SW Ficlet: Not Exactly Had (Lars family gen, rated PG)
I started this ages ago and, for some reason, decided to dig it out and finish it tonight. Yay fandom participation! ;)
Title: Not Exactly Had
Fandom: Star Wars
Pairing: Gen, with background Owen/Beru
fanfic100 Prompt: 027: Parents
Word Count: ~1000
Rating: PG
Notes: Star Wars belongs to George Lucas. Title stolen from "Northern Lad" by Tori Amos.
Summary: Beru had no experience with babies.
Not Exactly Had
Beru had no experience with babies. She was the youngest in her family, and her sister Olga had moved far out past Mos Eisley before marrying and having one. Beru herself had been barely a season out of school in Anchorhead when Owen asked her to move out to the farm with him, so she hadn't had time to be asked to mind anyone's little ones. None of the neighbors near the farm had children, either.
Despite that, Beru had managed as well as could be expected. Unlike most mothers, she hadn't had time to prepare a nursery, to have diapers folded and ready, toys purchased or made, entire barrels of water set aside just for her, so the baby wouldn't starve due to its mother's dehydration in an emergency. Not that Beru needed that, of course. Natural milk was one more thing she didn't have for Luke when he arrived. One more thing she couldn't give him, no matter how much she might have wanted to.
Still, she'd managed well. Had learned to change a diaper with a rather frightening speed, to wake almost instinctively when Luke did, to anticipate his moods and do her chores with a baby on her hip. Even so, he managed to surprise her. After the first time he'd smiled at her--not just smiled--the first time he'd lifted his head, rolled over, sat up, Beru thought she was ready for whatever astonishing feat Luke might accomplish next. But nothing could possibly have prepared her for this.
The bright morning sunlight hadn't given anything away. Nor had Luke's customary smile upon seeing her, or his usual trick of wetting a fountain the very instant she unfastened his diaper, or his usual giggling as she dressed him. Nothing was unusual at all, but--
"Maa?" Luke grinned delightedly, and wetly, at Beru's startled gasp. "Mm!" He waved his fist for emphasis. "Maa."
For a moment, Beru could only hold him closer against her breasts. She laid her cheek on the soft, downy yellow hair, so little Luke wouldn't see her face crumple. Breathed through her nose, slowly, and hoped he wouldn't feel her chest hitch.
He sighed and nestled closer. "Maa?"
At last, Beru pulled back. Looked into his wide, anxious blue eyes and smiled, though she could feel it tremble at the corners. "No, Luke," she whispered, shaking her head. "Just Beru. Aunt Beru."
"How's Luke and his mama this morning?" Owen asked a little later, smiling when he came into the kitchen. He swept Luke off his play-mat, making him giggle. "How's Papa's big boy?"
Beru made a choked noise at the cooker, and Owen turned, tucking the baby against his side. "What is it?"
"He spoke," she said quietly, letting the spoon fall. "Luke said his first word this morning."
"He did?" Owen smiled again, down at Luke this time, his teeth white behind his short beard. "That's my bright boy! What did he say?"
Beru swallowed, closed her eyes briefly, and felt the countertop dig into her tightening palm. "He called me 'Ma.'"
Then the room was silent save for Luke's lips smacking against Owen's tunic. "Oh," Owen said at last. He sat heavily at the table and looked up, seeming suddenly, terribly young. "Well."
"Here's Uncle Owen's breakfast," Beru said a moment later, too brightly, as she set his plate in front of him and then held her arms out for the baby. "Luke, you come and sit with Aunt Beru."
"Boo?" Luke echoed, frowning with concentration as he reached short, chubby fingers towards one of her swinging gold braids.
Beru swallowed and smiled and blinked to clear her vision. "Yes, sweet boy. Aunt Beru."
Owen finished his breakfast in silence, shoved his chair in hard enough to rattle the dishes, and went out without a word. He didn't come in for lunch, and Beru, who knew him well enough not to press, didn't bother looking for him when he was late for dinner, too.
She waited until the suns were almost set before she put her shawl around her shoulders, the baby on her hip, and went out. Owen was where she had expected him to be, silhouetted in the orange light, sitting with his arms around his knees. Beru sat wordlessly. The sand was still warm through her skirt, though the evening air was beginning to chill. She shivered, and her skin prickled. She could sense the stiffness of him even across the space between them.
