He Made My Bed
by Emmi, as inspired by Handmaiden Insanity
He made my bed.
Well, it's not a bed, really. It's more of a flat, painful, stone-type thing that's been passing for a bed since we became parents earlier this week. But whatever it is, he pulled up the quilt and fluffed the pillow, making the thing look half-comfortable for once. May not be an eternal declaration of love for most men, but for Owen Lars, it means something like: "Hey baby, you're my eternal love-goddess!" Pretty sweet if you ask me.
Stang, that child is loud. He's been here a week, and I don't think he's shut that tiny trap of his once. Obi-wan told us we'd have to make sacrifices when we took him in. He didn't, however, tell me that my eardrums were part of the deal.
He eats with his mouth open, too. His little face gets all red, and he balls his fists up and pounds them on whatever he happens to be near, screaming all the while. If I weren't a being of infinite patience, it might get to me.
I practically have to shove food down his throat. Just ask me why my hair is this particular shade of green today. I dare you.
Obi-wan told us that he's doing this because he's been separated from his twin sister. I, on the other hand, think it's because he has his father's warped sense of humor. This particular situation reeks far too much of Anakin's "Let's see how many rude noises I can make before Beru goes mental" game. Or how about the drunken food-fight at our wedding reception? (He swore he didn't do it, just like he swore he didn't spike the punch. But I swear on the twin suns I saw that bottle levitating. I promise. For that reason alone, Luke will have absolutely nothing to do with any kind of strong drinks. Poor Owen can't hold his ale, and vomit does not go well with honeymoons.)
Thinking of Anakin makes me happy and sad and angry and frustrated all at once, and it reminds me why Owen and I took Luke in the first place. Anakin Skywalker was a good man, if just a little mischevious. And I cannot believe that Darth Vader is Anakin Skywalker. Obi-wan thinks Luke can bring Anakin back, but I don't think that's possible. I think Anakin is dead. And Owen and I owe it to him to raise his son right.
And we will. I think the Force brought us together for this. Neither of us could do it alone. Poor Owen, I love him, but he couldn't raise a child on his own. The poor boy would never have any fun. And me? I would spoil him rotten. So together, I think we can do it right. We compliment each other all the way down the line. In many ways, we are two halves of a single being.
Owen is behind me now, wrapping his arms around my waist. He hugs me tight and doesn't say anything.
"Beautiful, isn't he?" I say. Luke has quieted down now. He sleeps so peacefully, when he does sleep.
To my surprise, Owen whispers, barely: "Quite."
And there is nothing left to say. He knows, and I know, and I think even the baby knows, that despite all the bad that's happened, everything will be all right.
"I love you, Owen."
His mouth traces a whisper of a kiss on my neck, and then he lifts me into his arms and carries me to *our* bed, and I wonder who will make it in the morning...
by Emmi, as inspired by Handmaiden Insanity
He made my bed.
Well, it's not a bed, really. It's more of a flat, painful, stone-type thing that's been passing for a bed since we became parents earlier this week. But whatever it is, he pulled up the quilt and fluffed the pillow, making the thing look half-comfortable for once. May not be an eternal declaration of love for most men, but for Owen Lars, it means something like: "Hey baby, you're my eternal love-goddess!" Pretty sweet if you ask me.
Stang, that child is loud. He's been here a week, and I don't think he's shut that tiny trap of his once. Obi-wan told us we'd have to make sacrifices when we took him in. He didn't, however, tell me that my eardrums were part of the deal.
He eats with his mouth open, too. His little face gets all red, and he balls his fists up and pounds them on whatever he happens to be near, screaming all the while. If I weren't a being of infinite patience, it might get to me.
I practically have to shove food down his throat. Just ask me why my hair is this particular shade of green today. I dare you.
Obi-wan told us that he's doing this because he's been separated from his twin sister. I, on the other hand, think it's because he has his father's warped sense of humor. This particular situation reeks far too much of Anakin's "Let's see how many rude noises I can make before Beru goes mental" game. Or how about the drunken food-fight at our wedding reception? (He swore he didn't do it, just like he swore he didn't spike the punch. But I swear on the twin suns I saw that bottle levitating. I promise. For that reason alone, Luke will have absolutely nothing to do with any kind of strong drinks. Poor Owen can't hold his ale, and vomit does not go well with honeymoons.)
Thinking of Anakin makes me happy and sad and angry and frustrated all at once, and it reminds me why Owen and I took Luke in the first place. Anakin Skywalker was a good man, if just a little mischevious. And I cannot believe that Darth Vader is Anakin Skywalker. Obi-wan thinks Luke can bring Anakin back, but I don't think that's possible. I think Anakin is dead. And Owen and I owe it to him to raise his son right.
And we will. I think the Force brought us together for this. Neither of us could do it alone. Poor Owen, I love him, but he couldn't raise a child on his own. The poor boy would never have any fun. And me? I would spoil him rotten. So together, I think we can do it right. We compliment each other all the way down the line. In many ways, we are two halves of a single being.
Owen is behind me now, wrapping his arms around my waist. He hugs me tight and doesn't say anything.
"Beautiful, isn't he?" I say. Luke has quieted down now. He sleeps so peacefully, when he does sleep.
To my surprise, Owen whispers, barely: "Quite."
And there is nothing left to say. He knows, and I know, and I think even the baby knows, that despite all the bad that's happened, everything will be all right.
"I love you, Owen."
His mouth traces a whisper of a kiss on my neck, and then he lifts me into his arms and carries me to *our* bed, and I wonder who will make it in the morning...