Chapter Text
Mara trudges along a sand-eroded pedestrian walkway, the padded straps of her utility backpack weighing down her shoulders. The inside of her closed-toe sandals feels like an overheated agridome, and with each stride, her feet seem to sink further into the ground. The sweltering climate of this Mid Rim planet border on intolerable – for her, at least. Skywalker marches ahead, buoyant and energized, a desert boy rejoicing in his homecoming. Six months have blurred by since the defeat of Thrawn and C’boath, and yet she’s still surprised by the Jedi’s ability to thrive in harsh conditions. The sun is finally beginning its descent into the horizon, but the air hasn’t cooled in the slightest, and the promise of an inn up ahead is the only thing keeping her moving.
Why had they opted to walk instead of procuring a chauffeured speeder service like normal, non-sweaty beings?
“How are you doing back there, Mara?”
There’s no malice in Skywalker’s question. He isn’t making light of her discomfort. But his unflinching enthusiasm – from the moment they reconvened at the spaceport to the diplomatic meet-and-greet to now – irrationally gets on her nerves. She can’t stop her snarky response.
“Oh, just roasting like a stuffed nuna with all the trimmings, but otherwise I’m fantastic.”
Skywalker chuckles, either misinterpreting her sarcasm as humour or genuinely taking her seriously. It’s a shame he can’t see her sour expression, unmasked now since her long-wearing cosmetics, despite their claim, are likely melted off by the heat.
“It’s not that long now. And anyway, the best part about the hottest day in the desert is the cold shower afterwards.”
That, Mara believes wholeheartedly. Her loose-fitting outfit is a write-off until she can locate a half-decent laundry machine. Perspiration dampens her nape and trails down her spine in rivulets. Baked in dust and sand and grit, her wide-leg trousers and linen tunic are shaded fawn from their walk. Luckily, before their arrival, the regional governor had warned them about the unforgiving nature of the environment and recommended packing a change of clothes. The advice was solid – the crisp blouse and skirt she wore earlier that afternoon are neatly folded in a zippered compartment of her backpack, safely bundled away from the elements. But still, she had no idea the desert could be like this.
Only a few moments ago, she and Skywalker had run into a bit of trouble. A native creature – with fangs as sharp as vibroblades, claws the size of her face, and a spiky tail for added dramatic effect – staggered out of a row of shrubbery and blocked their path. Mara withdrew her blaster before she even thought about it, but Luke stopped her with a raised palm. Instead of reaching for the Force, he crouched and pulled a small satchel of food and a canteen from his backpack – leftovers he’d squired away after their luncheon with the governor and local officials. The creature sniffed, hesitated, then accepted the offering with a low, rumbling growl. Mara snorted and holstered her weapon.
Show-off.
The whole exchange adds several long, clammy minutes to their commute, and by the time the creature wanders off and they resume walking, Mara’s patience evaporated entirely. So when the inn finally appears like an oasis to a parched traveller, she can’t help but sigh in relief.
The capital city is sparsely populated but spread out, and the main entertainment district containing the inns, nightclubs, and restaurants is basically confined to one block. Without the not-so-warm reception from the beastly animal, it’s a short distance from their meeting to the front door of the inn, but Mara drops her backpack and rolls her shoulders as soon as they get inside.
Their lodging is a squat structure – three stories at most – and the lobby is correspondingly compact. But the interior is immediately welcoming. A brisk, air-conditioned veil drifts down from discreet vents embedded along the ceiling, carrying the faint scent of citrus. Lush green tones dress the space: muted sage walls, deep moss‑toned drapery, and pastel mint tiles give the impression of a rainforest inside a desert.
Real plants – not synthetic replicas – sit in ceramic pots along the reception counter and around the perimeter of the floor. Framed prints hang on the longest wall, showcasing indigenous flower species in vibrant, close-up detail.
