"And I'm definitely not getting paid for this?"

Biggs bristled, but Luke just laughed. As he had every time the smuggler had asked this. "Yeah, Han, answer's the same as when you first asked Leia back on base. You can turn around and drop us off back there whenever you want, but"—Luke leaned forwards to peer at the navicomputer—"we're almost there."

Han swatted Luke's head, and Luke retreated back to the passenger's seat in the cockpit before Biggs could hit Han back. "You've learnt to read that thing too fast for someone who'd never been to hyperspace before they met me, kid."

"He's always been a fast learner," Biggs said.

Luke rolled his eyes, but he was still laughing. He gave Biggs an affectionate look that bolstered him suddenly.

"Yeah, I know. Blew up the Death Star first time in a cockpit and all that. It's annoying."

"You should see me in Beggar's Canyon, Han."

"I really don't wanna." Chewbacca, on Han's right, roared something, and Han waved his hand at him, this time. "You shut up. You don't know anything." Another growl. "I mean it!"

Chewbacca glanced back at Luke and sniggered, and Biggs gritted his teeth. He wished he'd paid more attention in Shyriiwook lessons, but he'd been aiming to be a pilot, not some stormtrooper grunt trying to hold back another uprising on Kessel. Before he could demand to know what he'd said, they dropped out of hyperspace with a vertigo that always made Biggs's stomach flop in what was by now a pleasant, familiar way, and he was staring at an unpleasant, familiar planet.

"Anyway, where'd you want me to drop you, kid?"

Biggs glanced sideways at Luke. He'd sworn never to come back here, not if he could. He'd only gone to see Luke in Anchorhead before infiltrating the traitors on the Rand Ecliptic because he'd known that was the last chance he'd have to say goodbye.

But here he was. This dustball had the gravity well of a black hole. Maybe that was why nobody ever got out.

"Think we can talk Fixer into renting us a speeder in Anchorhead?" Luke asked Biggs. Biggs blinked before he managed to process the question. "Boy, he's gonna be angry to see you."

"Angry to see me?"

"He was always jealous of you, Biggs—everyone was. He thought when you went off to the navy he'd get to go back to being the biggest womprat in the den."

Biggs knew that, of course. Fixer was loud with his thoughts and loud with his resentments. He'd just never really cared enough to process it before. It was a badge of pride: Fixer resented him because he knew that Biggs would get out. He resented Luke for the same reason. Fixer's bitterness was something to laugh at and dismiss, not genuinely care about.

"Yeah, well, try not to brag too much or you'll be his next target, Rebel hero." Biggs cuffed Luke on the back of his head; Luke ducked before it could connect. "But yeah, he'll rent us a speeder just to get us out of his shop. He's an adult. He's got responsibilities to his dad now." Biggs didn't realise the tone his voice had taken until he looked back at Luke and saw a knowing sort of look in his eye. It was jarring enough in his open, naïve face that Biggs frowned.

"I won't brag," Luke promised. Maybe he could tell how much this was affecting him—that Biggs had only suggested this because keeping Luke with the Rebellion was worse. "I've got an interest in not having the Imperials on my tail."

Han snorted. "Yeah, and who'd believe you?"

"They let me fly against it in the first place, Han," Luke teased. Biggs closed his mouth, unsure what he'd been about to say to that anyway. "You know, you'd see what they saw if you let me fly the Falcon—"

"Nope!" Solo changed the subject before Luke could press—very unsubtly. Luke laughed again. "We're coming up on this dustball, so tell me where you wanna go already."

"Let's go to Anchorhead," Luke said.

"Where's that?"

"Other side of the Jundland Wastes from Mos Eisley."

"Great," Han muttered. They were nearing the bright blue boundary of atmo now, but he banked left and skimmed along just outside it, still in space, as he looked for the right place. "Big pile of nothin' to fly over on the way back."

Biggs turned his head to watch the atmosphere, the blue edge to the world, pass by them.

"At least you're gonna pay off Jabba," Luke said. Biggs, trapped in his thoughts, heard it distantly, like when the cockpit of his starfighter closed around him. "You wanna keep running around with a price on your head? I thought you were desperate."

"You've always been the desperate one, kid—" But Chewbacca howled with laughter, and Captain Solo was outnumbered.