Beru drew a breath and settled Luke against her, thankful that he was tired and quiet and still. "You knew--"
Owen sighed. "Beru. I know. He isn't ours." He sounded bitter, as if he were trying to convince them both. "He never was."
"No, Owen!" Her arms tightened around the warm, solid weight of Luke. Her palm cradled the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the impossible softness of his hair. "He is," she insisted, hating her voice for shaking. "He is ours, now. Obi-Wan Kenobi said--"
"He said Ana--Luke's father was dead, too," Owen said shortly, scowling at a handful of sand. It caught the fading light as he let it trickle from his fist. He was silent for a moment before sighing again. And then he looked at her, finally, and Beru could see the taut anguish in his jaw. "When--if Luke says 'Papa,' how do we sit there and let him call out for him? The boy doesn't have to know---"
"Owen!" Beru gasped, earning her a curious noise from Luke. She stroked his hair absently and lowered her voice. "We gave our word. And I don't understand his reasons, but...we did," she finished. She swallowed and looked away so he wouldn't see her face tremble. "I think it was for her. I can--I can give her that much, at least."
Owen's arm came around her, then, and he rubbed her shoulder with his big, work-roughened hand. His palm rasped on her shawl, snagging the fabric. Beru didn't care.
"You shouldn't have to," he said at last.
Instead of answering, Beru leaned down and brushed her lips to Luke's forehead. She felt the warmth of his skin against her lips; breathed in, and her heart clenched at the sweet smell of him. Luke sighed sleepily and burrowed close, clutching her dress. The sticky, bunched spot would only come out with a good scrubbing, Beru knew well. She didn't care about that, either.
"I'll know what he means when he says 'Aunt Beru,'" she whispered after a moment, feeling suddenly very much older than her few handfuls of years. "I'll know. It doesn't matter."
It was a lie, and they both knew it, but they said nothing more as they watched the second sun disappear over the horizon. Owen held Beru close against his side, and when she laid her head on his shoulder, she could smell the sweat drying on his coarse tunic. Beru closed her eyes and felt Luke's elbow digging into her left breast. Inhaled deeply and tried to be comforted by the familiar, mingled scents of her husband and their child.
Luke wasn't their flesh, but he was theirs, and he was home where he belonged, and he was safe. Beru told herself that would always be enough, for all of them. And for a moment, she could almost believe it.
Title: Not Exactly Had
Fandom: Star Wars
Pairing: Gen, with background Owen/Beru
fanfic100 Prompt: 027: Parents
Word Count: ~1000
Rating: PG
Notes: Star Wars belongs to George Lucas. Title stolen from "Northern Lad" by Tori Amos.
Summary: Beru had no experience with babies.
Not Exactly Had
Beru had no experience with babies. She was the youngest in her family, and her sister Olga had moved far out past Mos Eisley before marrying and having one. Beru herself had been barely a season out of school in Anchorhead when Owen asked her to move out to the farm with him, so she hadn't had time to be asked to mind anyone's little ones. None of the neighbors near the farm had children, either.
Despite that, Beru had managed as well as could be expected. Unlike most mothers, she hadn't had time to prepare a nursery, to have diapers folded and ready, toys purchased or made, entire barrels of water set aside just for her, so the baby wouldn't starve due to its mother's dehydration in an emergency. Not that Beru needed that, of course. Natural milk was one more thing she didn't have for Luke when he arrived. One more thing she couldn't give him, no matter how much she might have wanted to.
Still, she'd managed well. Had learned to change a diaper with a rather frightening speed, to wake almost instinctively when Luke did, to anticipate his moods and do her chores with a baby on her hip. Even so, he managed to surprise her. After the first time he'd smiled at her--not just smiled--the first time he'd lifted his head, rolled over, sat up, Beru thought she was ready for whatever astonishing feat Luke might accomplish next. But nothing could possibly have prepared her for this.
The bright morning sunlight hadn't given anything away. Nor had Luke's customary smile upon seeing her, or his usual trick of wetting a fountain the very instant she unfastened his diaper, or his usual giggling as she dressed him. Nothing was unusual at all, but--
"Maa?" Luke grinned delightedly, and wetly, at Beru's startled gasp. "Mm!" He waved his fist for emphasis. "Maa."
For a moment, Beru could only hold him closer against her breasts. She laid her cheek on the soft, downy yellow hair, so little Luke wouldn't see her face crumple. Breathed through her nose, slowly, and hoped he wouldn't feel her chest hitch.
