Rain
A/N: I apologise. I had a ridiculously early start and a ridiculously late finish, and my brain came up with … this.
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Water was falling from the sky. Water – clear, cool, really water – was falling from the sky.
And Uncle Owen was running about almost as madly as Biggs at his birthday party.
Rain and Uncle Owen running were indelibly linked in Luke's mind. For there had been water falling from the sky once before, when he had been little. Maybe two, maybe three. And Uncle Owen had run then, feet pounding and splashing, until he had been as wet as Luke.
Luke had been very wet, for Aunt Beru had sat him on the doorstep of the garage and told him to stay there and sit still and get well watered, so he'd grow up to be as tall as Uncle Owen. And he'd done as he was told, and stayed quite, quite still, watching the water falling from the sky and filling the bucket beside him, until Uncle Owen had suddenly splashed out of nowhere.
He had laughed – a very rare noise – and tossed Luke up in the air – an even rarer thing – and said that Luke had collected so much water they'd have to feed him through a vaporator.
To Luke's relief at the time, that one hadn't happened.
Neither had the getting watered enough to grow as tall as Uncle Owen yet, but he had got older. Now he was eight. And that was big enough to join in this madness of grown-up running which rain, apparently, brought on.
"And all the dinner plates!" Aunt Beru called from the courtyard as she ran about spreading all the pressure cooker pans out. "And the beakers!"
The ordinary dinner plates and beakers, and the better set, and then Uncle Owen was shouting down from the top of the wall for Luke to run over to the garage and get every spare bucket out!
Splash-splash up the steps. Clang-clang of every spare bucket spread out. Plink-plink of the rain going in them. And Luke Skywalker ran, laughing.
Because water, and happiness, were falling from the sky.
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