They landed soon after. Luke went back to the bunkroom to grab some of his stuff, chatting to Chewbacca. Luke didn't speak Shyriiwook, Biggs was fairly sure, but they seemed to have a system of communication going. He went to follow Luke, but the door to the cockpit slid shut.

"What's your deal?" Captain Solo asked him, spinning round in his chair to look at him.

Biggs could open the door himself—there was a manual button—but Solo was looking at him intently. "What?"

Solo scratched the back of his neck. "I dunno—something just feels weird about you. What's your deal? Luke comes in, you're happy to see him 'cause he's your friend, but then he blows up the Death Star, and you disappear—"

"A lot of my friends died up there, Solo."

"I know, I just didn't really know who you were 'til Her Worship made me come on this mission. Luke talked about you, but you weren't there, and then suddenly you can't leave him alone. And you clearly hate this place." Solo glanced out the cockpit. "Not that I blame you. But what's your deal? Something's bothering you."

"And you're worried why?" Biggs snapped. "Because of Luke? He doesn't need you to take care of him."

"Well—"

"You're a smuggler. Why are you even still here? You're," he reminded him, "not getting paid for this."

Solo's shrug didn't quite hide his frown, and the way he looked away. "I'm just curious about you and the kid."

"What's it matter to you, Solo? You've known him just over a week."

Solo looked at him, hard, then suddenly showed his teeth in a laugh. He leaned back and spun his chair around again. "That's your deal, then."

The door whizzed open. Biggs didn't linger to ask what the hell that meant. He just stormed out.

Captain Solo and Chewbacca flew off less than ten minutes later, thank the stars, and Biggs was alone with Luke. He'd brought his bucket hat off the Falcon and was wearing his usual desert garb again, but he didn't have the flight goggles on his head. Looking at him like this, older and missing the goggles that he'd worn every day for nearly two decades, was nothing short of bizarre.

When a whiff of burning hit Biggs, it came with the realisation that this was probably the same outfit Luke had left Tatooine in—the one he'd seen his aunt and uncle burn in. He swallowed. He was sweating in his spare Rebel fatigues, but at least his clothes didn't smell like smoke even after three washes.

"Wanna go bother Fixer, then?" Biggs forced a smile as he breathed in the hot, dry air.

"If Camie's there she might even try to flirt with you again," Luke joked, falling in step beside him.

Biggs really hoped she didn't.

Fixer was working in his dad's shop as usual. They strode right in and found him underneath a speeder, arguing with whoever was handing him the spanner. It took Biggs a moment to recognise that person as Windy.

"Look, just give me that one, and I'll figure it out—Windy, listen to—"

"Luke!" Windy, ignoring Fixer's grunts, sprang to his feet the moment they stepped inside and strode towards him. "You're alive!"

Luke startled, not expecting that response. "Yeah, Windy, you know me." He punched Windy's shoulder weakly. Windy hovered in front of them both, not sure how to react. Hugging seemed too intimate, but his relief was obvious. "Nothing can kill me."

"What happened? We all saw the smoke from the farm, your aunt and uncle—"

"It's a long story."

"Don't act all mysterious," Fixer snapped from under the speeder. He hadn't come out to say hello to Luke or Biggs yet. "Give me the spanner already, Windy."

The spanner wobbled on the ground and flew into Fixer's hand. He grunted and didn't say thank you. Windy, still staring at Luke, didn't notice anything, but Biggs did.

He glanced sideways at Luke. It couldn't have been anyone else, but… Luke wasn't a Jedi. His father had been a Jedi. Luke couldn't be a Jedi, because that would mean Vader would kill him.

Luke's brow was furrowed, and he was looking at Windy intently, as if trying not to look at the hydrospanner. But his fingers were flicking at his side. It took a lot of effort.

What the hell was he doing? Experimenting? In front of Fixer and Windy, two of the most pathetic, loudmouth kids in town? He'd get himself thrown in front of the Imperials and strung up as a Force-sensitive in no town. They shouldn't have come back—

But they had nowhere else to go.

Windy shifted, realising how intently Luke was looking at him. "I didn't wanna pry!" he said. That was a lie. Everyone wanted to know everything. The moment you did anything interesting, they'd know about it and never let you forget it. They mocked and whispered about kids like him and Luke, but they wouldn't know what to do with themselves without them. "I just— I was on the team that went out, when we saw the smoke! It was…" He shuddered.