A cluster of bamboo chairs rests atop a handwoven rug dyed in earthy browns and golds, and surrounds an elegant wooden table stacked with holozines. The furniture is simple but thoughtfully arranged, creating a quiet nook that feels more like a reading corner than a transient stopover. Ambient lighting glimmers from recessed fixtures, warm and cozy without adding heat.
Mara is so busy admiring the design that she almost misses the conversation between Skywalker and the receptionist.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Skywalker,” says the petite woman with a name tag that reads Isabrit in cursive letters, her jet-black hair tied up in a severe bun. “Many dignitaries are in town for the signing of the treaty, and we’ve run out of rooms.”
“Wait,” Mara interrupts as she reaches Skywalker’s side. “There are no rooms left?”
Skywalker opens his mouth to speak, but the receptionist beats him to it.
“We have just one room remaining, Ms. Jade. I sincerely apologize for our oversight, and I hope you’ll accept our voucher chip for a free stay on us.”
Not one to turn down a free anything, she accepts the pocket-sized card and slips it into her backpack. “It’s fine, Isabrit. We’ll take the room.”
“Mara!” Skywalker’s eyes widen in alarm. He offers a sheepish smile to the receptionist and tugs Mara by the elbow. “You can take the room. I’ll sleep in my X-wing,” he whispers as they reach the sitting area.
She shakes her arm free and scowls. The chivalrous Jedi routine is beyond tiresome. “Forget it, Skywalker. It’s just one night. Let’s get the room. We have an early morning to prepare for anyway.”
Skywalker searches her eyes. She nearly comments on the similarities between this and that night on the Falcon – a night that neither of them has ever discussed with each other, let alone anyone else. It’s on the tip of her tongue to mention how well they managed the cramped cot, but then Skywalker exhales.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not letting you sleep in your cockpit like some stray.”
This might be the first time she admits – even indirectly – that she cares for him. Perhaps Skywalker picks up on her train of thought, because his answering beam is so radiant that Mara flattens her mouth to counteract him. Oh well – it’s too late now to take it back. In a flash, he retrieves the room key from reception, and then they’re riding the turbolift to the top floor.
Their room is on the left at the end of the hallway. The nature theme continues, with viridescent motifs sprinkling the wallpaper and crown moulding with carvings of leaves framing each door. But the moment Mara steps inside the room, the illusion of serenity shatters.
The air is much too warm. Not blistering like outside, but heavy and unmoving. A ceiling fan turns lazily overhead, doing little to alleviate her annoyance with the obscene weather. Mara sweeps her eyes around the space. It’s fine. Quite nice, actually. On the smaller side, but clean and more than enough for a night. The refresher tucks behind a frosted door, and a glance inside reveals a rainfall shower enclosure, an expansive vanity, and plenty of amenities. A narrow dresser, kitchenette, and desk combination occupy most of the wall. A single window with gauzy curtains flutters half-heartedly in the stagnant breeze.
And…there’s only one bed.
She grimaces as she absorbs the firm mattress atop a raised platform, layered with feathery white sheets and a pile of plush pillows. Was this an oversight by one of the New Republic staffers? Had someone booked only one room and then forgotten to request two twin beds?
She imagines calling Leia Organa Solo and ranting about the hapless, subpar assistant who can’t even make proper hotel room reservations. But having to explain to Skywalker’s sister that this is now the second time they’ve been forced to sleep next to each other has her sealing her lips. Maybe Skywalker has that sort of informal, laid-back relationship with the Minister of State, but Mara certainly does not.
“The side closest to the door is mine,” she announces, not wanting to repeat her folly from last time.
Skywalker just shrugs as he examines every corner and peeks behind furniture. “Looks like we’re all clear,” he says, then smiles at Mara’s raised eyebrow. It’s solid procedure to check for hidden surveillance in unknown places – just in case. But somehow Mara thinks that any enemy of theirs who manages to infiltrate the room would make a hasty retreat due to the heat.
She drops her backpack next to Luke’s things and fishes out her sleep clothes and toiletry travel bag. “I’m taking a shower,” Mara says as she slides the refresher door closed and fiddles with the temperature setting knobs.
