now he just feels cold. The stars do not sing as they fly past. They are silent, and empty, and he is lost in a vast expanse of nothing.

The scene blurs, then bursts with heat, with light. There is dark grey sand beneath his feet and a blazing sun overhead. The Force slams into him all at once, driving him to his knees. It overwhelms his senses, blocking out even his relief at escaping that terrible silence. All around him, the sand whips into violent motion; even though there is no wind. It swirls into unreadable shapes, and emotions begin flooding into his already overwhelmed mind,

Fear. Anguish. Rage. Protectiveness. He tries to release them into the Force, and cannot. They are not his own, not his to release. They sing, scream and cry out for someone, anyone to hear them. A desperate Call, left unanswered for far too long, refusing to do so any longer. He cannot resist; and so he does not try. He lets go, lets the Call pour into him, filling him up and pushing away everything else. The swirling sands around him grow more violent, lifting up to block out the sun. At the center of the storm, he is untouched. Not even a hair rustles in the non-existent wind, and the sand under his knees is absolutely still. He lifts his head, and finds he has no strength to stand. 

In the midst of the sandstorm, a brilliant green light flares to life. A steady slice through the dark, growing closer. The sight of it calms his mind, even as the storm of emotion rages on within it. As long as that green light burns, he will not be afraid. As long as he keeps it’s brilliance in his sight, everything will turn out how it should.

Over the roar of the sandstorm, he hears a child crying. Someone is screaming; in anger or pain, he can’t tell. The green light is growing closer, closer, until it almost fills his vision. A hand reaches out from the darkness of the storm-

He wakes with tears on his face, throat scraped raw and aching. There are strong arms wrapped around him from behind. Not restraining him, merely holding him close, propped against the warm body behind him. Skins melts into the hold.

“How long?” he asks, voice rasping painfully from his throat. The arms around him tighten briefly before a hand lifts to gentle brush his hair back from his sweat-soaked forehead.

“Less than an hour,” Luke replies softly, the reassurance in his tone slightly strained with concern. His emotions are carefully shielded, an attempt to avoid overwhelming Skins in the aftermath of his Force-dream. Skins nods into the warm hand still pressed to his hairline.

“Thought so. It felt quick, only a few minutes,” he says. The words catch, and he coughs. His throat burns.

Luke’s gloved hand lifts just slightly from where it’s pressed to Skins’ chest, fingers flicking in the air before settling again. Skins reaches out in the dark and grasps the ceramic cup that floats into his hand. He brings it to his lips and takes several gulps of cool water, sighing softly through his nose as it soothes the pain in his throat.

“Thank you,” he says to Luke when he’s finished, the words still rasping slightly but not causing him pain. Luke hums, and with another wave of his hand, the cup floats away. He says nothing else; and Skins closes his eyes and breathes slowly, carefully examining the dream in his mind. He runs through it from start to finish, quietly recounting every detail he can remember to his partner. When he’s finished, he opens his eyes and moves to sit up, Luke’s arms slipping easily away. Skins turns to face his Jedi, the lights in the room flickering on with a glance from Luke. Clear blue eyes meet his own, then dart over the rest of his face. One warm hand lifts to brush the half-dried tears from his cheeks. Skins smiles at the gesture, the expression tired but true.

“So, what do you think?” he asks. Luke’s brow furrows thoughtfully. Skins’ smile widens, fondness curling through his chest at the familiarity of the gesture. For all that Luke has grown since they first left Upatau all those years ago; when confronted with a puzzle, he has always worn precisely the same expression.

After a few moments, he replies slowly, “I don’t know what to think about the first part.  It isn’t possible for the Force to disappear, so there has to be something about whoever was piloting that ship. It wasn’t you, right?”

Skins shakes his head. “Don’t think so. I didn’t  recognize the ship at all; and I couldn’t move, only watch.”

“But you could move in the second part,” Luke says, “So that was you.”

“Had to be. There’s no-one else on Mandalore who’s Force-sensitive that could feel the  Call that strongly, or have the desert respond like that.”

“And you’re sure it was Mandalore?” Luke asks. Not doubting him, just clarifying. Skins nods.

“Absolutely. It was glass-sand, and the Call felt the same, just…much stronger. Plus…”

“My lightsaber,” Luke finishes his thought, eyes twinkling with satisfaction. “That’s all the green light could’ve been, right?”

Skins hums his agreement, then narrows his eyes as the twinkle in Luke’s eye turns mischievous. A smug smile rises to the Jedi’s lips, and Skins is already rolling his eyes when Luke says, “Y’know, if you wanted my lightsaber back ‘cause it calms you down, you coulda just said that, Skins.”

Skins huffs and levels his partner with an unimpressed look, refusing to rise to the bait. After all, he’s not Han. “If your Mando wasn’t so reasonable, you’d need to do better than just calming me down.”

Luke blushes, glancing away, and Skins smirks. Too easy. 

“He’s not mine. Plus, he’s the Mand’alor; shouldn’t you be more respectful?” Luke grumbles, and Skins lifts an eyebrow in skeptical disbelief.

“When have you ever known me to be respectful? Djarin doesn’t seem to have a problem with how I talk to him,” he says. Luke’s gaze snaps back to his face, eyes wide. Skins returns the stare, brow furrowing in confusion.