"Yeah, well," Luke said, trying to hold himself together, "you didn't even see the bones. The Imperials killed my aunt and uncle. I was out. They burnt down the farm."

"They never done that before—"

Luke's lips twitched. "Apparently we were that important."

"What did your aunt and uncle do?"

"Nothing, Windy."

"Then—"

"We need a speeder, Fixer," Biggs said loudly. "You got one?"

"Yeah I got a speeder."

"You gonna give it to us?"

"How much are you paying for it?"

Biggs sighed. But Windy, inane questions or not, was useful for something. "Luke's family just died, stop being like that. Just give them a speeder."

"You don't work here, Windy."

"Glad you realised that, and glad you got that blasted spanner on your own—"

"We're gonna do a proper funeral," Luke said before Biggs could wade in. Biggs bit his tongue. "I sold my speeder to get off the planet the first time. I can't get to the homestead without a speeder."

"Homestead's probably ransacked."

"You know it's not, Fixer," Windy said. "Fixer, Camie, and I've been doing watches on it. Tuskens haven't come for it yet."

Biggs could tell that made Luke relax, ever so slightly.

"You did get off planet, then?" Fixer addressed Luke. "Great, Wormie. You'll be a right pain in the ass now."

"Where else would I have gone?" Luke snapped. "Not like I could've come here, clearly—"

"Da figured it was the Hutts, and you'd gone back to Mos Espa."

Luke's face went blank. "Back to Mos Espa?"

"Do you have that speeder or not, Fixer?" Biggs demanded.

"No, Biggs," Luke said. Biggs stared at him. Luke's chest was heaving. "You thought I'd gone back to Mos Espa, Fixer?"

"Da thought you'd been taken there, yeah. They were talking about getting together a rescue or something." Fixer still hadn't even bothered to come out from under the speeder. "Back of the shop. Yellow one with the bad paint job and worse engine. You can have it for free if you can fly it."

"You know I can fly anything, Fixer."

"Counting on it, Wormie."

"Let us know when's the funeral," Windy said. "We'll make sure we're there."

Luke managed to fake a small smile. "Thanks, Windy."

Biggs pulled him away before he could get uncomfortable. "Yeah," he said. "Thanks, Windy."

Luke could fly it, of course. Bad engine or no, he was Luke Skywalker, and Fixer resented him for a reason. It made a lot of noise, spluttering like it was about to fall apart, and Biggs grumbled the whole time.

"Had to give us the piece of bantha shit," he said. "No wonder he gave it to us free, must've got it from a scrapyard."

Luke glanced down. "You know our speeder sounded like this when we bought it. Before Uncle Owen let me fix it up."

"Yeah, but afterwards it didn't."

"Still. We'd've bought it."

The desert was no more welcoming than it had ever been, and Biggs had to shade his eyes from the sun, wishing he'd brought more practical clothes after all. But Luke flew fast. Biggs didn't have the time to feel queasy from his nerves when he was too busy feeling queasy because of Luke, so they had arrived in front of the Darklighter homestead before he'd even started to think about what he was going to say.

Luke parked the speeder and climbed out, eyeing the many droids milling about. They polished the dome of the homestead until it shone like a third sun, uncomfortably bright. One of them had definitely transmitted information to his father that there were uninvited intruders on the property—Huff Darklighter was nothing if not territorial—but his father was probably out yelling at farmhands right now, so they had a few minutes to get inside.

Luke hung back, letting Biggs be the one to make the first approach. Biggs scowled, but he did: he stepped towards the door of the homestead and rang the bell. He heard that high-pitched chime echoing throughout the structure, an intimately familiar sound.

What wasn't a familiar sound was the child's wail that followed it. He frowned, glancing at Luke. Luke looked back at him like he'd expected Biggs to know more about this than him.

Footsteps grew closer; the wailing grew louder. When the door hissed open, standing at the top of the stairs was Salla, looking much older than her twenty-five years, bouncing a baby on her hip. Her dark hair already had a few bleached streaks—from the sun or from greying stress, Biggs couldn't tell in the shadows of the entryway.

She peered at him. "Biggs?" She still sounded young, though even her voice was slightly croaky. Her smile, though, had always been tired. "It's good to see you."

Biggs raised his hand to the back of his neck, suddenly hyperaware of all the things Luke had teased him for when he'd last come to Tatooine, before Luke was a war criminal: his fine offworlder dress, his neat hair, his cape. His father had dismissed them when they last met, but it was Salla's opinion Biggs cared about. "I know I didn't send advance warning—"

"And Luke!" Salla's gaze moved past Biggs to alight on him. "I was sorry to hear about your aunt and uncle."