“I’ll get us something to eat,” he replies, but Mara barely hears him over the steady thrum of cool water beating against the tiles.
Mara emerges from the refresher twenty minutes later, hair damp and braided, skin cooled and fragranced with her favourite lotion, and wearing the lightest clothing she owns – a loose-fitting shirt and lounge pants. The room is still too warm, but at least she no longer feels like the main course at a barbecue.
Skywalker has returned, and the small dinette table near the desk is now covered with neatly arranged takeout containers. Steam curls from a bowl of something aromatic and spiced, and beside it sits a plate of flatbread and a pair of chilled soda cans beading with condensation.
“I asked the receptionist for local cuisine,” he says, sliding into one of the chairs and opening each lid. “She recommended a café down the street called ‘Dune Grubby.’ Apparently, the food is very popular because of how mild and tasty it is.”
Mara smirks as she occupies the seat across from him. “Mild and tasty by whose standards?”
“Let’s find out.”
The food – a stew of root vegetables and herbs, savory and comforting after a long day, plus a salad with beans and a tangy vinaigrette – is surprisingly delicious. The flatbread is soft and freshly baked, perfect for scooping. Skywalker even ordered chewy nut-and-date squares for dessert.
For a few minutes, they eat in companionable silence – but her restless mind can’t seem to quiet. Finally, she wipes her hands on a napkin and retrieves her datapad.
“So. Tomorrow?”
Skywalker swallows a mouthful of stew and nods. “Yeah. The governor wants us back at the council building by oh-seven hundred. We’ll sign the trade proposal, meet with the agricultural committee, pose for a few photos, and then – ”
“ – try not to offend anyone or cause a diplomatic incident,” Mara finishes dryly.
“That too.”
Mara’s newfound position as liaison of the Smuggler’s Alliance – the most honest job she’s ever had, funnily enough – means that she gets to schmooze with high-ranking officials from all over the galaxy and even lend legitimacy to newly established alliances between the New Republic and historically isolationist planets.
This Mid-Rim desert is one of them – strategically placed along a profitable trade corridor, rich in valuable minerals, and wary of outsiders. With the fall of the empire, the world slowly opened up its borders to tourists, traders, and politicians from the Core. Organa Solo swooped in and negotiated the framework of a trade agreement, but local customs require neutral representatives to sign the final documents in person. Skywalker, as a Jedi and a trusted symbol of the post-imperial era, is the obvious choice. Mara, with her independence from the New Republic and experience navigating fringe cultures, is the other.
“You have your outfit picked out? Please tell me you’re not wearing an all-black ensemble in this heat.”
Skywalker looks at her with wariness, but his eyes twinkle with mischief. He’d been dressed in light-blue clothing for the entire day, and Mara thinks that might be some kind of record for him.
“And what if I said I was?”
Mara shakes her head playfully. “We’re here to finalize the treaty and attend the public ceremony at dawn, not hunt for Jedi relics in underground bunkers. A little colour wouldn’t hurt, don’t you think?
“What are you wearing?” he asks, deflecting. It’s on the tip of her tongue to call him out for not answering, but Mara chooses to play along.
“A sundress – it’s quite stunning, actually. Cream coloured with a subtle diamond pattern and hand-stitched embroidery in natural red dyes along the neckline and hem. I bought it from a boutique in Monit Town, specifically for an occasion like this. It’s one-of-a-kind.”
Mara tsks and scrutinizes Skywalker with an exaggerated once-over, as if assessing a hopeless tailoring case.
“And, since you’re wearing your traditional black and I’ll be dressed like a noble Core-World dignitary, I suppose we’ll balance each other. You’re welcome.”
Skywalker grins. More than grins, actually – it’s like the sun rising on his face and shining directly onto her. Their gazes lock, and something bright and unreserved swirls in his blue eyes. The Force flickers between them unbidden, and Mara begins to feel lightheaded. She tips closer to Skywalker but can’t understand the reason why.
