Stargazing

by Cooking Spray

Disclaimer: Highlight address bar. Read carefully. Consult dictionary if needed.

To be honest, I'm a little nervous. . . This is my debut into the large, large realm of Star Wars fan fiction. It's one of those fandoms I was cautious to get involved with, for fear of doing it injustice. I still don't know if this is a worthy contribution, but I finally felt I had to give back. So I present my first step into a larger world (sorry, it was too tempting), a Luke introspective set in one of my favorite parts of the Star Wars chronology, the three-year lull after ANH. Enjoy!

The party was, like most others of its kind at the base, without much visible pretense besides being a good excuse to indulge in a night of drunken revelry and shirk duty. If asked what all of the fuss was about, someone would probably cite some nameless victory against the imperials, and that would be that. For all of the horrible things war was, it sure provided a good excuse to get down.

On this night, however, I wasn't joining in the fun. In fact, I hadn't even particularly wanted to come, but the larger problem was how I would spend my time if I didn't come. What would I do, take advantage of the empty bunk space and break out my lightsaber for a few practice rounds? A lot of good that would do me, without Ben there to guide me. What good was the Force if you didn't know how to use it properly?

I was being bitter, and I knew it, and the rancid bottle of Corellian ale Wes had managed to filch for me was doing nothing to improve my mood. Instead of safely sedating me from my tortured thoughts, as it should have, it was only making my situation seem more miserable, more pathetic. Alcohol was overrated.

No matter how many bottles I would down, I couldn't be a part of their merriment. Not this time, anyway. Maybe later I'd call it a great revelation; a moment in my life when I paused for a moment in my frenzy of enthusiastic, eager youth and was able to reflect on things. Of course, whether it was the alcohol talking (for a strange moment, I thought of my aunt and uncle, who had met their bitter ends back on Tatooine, and wondered what they'd think of that) or just my own jealous mind, my observances were painfully one-sided, a fact which I chose to ignore.

There they stood, in the middle of the throng. Her hair of polished bronze was surreptitiously ill-kempt, and his smile was too wide. Even though they made no physical contact, everyone was careful to leave them their space. They were a sacrament on the impromptu stresscrate dance floor, untouchable. But what made my stomach clench was how unaware they were of all of it.

He leaned closer, much closer than anyone else would've dared, and tilted his head toward hers. I could just barely make out the conversation, though I wish I'd not been able to hear anything at all. My imagination could have filled in the finer points well enough.

She tried to shrink back, tried to push him away, but it was obvious that she really didn't want to do so by how far she got. "Just what do you think you're doing!"

"Trying to kiss you. . . I thought it was obvious." The statement was unabashedly honest; brazen, almost. Only he could get away with it.

A smirk. "Oh, no, I'm not quite that drunk yet, Solo. Nice try."

"I beg to differ, Your Worshipfulness, since you're refusing a kiss from me. . ." He seized her shoulders, saw her stiffen and her mouth begin to shoot open for another insult, no doubt, but he wasn't going to give her the chance this time.

"And no calling me a nerf-herder, or whatever it was you said last time. You got it?"

The smirk returned, more self-assured. "Well, there are no guarantees on that, but in any case, you should get me some more ale."

He flashed that same lopsided grin that I imagined must set her heart afire, even if she'd never admit to it. "Princess, I think that must be the easiest request you've ever made."

As he, the man who took orders from no one, left to obey her request, making sure to brush her shoulder as he passed, I wanted to hate him. The conviction was so strong, so easy to give into. . . But, for some reason, I couldn't summon the feeling to the surface. Not even when he left her there, alone in the mass of jiving bodies and sloshed partygoers. Because although she was without company, the smile leftover from his presence still remained on her face, and I dared not approach. Her unfailing kindness always hurt the worst. She'd never give me the anger and the argument she did to him.

It struck me then that I got the same feeling watching them as I did the stars when I was out in space - they burned so brilliantly, so passionately, so beautifully; but their magnificence was always unattainable, too far out of grasp. They were all around me, but I could never hope to be a part of their glory.

He returned with the bottle he promised, and she did not thank him. Instead, she smiled sweetly, twisted off the cap, and led him through the crowd. I didn't need to see anymore to confirm what I already knew. It didn't matter if all they did was sit and debate the role of the potamoe in the ascension of the Empire for the rest of the night. Her smile said everything. It was no different than the rendition I've received on occasion, except for something that shone in her eyes that I couldn't quite place. Nevertheless, it was there, and it made all the difference.

At that moment, I spotted Wes lumbering towards me, ale in hand in the traditional party attire. It wasn't entirely surprising that he was taking advantage of all the fun. In fact, he'd probably helped orchestrate the whole thing.

"Hey Luke!" He plunked down next to me, and in the close proximity I could see how his cheeks were beginning to flush. "What's with the wallflower act? You haven't even finished this!"

He was referring to my bottle of ale, which I had discarded some minutes earlier. I was surprised to find that it was still half-full.

"Still having some reservations about holding your liquor, I see?" Wes grinned, sloshing the amber liquid around. "Makes sense coming from someone like you. Listen, just let loose. I hear the imperials are off tomorrow. Vader's declaring a bank holiday."

I think I made some sort of noise that might've sounded like a hollow laugh. Whatever the case, Wes looked up at me and followed my gaze, which had somehow settled back on them. Immediately, something in his demeanor softened with understanding in spite of his intoxication, and he clapped a hand onto my shoulder.

"Hey, you'd better chug-a-lug. The strong stuff's going fast." It was a way of conveying sympathy without coming out and saying so. "Come and join us later. We've got some ladies down there from supplies. . ." He winked as he rose, but there was still something serious in his eyes.

"Thanks, Wes." I gave him a watered-down version of my standard grin, and he seemed to accept it, because he turned away then, to the jeers of the rest of the crew, and started to jog their way, whooping and shouting the whole time.

I turned my attention back to the bottle. Maybe Wes was right, but drowning your sorrows in a booze-induced haze was considerably less appealing when you were alone.

I wasn't going to compare the two of us, or bother weighing what possible attribute made him so much more attractive. Did it matter? There was nothing I could do, or, more importantly, nothing I would do. I'd be good ol' dependable, reliable Luke, always holding my tongue, always looking to the brighter side, always doing what was the most noble. I didn't need to see her big doe eyes cloud up with pity, so I wouldn't give her the chance. Though I hated being good-natured and knowing best in times like these, I knew she deserved her happiness. Even if I wouldn't be the one to give it to her.

I'll keep smiling for them, though, because that's the thing about us stargazers:

We dare to keep hoping, no matter how insignificant the chances may be.

So, what do you think? Too chintzy? Overly melancholy? OOC? In my personal opinion, I think I skewered some of the facets of Lucas' galaxy pretty badly. . . (Stresscrate? Potamoes? Do they glare?) And this really doesn't seem like the Luke we all know, but I'm a conceptual person. When plot bunnies bite, they bite hard. Anyway, don't listen to me, tell me what you think.

Also, I know this idea isn't fresh, but I wanted to give it my own take. This fic was actually semi-inspired by the song "Mr. Brightside" by the Killers (say nothing), but I thought it would deter most people if I included that in my pre-reading note, since most song-oriented fics tend to be sub-par. But if you think about the lyrics, some things do fit quite well, in a way.

Okay, I'm going to stop running this mouth o' mine, because it's likely no one's reading this, anyhow.