Luke coughed. "Thanks, Salla. And—congratulations."

"Congratulations—oh." She bounced the baby almost absentmindedly. It reached out a hand to grab one of her buns, but that was knotted firmly on top of her head. Biggs had seen Tatooinian hairstyles survive sandstorms intact. Perhaps a baby's interest was more insistent, though. "Thanks. This is Cliegg."

Luke raised his eyebrows. "Like my grandfather?"

"Huff insisted. You remember how much they always got along." The baby's interest was indeed more powerful than a sandstorm: the plait unrolled in his tiny fist, and Salla winced at the tug he gave it.

"He'd be honoured, I'm sure." Biggs knew Luke didn't remember much of his grandfather—he'd died when Luke was a few years old, and all accounts said he'd never been the fearsome farmer he once was after Luke's grandmother had died—but there were memories, nonetheless. "May we come in?"

Salla laughed, glancing at Biggs. "Well, he lives here—"

"Not anymore," Biggs muttered.

"—and you're a neighbour, so of course. Are you…" She paused, picking her words as delicately as she picked flower arrangements at the market. "Are you here about your aunt and uncle?"

Luke nodded. "I want to give them a funeral, but I don't have the resources anymore. Biggs said you could help."

She nodded and admitted, "I miss your aunt. And your uncle—they were always respectful." Salla's expression darkened; she and Luke exchanged a look of sympathy. Biggs felt slightly left out.

Salla was an ex-slave. Biggs didn't know what had happened to her, or how she'd got out, or even if his father had helped her at all. All of Biggs's hard-learned charm had always faltered when he ran into the circumstances they'd met under, but the Larses—and Luke—had the experience with that backstory to know what she needed them to say.

"Yeah." Luke shifted. "I'm glad to see you're well." He stepped forwards to offer baby Cliegg his finger. Salla shot him a grateful look when Cliegg, fascinated by this new, pink digit wriggling in his face, stopped grabbing her hair. "Both of you."

"I am too," Biggs added, too late to be natural.

Salla didn't mind, though. "Come in," she said. "Your father will be back soon."

On that, they were able to exchange sympathetic looks.

Huff returned soon after Salla commed him to let him know Biggs was there—if she hadn't, he'd have come storming in demanding to know who was intruding on his land. He was paranoid like that.

"Biggs? Where the hells are you, I—" He paused in the doorway to the kitchen, squinting at Luke. "You. Skywalker."

Biggs felt his hackles rise, but Luke smiled blandly at him. "Hi, Mister Darklighter."

"Skywalker," he responded. He was a tall man, with a beard and moustache the same shade of black as Biggs's. No silver, despite the harsh suns. He didn't work much on his own farm anymore, not since he bought up so many that it only made sense to hire farmhands to farm it for him, but also Biggs knew he dyed it every week without fail.

Despite that, his hair was a mess: bushy, wiry, his beard scruffy in a way that Salla must hate kissing. Biggs unconsciously touched his own moustache. It was well-combed; they'd never take him seriously in the Empire if it wasn't.

"What happened to your aunt and uncle? The Hutts finally lose patience with Owen's games? I told him, there's no mercy out there for insolent—"

Luke gritted his teeth, but before Biggs could step in, he said, "The Empire did."

"Empire? Owen wasn't stupid enough to fool around with them, was he?"

"We didn't think so, but the stormtroopers were looking for some droids, and we happened to buy them."

"Is that it?" Huff frowned and shook his head. "They're getting pushy. They'll be encroaching on us soon—I'll have to watch what water shipments I send to the garrison, make sure they're satisfied." Salla grimaced, but just bounced Cliegg some more. Huff looked back at Luke. "Sorry for your loss."

"Thanks."

"I assume that's what pulled you back to Tatooine." Huff glanced at Biggs, a little disdain in his eyes. They were eyes that Biggs shared, and he hated it. "I'll send you comms every day for three months explaining how much I need my son to help me coordinate the harvest instead of risking his life cavorting with Imperials in some meaningless war, but the moment your friend's stand-in parents die—"

"I came back for a meaningful reason, Father."