Maybe Skywalker reaches out a hand towards her, or maybe she imagines it. But she flinches and fortifies her shields, and just like that, the sensation dissipates and the spell is broken. Averting her gaze, she stabs the last sliver of cabbage with her fork and shovels it into her mouth.
Luke bows his head, and when Mara looks up again, his face is taut and his lips drawn in a flat line. “How about I start cleaning up, and we can get some rest?”
Mara nods, finishing the last of her meal and pushing her empty bowl towards Skywalker. “Good. The sooner we can get off this rock, the better.”
Skywalker doesn’t reply – just gathers the containers and heads to the disposal chute. A silent agreement seems to pass between them, and they stay out of each other’s way for their nighttime preparations.
Mara rolls onto her side of the bed just as Skywalker emerges from the refresher, bare-chested and clad only in sleep pants. She’s seen him in states of undress before, so that’s not the issue. But when he grabs a spare pillow from a dresser drawer and positions himself to lie on the floor, Mara’s general irritation topples swiftly into anger.
“What exactly are you doing?”
Luke glances up from where he’s kneeling, pillow tucked under one arm. “Getting ready for bed.”
“On the floor?”
He shrugs, as if this is the most reasonable thing in the galaxy. “It’s fine. I’ve slept in worse. I was planning to sleep in my X-wing, remember?”
Mara bites back a retort. Why does he always insist on martyring himself? Why does it bother her so much?
“That’s not the point, and it doesn’t make it right, either.”
Luke pauses, frowning in confusion. “Okay…?”
“The floor is as hard as cement. You’ll hurt your back, farmboy.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.”
“Mara – ”
“Just sleep up here,” she snaps. “The bed’s big enough.”
Skywalker goes still and his eyes fall shut, almost as if he’s deep in contemplation. Why are you making this a big deal? Mara wants to ask him. But before she can, he stands and returns the pillow to the drawer, acquiescing to Mara’s demand. There isn’t enough room on the other side of the bed for him to walk around, so it’s a bit awkward as he climbs over her supine form, his knee nudging hers and his hands curling into clumsy fists as he avoids touching her accidentally. But he finally reaches his destination, flopping over onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes with a heavy sigh.
“See? Now you can sleep on a proper mattress with actual back support.
He offers her a half-smile. “Yeah. Guess you’re right, Mara.”
She flicks off the bedside lamp, leaving only dapples of pale moonlight streaking across the room. A hush presses down, and Mara tries not to fidget with the duvet. Skywalker’s breathing evens out – he might be sleeping or meditating. Mara can never tell with him. But there’s an unease, a tension in the air, even though the Force feels peaceful around her. A fragmented commentary races through her mind, and from experience, sleep won’t come easily in this situation.
She stares at the ceiling, overanalyzing every action and word between them since they reached the planet that morning. Then she breaks the silence and hopes he’s still awake.
“I was only joking about your clothes,” Mara says into the semi-darkness. “Sometimes I say things that are out of line. I didn’t mean it, though. You should wear whatever you want to. Black is your colour.”
Skywalker shifts on the bed and presses an arm against the headboard. “It’s okay, Mara. I didn’t take it personally.”
She nods, even though he can’t see it. “I noticed you didn’t use the Force today.”
“For what?”
“For anything. Turning the lights on, dealing with that scary animal, cleaning up after dinner…”
“Wait,” Skywalker says slowly, and Mara can sense his bafflement through the Force. “What animal?”
Mara turns onto her side to face him. “The one that ambushed us on the way here.”
Skywalker doesn’t say anything for a few moments, and she starts to wonder if he even heard her. Then laughter bursts out of him – boisterous and utterly unrestrained. He laughs for at least a full minute, and it’s the whole works. His shoulders shake and breathing hitches, and his hands alternate between covering his mouth and holding his belly. Although Mara can’t see his face clearly, she’s certain tears are forming in his eyes.