“What? What did I say?”

Luke’s mouth opens to reply. Closes. Skins shifts forward, mildly concerned. He hadn’t said anything that alarming. Maybe Luke senses something in the Force? Skins doesn’t feel anything off, but he’s still coming out of his dream and Luke’s Force connection is stronger than his, in any case. At the very least Luke must sense his concern; because the Jedi takes a centering breath, expression softening.

“He gave you his name?” he asks, tone slightly wondering. Skins freezes for a moment. He had referred to the Mand’alor by name, hadn’t he? 

He still doesn’t understand why Din Djarin had given him his name. Though his knowledge of Mandalorian culture is limited, he knows that names are earned, and Skins can’t think of anything he’s done to deserve it. Still, who is he to question the Mand’alor?

“He did,” he answers after a beat, voice thankfully even. “And I gave him mine.”

Luke’s face softens further, eyes warm and glittering. “I was surprised, you know, when you gave it to Grogu. Most of our Clan doesn’t know the name you were born with. What makes them different?”

Skins thinks the question over, brow creasing. He hadn’t really given it much forthought, in either case. Grogu is a child; one so bright in the Force that only Luke outshines him. It felt right, somehow, to give such a child the full measure of himself. As for Djarin, well…

Even from the small amount of time he’s been here, Skins has noticed that Djarin doesn’t talk about himself. And yet - out in the desert with Skins and the Call as the only ones to hear him - he did. Not much, but more than Skins suspects most people are allowed to know. And then he gave Skins his name; and Skins had wanted to do the same. If he’s being honest with himself, then-

“I wanted to,” he answers, then shrugs. Luke is still smiling at him in the gentle way that has always made his heart quicken. “It felt…right. I don’t know why, just that it did.”

Luke beams. “The will of the Force is often unknowable.”

Skins huffs, but he’s smiling too. “You sound like Master Yoda.”

It isn’t a denial, and they both know it. Luke’s shield over his emotions lowers slightly, and Skins can feel pride happiness amusement satisfaction trickling through their bond. 

Something is on the horizon, some event that is significant enough for the Force to send him warning. Skins knows better than to try and change or avoid it. Force-dreams allow a glimpse into the future, yes; but only a glimpse, and often lack the reason or outcome for whatever is seen. Trying to avoid it is either entirely pointless, or ends up making the outcome worse. No, all he can do is be prepared to wether what is coming, and keep an optimistic outlook. He has Luke by his side, and the Force is their ally.

He never wants to feel that horrifying silence again. He knows he probably won’t; but concern grows in his heart for the stranger in his dream. How are they able to live like that? Was it a momentary thing, or do they feel like that all the time? Luke has described the feeling of Force-nulling cuffs, and Skins doesn’t think that’s what’s going on here. Nulling cuffs mute the Force, blocking a person’s ability to use it; but they cannot silence it completely. After all, the Force exists within all things, even the metal the cuffs are made of. No, nulling cuffs would not be enough to explain that dead, empty silence. 

He puts that problem from his mind, for now, and turns his thoughts towards the second half of his dream. Skins isn’t going to try and avoid it, but there are things he can do to improve the chances of a good outcome.

He sighs. “I foresee spending a lot of time alone in the desert, in my near future.”

Luke hums in what sounds like half agreement, half thought. “If the Call of Mandalore feels listened to, it might not have such a violent reaction when whatever you saw comes to pass. Yeah, makes sense. But you don’t have to go alone.”

Skins shakes his head. “You have Grogu’s training. It…I know he wasn’t in my dream, but it feels important, somehow, that he’s trained as much as possible sooner rather than later.”

Luke smirks at him. “I was talking about Djarin, not me.”

Skins scowls, ready to say that it isn’t necessary to have the man accompany him when he definitely has better things to be doing. But then he stops, and thinks about it. Skins is a Sage, but he’s not a Mandalorian. This planet is his home - for the time being - but he is not one of it’s Children, even if he can hear its Call. It would be good to have a Mandalorian with him, and Djarin has already shown to be at least somewhat receptive to learning from him. Plus, who better to learn to hear the Call of Mandalore than its King? 

His protests die in his throat. “Yeah, actually, that could work. I won’t take him with me all the time, he’s the Mand’alor after all. He probably has a lot of work to do. But every once in a while…I think it’s a good idea.”

Luke grins at him, and Skins rolls his eyes, then pushes lightly at his Jedi’s shoulder. “Oh, shut it. He might not even agree to it in the first place.”

Luke’s answering expression says that he doesn’t believe that in the slightest, but he thankfully doesn’t say so. They stay up a while longer, going over the dream again and firing ideas and theories back and forth; but eventually the late hour catches up with them, and Luke turns out the lights.

Skins lays his head on his Jedi’s chest, their legs tangled beneath the covers, and closes his eyes. He expects to lay awake for a bit, questions and possible solutions turning over in his head; but Luke pushes his flesh hand into his hair and reaches through their bond, gently coaxing him down into the embrace of sleep.

When he awakes the next morning with Luke’s back pressed against his chest and weak light from the window turning the Jedi’s hair a faint gold, he doesn’t remember having any more dreams.