Huff rolled his eyes. "I try to protect you, and this is what I get. You'll grow out of your high and mighty ideas one day." He glanced at Cliegg and smiled, cooing gently. "Better hope your brother hasn't picked up your inheritance in the meantime."

"He's two months old."

"Eight months, now," Salla said quietly. Biggs tightened his lips into a thin line. She turned to Huff. "The boys are looking for help hosting Owen and Beru's funeral—Luke had to leave the planet when he found them dead, so could only do a quick burial there and then."

"You left the planet?" Huff asked Luke. "You couldn't get to Mos Pelgo if you tried."

"I left the planet," Luke said, smiling blandly.

"Where the hells did you even go?"

"The Rebellion."

Huff tensed. "Don't joke about that, boy. You want to bring the Empire down on me?"

"He's not joking," Biggs cut in. "We—"

Huff glared at him. "We? You're an Imperial. You've given yourself ridiculous dreams, but you're my son. I know they're not that ridiculous."

"Tough. I defected. I joined the Rebels, and so did Luke. We're on leave to bury Owen and Beru, and then we're going right back there!" The irony of his own words wasn't lost on him.

"Going back to waste your time and risk your life some more, then—"

"As opposed to what?"

"As opposed to honest work for someone else!"

Biggs scoffed. "You've never done a minute of honest work in your life. Much less for someone else."

He expected the slap. He dodged it, and Huff's hand slammed into the kitchen counter instead. His father stared at him, breathing heavily.

"You're gonna get yourself killed, and I'm gonna be out another farmhand."

"I'm glad you're so worried about me."

"This is for your own good. You're gonna die—"

"I'd rather die with Luke than live with you."

Huff sucked in a breath and raised his hand again.

"You don't have to do that!" Luke interjected.

Huff turned to glare at Luke. "Did I ask for your opinion, Skywalker?"

"You don't have to do that," Luke repeated. The conviction was there again, stronger.

Huff lowered his hand. "I don't have to do that," he agreed. Biggs and Salla exchanged a look.

"You can leave us all alone. There's no point."

Huff nodded, a little bravado entering his voice again. "Suns know that I can leave you all alone. There's no point."

"Yeah, that's what we'd prefer," Biggs bit out.

Whatever effect Luke had cast over him, it didn't cover Biggs's sass. But Huff still didn't hit him.

"It's a good thing you're not my only son," he spat at him. Then he turned around and marched out.

Salla winced. "You don't have to provoke him, Biggs."

"I do."

"It only makes it worse for all of us." She glanced at him sideways. Guilt was slow to fester, but fester it did, cocooning in his chest.

Luke passed a hand in front of his face, looking suddenly exhausted. "I'm sorry for this, Salla."

"You couldn't have done anything about it, Luke," she reassured him. "I'll talk him around. Even if he's not there at the funeral—I doubt Owen would have wanted him there—we can put up some funds to help you."

Luke smiled. "Thank you."

"I'm proud of you." Salla looked at Biggs, then, her dark eyes warm. She was only a few years older than him, but wiser with pain and experience and compassion. "Joining the Rebellion? That's brave. You're doing the right thing." Luke ducked his head, flushing. "Genuinely. How did you get involved?"

"You're not gonna believe it," Luke mumbled.

Salla laughed at his expression. "Try me."

The story of the Death Star was one out of this galaxy. Biggs wouldn't have blamed Salla for scepticism, but she nodded along as Luke told it; she trusted Luke. Biggs's story was plain in comparison, but he was glad he didn't have to tell it just yet. Baby Cliegg caught his eye and smiled widely. Biggs couldn't smile back.

All he could do was stand there, Salla's words washing over him, as he processed that she would be proud of having a Rebel stepson.

Ultimately, the funeral wasn't hard to arrange: Tatooine's traditions had always been simple. The most difficult part was digging Owen and Beru up again—an unpleasant task, but not uncommon, considering the plenty of times masters killed slaves and disposed of their bodies before their loved ones could pay their respects.

Bodies didn't compose in the desert the way Biggs had heard they did on other planets. Dry sand sucked the moisture out of them and could preserve them, their flesh dry and unrotting on their bones, for years. Myths abounded of stories of incorrectly buried corpses being dug up by the elements during the shifting of dunes under a stormy sky and flung into their old homestead. Shrivelled husks of bodies, long dead but animated by the unnatural power at the heart of the storm, chattering and cackling at the door while their relatives looked on and screamed.