For all his farmboy sincerity and unwarranted optimism, Mara has never seen him this high-spirited. Before she even realizes it, her own mouth tugs upward. His mirth is infectious.
“Skywalker, what’s the matter with you? What is it?”
“Mara,” he gasps in between spurts of laughter, “that ‘scary animal’ was no bigger than a squirrel.”
“What?” She stretches the vowel until she runs out of breath. “No, that can’t be true. It was at least the size of an anooba.”
“It was tiny. And thoroughly frightened of us. Don’t tell me the heat made you hallucinate?”
“I…” Mara considers the thought. The desert is a trickster – she’s heard as much from her brief stint as a dancer at Jabba’s Palace. The guards, servers, and other entertainers often spoke of the sand in reverent terms, as though it were an intellectual thing capable of controlling fate and meting out sentences.
It sounded like malarkey then and still does now. Even if, by some wild improbability, the desert particles possess brain cells, her own faculties remain sound and unaffected. She’s been completely lucid the entire day.
“Maybe it was just a mirage,” Mara concludes. It’s as good a reason as any – beats heat-induced delusion, anyway.
“The desert is known to do that to unsuspecting folk.” His laughter abates, and his tone has slipped into the kind of softness that precedes slumber. “Luckily, you had me with you.”
She snorts. “Right. Who else would’ve saved me from the fearsome desert squirrel?”
“I’m happy to rescue you anytime.”
Mara hums in amusement. “I’m a former high‑ranking Imperial, much better than you at hand‑to‑hand combat, and I once won first place in a puzzle tournament against the geekiest geeks imaginable. I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”
Mara returns to her original position and kicks the duvet off herself. Skywalker smirks at that – he hadn’t even bothered with the charade. A feeling of relief cycles through her now that the weight is off her body. As a reward, a breeze even funnels through the open window – not exactly cool or refreshing, but it’s pleasant enough.
“But,” she adds before yawning, “I’ll allow it this time. Don’t read anything into it.”
Luke smiles; she can hear it in his voice. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Mara wakes to piercing sunlight, almost blinding even on her closed eyelids. A honking speeder bus rattles down the main street, followed by the distant throttle of aircraft. The delicious aroma of omelettes and freshly baked goods wafts into her nose.
She’s lying on her side, in the opposite direction from Skywalker, her hair loose from its braid and tangling around her face. She blearily wipes the strands away, then lifts herself up. She blinks her eyes open slowly – partly to avoid the harsh rays of the sun, so early in the morning – and freezes when she sees him.
Skywalker sits on a chair at the dinette table, still only wearing his sleep pants, a spread of various breakfast foods in front of him. One hand holds a fork speared with a morsel of a fluffy waffle, while the other scrolls through some notes on his datapad. His tousled hair looks blonder in the streaming sun, and his voice is still sleep-roughened when he murmurs, “Morning. Got room service.”
Mara grunts a greeting back. Oversized yellow numbers flash on the desk chrono, revealing plenty of time before the ceremony is scheduled to begin. But Mara’s gaze is fixated on Skywalker.
Has she noticed his musculature before? She did last night but in a clinical way, similar to when he was a target and she still thought of him as an amalgamation of body parts rather than an actual person. But now? What changed?
Nothing’s changed, she reminds herself. She’s just admiring, like anyone else might do. Skywalker’s toned in a way that suggests regular gym use, but lean with a subtle athleticism that speaks to flexibility training and slower-paced exercise. It’s a good regimen, she thinks, because he stands up in the full glory of the sunlight and Mara suddenly understands why Skywalker’s personal life graces the sludgenews headlines so often.
He glances at her over his shoulder, and she quickly plonks a lid on her obtrusive thoughts before they become a problem.
Mara swings her legs off the bed just as Skywalker pads towards the refresher, stretching like a loth-kitten all the while. “I’m going to take a quick shower before we head out. There are plenty of leftovers; help yourself.”
She says something affirmative back, then jumps to her feet when the sound of running water fills the room. Her comm is in the front pouch of her backpack, and she grabs it and the spare room key on the dresser. Not even bothering to change out of her sleep clothes, she tiptoes into the hallway and then sprints to the far end.