He sighed and nestled closer. "Maa?"
At last, Beru pulled back. Looked into his wide, anxious blue eyes and smiled, though she could feel it tremble at the corners. "No, Luke," she whispered, shaking her head. "Just Beru. Aunt Beru."
"How's Luke and his mama this morning?" Owen asked a little later, smiling when he came into the kitchen. He swept Luke off his play-mat, making him giggle. "How's Papa's big boy?"
Beru made a choked noise at the cooker, and Owen turned, tucking the baby against his side. "What is it?"
"He spoke," she said quietly, letting the spoon fall. "Luke said his first word this morning."
"He did?" Owen smiled again, down at Luke this time, his teeth white behind his short beard. "That's my bright boy! What did he say?"
Beru swallowed, closed her eyes briefly, and felt the countertop dig into her tightening palm. "He called me 'Ma.'"
Then the room was silent save for Luke's lips smacking against Owen's tunic. "Oh," Owen said at last. He sat heavily at the table and looked up, seeming suddenly, terribly young. "Well."
"Here's Uncle Owen's breakfast," Beru said a moment later, too brightly, as she set his plate in front of him and then held her arms out for the baby. "Luke, you come and sit with Aunt Beru."
"Boo?" Luke echoed, frowning with concentration as he reached short, chubby fingers towards one of her swinging gold braids.
Beru swallowed and smiled and blinked to clear her vision. "Yes, sweet boy. Aunt Beru."
Owen finished his breakfast in silence, shoved his chair in hard enough to rattle the dishes, and went out without a word. He didn't come in for lunch, and Beru, who knew him well enough not to press, didn't bother looking for him when he was late for dinner, too.
She waited until the suns were almost set before she put her shawl around her shoulders, the baby on her hip, and went out. Owen was where she had expected him to be, silhouetted in the orange light, sitting with his arms around his knees. Beru sat wordlessly. The sand was still warm through her skirt, though the evening air was beginning to chill. She shivered, and her skin prickled. She could sense the stiffness of him even across the space between them.
Beru drew a breath and settled Luke against her, thankful that he was tired and quiet and still. "You knew--"
Owen sighed. "Beru. I know. He isn't ours." He sounded bitter, as if he were trying to convince them both. "He never was."
"No, Owen!" Her arms tightened around the warm, solid weight of Luke. Her palm cradled the back of his neck, fingertips brushing the impossible softness of his hair. "He is," she insisted, hating her voice for shaking. "He is ours, now. Obi-Wan Kenobi said--"
"He said Ana--Luke's father was dead, too," Owen said shortly, scowling at a handful of sand. It caught the fading light as he let it trickle from his fist. He was silent for a moment before sighing again. And then he looked at her, finally, and Beru could see the taut anguish in his jaw. "When--if Luke says 'Papa,' how do we sit there and let him call out for him? The boy doesn't have to know---"
"Owen!" Beru gasped, earning her a curious noise from Luke. She stroked his hair absently and lowered her voice. "We gave our word. And I don't understand his reasons, but...we did," she finished. She swallowed and looked away so he wouldn't see her face tremble. "I think it was for her. I can--I can give her that much, at least."
Owen's arm came around her, then, and he rubbed her shoulder with his big, work-roughened hand. His palm rasped on her shawl, snagging the fabric. Beru didn't care.
"You shouldn't have to," he said at last.
Instead of answering, Beru leaned down and brushed her lips to Luke's forehead. She felt the warmth of his skin against her lips; breathed in, and her heart clenched at the sweet smell of him. Luke sighed sleepily and burrowed close, clutching her dress. The sticky, bunched spot would only come out with a good scrubbing, Beru knew well. She didn't care about that, either.
"I'll know what he means when he says 'Aunt Beru,'" she whispered after a moment, feeling suddenly very much older than her few handfuls of years. "I'll know. It doesn't matter."
It was a lie, and they both knew it, but they said nothing more as they watched the second sun disappear over the horizon. Owen held Beru close against his side, and when she laid her head on his shoulder, she could smell the sweat drying on his coarse tunic. Beru closed her eyes and felt Luke's elbow digging into her left breast. Inhaled deeply and tried to be comforted by the familiar, mingled scents of her husband and their child.
Luke wasn't their flesh, but he was theirs, and he was home where he belonged, and he was safe. Beru told herself that would always be enough, for all of them. And for a moment, she could almost believe it.