Biggs's father always scoffed and dismissed them as just that: myths. But Salla helped them source the plants, water, and even rare soil that traditional Tatooinian graves would be packed with, to help the body decompose. Desert cacti and other plants would be planted over the graves, both to consume the nutrients from the bodies and grow strong, but also for their roots to hold together the sand when the nightmare storms came.

They held the funeral the next day. At sunrise, Luke and Biggs rose and drove out to the empty husk of a homestead that had once been the centre—and limits—of Luke's galaxy. Biggs let him wander through the charred and empty halls a little longer, lingering over the rooms that had caved in and filled with sand, then they set to work digging Owen and Beru back up. Luke hadn't buried them deeply, before—he'd been in shock and needed to run—and they were lucky there hadn't been a sandstorm since then. The bones were still where they'd left them.

And bones they were. Biggs didn't know what he had expected—maybe he'd expected nothing at all. He'd avoided thinking about it. Luke had told him that Owen and Beru had burned to death, that he'd found them at the doorway as if they were fighting to escape, but the nausea in his gut had stopped him from slowing down to really process what that meant. Their flesh had been incinerated. The only thing left for the desert to consume was their bones.

When they dug them up, they shone ivory in the suns' early morning light, tinged with gold and scarred with black soot. Looking at them hurt.

"I don't know whose are whose," Luke admitted quietly, stopping to lean on his shovel like the moons had rolled onto his shoulders. His bucket hat was low over his forehead; a bead of sweat slid, uninterrupted, down his cheek. "I probably could have figured it out, but everything happened so fast, and now they're lost in one jumble—"

"Would they have minded?" Biggs replied.

A tear slid down Luke's cheek, cutting through the trail the sweat had left behind. "No. They might've liked it."

They wrapped all the bones in one shroud. It was one that Windy's mother had donated—Genya had been close to Beru and privately started making it herself when she heard the news, even before she knew Luke and Biggs had come back—and was dyed a cheerful blue, the colour of the sky. More importantly, the colour of water: silver threads ran through it, simulating the shimmer of moisture on the vaporators. Luke wrapped the bones in it tightly and tied it in a bow at the top, like a gift.

It meant the space of the grave was smaller than Shmi and Cliegg's next to it, since it didn't span the full length of the human body, but Biggs and Luke had been digging for a while as it was, so that was a mercy. Luke gently placed the bones in the pit and tilled the sand back over it, watching the shimmer of the shroud get soaked up by the dry dust.

Biggs swallowed harshly and took the blue milk Luke offered him, offering Luke the gourd of water in return. Luke took it, but they both let themselves quench their thirst before they flung the water over the grave. There was no flesh to decompose—the fire had done that for them already—but tradition was tradition. They always spent water on the dead; it was the highest honour they could bestow.

The sand grew damp and clumpy, darkening to a yellow-brown Biggs hadn't seen since he'd been on shore leave from the Devastator on Scarif, and stood on the beach beside a bafflingly vast sea of water he could not drink, watching it foam around his feet and be gobbled up by the sand. He knelt down now and shaped it with his hands as he had then: then, it was to marvel at the feeling of wet sand, an anathema; now, it was to clear a few small holes, each about a foot deep, above the grave.

As the next of kin, Luke buried the first plant. He'd gone to the Marstraps' hydroponics farm without Biggs and without credits, but he'd come away with a cactus bigger than his torso, nearly poking his own eye out as he loaded it into the speeder. Now, he sank it into the largest hole, shaping the sand to hold it steady once he let go, his hands scratched and sunburnt already. It wasn't flowering yet—it wasn't in season—but it would soon. Biggs went next, planting some of the smaller grasses and blossoms that Beru had cultivated in pots around the homestead. Just the sweet smell of them made him feel safe. By now, it was high noon, but a vigil was a vigil. Tatooinian funerals lasted all day; the hosts stayed there and worked, and visitors would help them where they could.

So, they sat in the sand and waited for the suns to dip below the horizon again, pitching the rough, weatherworn shelter that Fixer's father had tossed at them so they could wait in the shade. Luke murmured to himself and his aunt and uncle in Huttese—Biggs wasn't as proficient in the language as he used to be, having spent so much time trying his best to speak High Galactic Basic in the navy, but he knew what he was saying. A long requiem of funeral poems, dirges, songs, confessions, griefs, regrets. He switched between them before they were complete, like he couldn't bear to hold them through to the end. Watching him mutter, caught in his own thoughts like some esoteric monk, Biggs thought of what he'd done to his father earlier.