Her thumb hovers over Leia Organa Solo’s contact code. She takes a slow, calming inhale – her heart is beating too rapidly for her liking – and presses it.
The comm connects instantly. Mara already did the calculations – it’s mid-afternoon in Coruscant, about thirty minutes before the end of the workday. Her meetings should be over by now, which means Organa Solo is alone in her circular office that overlooks the Senate District and catching up on whatever she’s missed.
“Mara,” Organa Solo says, the warmth in her voice unmistakable despite their vast distance. “What a lovely surprise to hear from you. I trust everything is going well. The ceremony begins shortly, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. Everything’s been great,” Mara replies in a rush to reassure her. “There are no fires here, except if you count the blistering sun. Actually, I’m contacting you about something else.”
“Oh?” Curiosity piques Organa Solo’s deliberately neutral tone. “Please go on.”
Mara glances down at her toes, wiggles them on the rubbery carpet specked with stylized renderings of wroshyr trees. “Remember what happened with your twins and…how I was there? To help?”
Organa Solo breathes deeply at the other end of the comm, as though taken away by reminiscence. The flashback plays in Mara’s mind as well – how fearlessly she had cut down the imperial threat that sought to harm the other woman and her newborn babies.
“Of course. How could I forget your bravery? My family is indebted to you.”
“Thank you,” Mara says. “I appreciate that. I…”
Her throat tightens, and Mara suddenly flounders. But Organa Solo makes an encouraging sound – whether she uses it to influence rowdy senators to her point of view or calm down a pair of rambunctious infants, Mara is unsure. But it helps, and she manages to get the words out. “Is that favour still on the table?”
“Absolutely,” Organa Solo says without hesitation. “What do you need?”
Mara closes her eyes and tells her.
Back in the room, Mara finishes ironing her dress on the lowest heat setting just as Luke emerges from the refresher. His hair is already halfway dried in the heat and parted neatly to one side. Unsurprisingly, he’s garbed in his customary black tunic-trouser-boots getup with his lightsaber hanging from a beltloop. But there’s something different about him this time, and Mara squints to get a better look.
“You’re…you’re wearing colour!”
Skywalker grins and adjusts the handkerchief in his breast pocket – an azure blue to match his eyes.
“It was a gift from Aunt Beru. She stitched it for me by hand the first time I ever had to wear something formal. I think I was ten. I always carry it with me, but after leaving Tatooine I didn’t think I’d ever wear it again.”
Mara steps closer to him and runs her fingers over the well-worn linen texture. The artistry is evident, and she pauses over the monogrammed initials in the corner, the yarn in a deeper navy blue for contrast. Skywalker’s guardians loved him – she knows that acutely from what little he’s told her about them.
“Gorgeous,” she remarks with a tight smile. “It suits you.”
They make eye contact, but Mara once again extracts herself from Skywalker’s gaze before he can see her cheeks inflame with colour. Behind her, Skywalker clears his throat while Mara smooths the skirt of her dress, pretending to fuss with a wrinkle that isn’t there. She’s not a silly, preening girl with a teenage crush. Skywalker is her friend – nothing more. He doesn’t even view their relationship as anything other than that. What’s wrong with her?
“I called ahead for the speeder service,” Skywalker says. If he’s aware of whatever tempest is brewing inside her, his voice doesn’t betray it. “No more anooba oases or mirages or optical illusions to worry about.”
Mara scoffs, but she can’t help the relief from flooding into her voice.
“There you go, rescuing me again.”
She holds up the dress delicately, like a gallery curator handling a valuable piece of artwork, and heads towards the refresher.
“But,” she says as she slides the door shut, “I’ll allow it one more time. Just don’t read anything into it.”
Skywalker lets out a huff of laughter. She doesn’t dwell on how it sounds fonder than it did last night.
“Never, Mara. I wouldn’t dream of it.”