It had looked like a Jedi mind trick.

Granted, Biggs didn't know anything about the Jedi that Luke hadn't told him, other than the fact that they were evil, and the Empire had been right to wipe them out. But Luke had told him about Old Ben tricking those stormtroopers into not arresting them and mentioned that he was training himself to try to be able to do something like that. To be able to help like that.

Biggs had dismissed it as thoroughly as he'd dismissed Luke's comment that he knew (more or less) how to use the laser sword at his waist. Luke was a good pilot and a good shot. He was a good luck charm. But he wasn't a warrior, regardless of how many people he'd killed in one battle. He wouldn't become a Jedi, simply because he couldn't become a Jedi—that would be too dangerous. Biggs was the one who had always protected him.

But then he'd made Huff Darklighter back off with only a few firm words.

Luke clearly wasn't a mind-reader like Lord Vader yet, because he didn't respond to Biggs's turmoil. He just kept muttering to himself. Biggs couldn't do anything except sit and listen and wait for others to join them in their vigil.

No one came.

By the time the light turned bloody, Biggs's lip was sore from sneering. No one had come. He should have expected it. They all had very important work to do—work they couldn't bear to interrupt, even for this. Of course they hadn't come.

When Tatoo I was nearly gone and Tatoo II was crimson, Biggs stood up and took down the shelter. "Come on, Luke," he said. "We need to get back before total dark."

Luke shook his head. "We have another fifteen minutes or so before total suns-down."

"No one is coming. Your aunt and uncle would want you safe more than they want another fifteen minutes with you."

In another eerie move that threatened everything Biggs believed in, Luke frowned, tilted his head, and pointed to the horizon. Biggs looked, already knowing in his chest what he would see. Luke's premonitions had been cool when they were kids, a fun bit or trivia or coincidence that kept them safe. Now, they chilled him.

A flock of speeders emerged out of the mauve haze on the horizon. As they grew closer, much faster than Biggs had ever seen respectable, easily spooked folk like their neighbours fly, the roar of the speeders bounced deafeningly across the dunes. They sputtered to a halt next to the homestead, sending waves of sand in Biggs and Luke's faces, burying their plants just a little more.

"Skywalker!" Fixer's father barked. "Hope we're not too late? Your uncle wouldn't mind it—your lot were never the most punctual either, eh?"

Biggs whipped his head to look at Luke. That was because the Lars farm was far out of the way from Anchorhead, and they always had to work long hours, Owen making sure Luke worked the longest—

To Biggs's surprise, Luke smiled. "No," he agreed, "I doubt he would."

Fixer's mother knelt next to Luke at the grave and buried their plant—a cactus that was in bloom, bright red blooms—in the next free space. The others followed: the Marstraps, the Starkillers, every other family with kids their age who had laughed with Owen in Anchorhead's pathetic little cantina or pushed past Beru on market day. Salla stepped forwards with a spindly spider plant—even Salla was late. Biggs gaped at her in shock and betrayal, but she was too busy giving Luke a quick, tight hug to notice. Her dark hair had fallen out of its neat bun again, messy and unkempt and full of dust.

They were there long past suns-down, planting their offerings and chatting and laughing. A lot of the offerings were cacti—"Survivors!" one person said, "Like Owen. Prickly, too"—and their spines bristled blood red in the last rays of light before only their dark silhouettes remained against the dark sky.

Luke, more patient than antsy Luke Skywalker had ever been, entertained everyone offering him belated blessings, and even gave a good show of sincerity. Biggs tried to be there for moral support, like he had all day, but eventually he couldn't stomach it and turned away.

The laughter and well wishes rang in his ears. They were ultimately—as everything on Tatooine was—too little too late.

It was long dark when it finally wrapped up. Salla didn't offer them a place to stay, but Windy's father did; Luke turned him down, thankfully. Biggs didn't want to spend another day on this planet. They all headed back to Anchorhead like an armada, the moons almost bright enough to see by without lights, so if one good thing came out of this, it was that Biggs didn't have to worry about Tuskens jumping them in the middle of the desert. Biggs drove; Luke commed Han in the meantime, asking him to come and pick them up.

Han was annoying, as always. "Sorry, kid, gimme a few more hours to wrap it up. Jabba's being… recalcitrant."

"He's trying to squeeze more money out of you?" Luke guessed.

"You bet. I'll pick ya up around midnight your time."

They'd been awake since before dawn, but Luke didn't complain. Biggs wanted to, but Han hung up before he could.

"We can find someone to host us 'til then," Luke said, yawning. He glanced to the left, where the low voices of various families chatting around them floated towards them on the breeze. "Probably."

Biggs said, "I have a better idea."

Beggar's Canyon looked even more alarming at night, with the silver light of the moons barely illuminating it at all: it resembled a gaping maw. Luke raised his eyebrows as they approached, but to Biggs's relief a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "I'm good, Biggs, but even I'm not gonna fly it in the middle of the night."

"Nah, Luke, I don't have a death wish either." Biggs brought the speeder to a halt right in the centre of that opening, as far into the dark chasm as he dared, and leaned back. "I just wanted to come here. Memories."

"Of beating Fixer and embarrassing him in front of Camie?"

"Of knowing we were good enough to make it." Biggs's smile faded. "You know how many Imperial-trained pilots could take on Beggar's Canyon and win? Not many."

"Didn't feel like they were all that bad when they were shooting at me."

"They're not bad," Biggs said. "Especially those ones—Vader's personal pilots. They're the elites of the Empire. Black Squadron." Biggs's squadron. "You're just insanely good."

Luke ducked his head, shaking off the compliment like he always did even as Biggs could see pride warming his smile. "It was an instinct," he admitted. "Obviously, I'd never flown out of atmo before… I didn't know what I was doing. It just came naturally."

"You fly like you were born there."

"I've got no idea where I was born. Maybe I was."

Maybe he was. Maybe Luke's Jedi father and mysterious mother had been on a ship gunning through hyperspace when he was born, and in his first moments he'd breathed in recycled air, felt the thrum of the engine chatter his toothless gums, felt the ripples of spacetime shift around him, and the song of it all had been singing at the back of his head ever since. Biggs realised he didn't know. Luke was a Jedi's son, with a Jedi's powers. Luke was a Rebel hero. Biggs hardly knew him at all.

But no. The way Luke turned towards him, still hiding his proud smile, was imprinted in his memory more intently than his own father's face. Beggar's Canyon loomed in front of them, but it had never seemed scary with Luke there. Luke had always been extraordinary—he'd always been someone too big for this small, insignificant life, someone who would escape it with Biggs, who he could see the stars with.

"I was afraid," Luke admitted.

Biggs tore his eyes from Luke and glanced at Beggar's Canyon. "When you threaded the Needle?"

"No. Well, yeah, I'm not an idiot, but—" Luke swallowed. "I thought you were gonna die over the Death Star. Vader's wingmen nearly took you out."

They hadn't, because Biggs had transmitted the safety codes just in time. Whoever that had been flying there—he bet it was Yularen, that woman was military born and bred with the accuracy to prove it—had aimed to damage him just enough to get him out of the battle, so they could close in on the pilot. Biggs had acquiesced and fled.

"I didn't."

"You almost did."

"So did you! You took heavy fire at the start—"

"I was fine! I was always gonna be fine. But you—"

"Luke," Biggs said, leaning in close. Their faces were inches apart, Luke's irises pale and clear as moons in the unusual light. "There's no one I've ever trusted to fly with like you. There's no one I've ever wanted to fly with like you. We're a team."

"We're a pair of shooting stars," Luke murmured in response, glancing down from Biggs's eyes to… to…

Their lips pressed together. Biggs leaned forwards, Luke leaned forwards, and they kissed, eyes closed, in the shadow of the thousands of flights through the Canyon they'd taken over the years, together.

Biggs's hand moved to the back of Luke's neck. Luke shifted, until he was perched between the seats, his knees knocking into Biggs's as Biggs slid his other arm around Luke's waist and held him there, eyes closed. The heat and reassuring strength of his body against him was familiar in a thousand different ways; now it was familiar in a new way. He smelled like sweet desert flowers and sand—like safety and home.

After an intimate eternity, Biggs pulled his face away, hyperaware of every inch of skin pressed together and the frantic jumble of two pulses racing. He breathed heavily and let Luke kiss his cheek.

Shit, he thought, staring over Luke's shoulder and into the abyss. Shit.