“Have Duke and Tara lost their ever-kriffing minds?” Mara complained, pausing the holodrama on a sweeping scene of rain-slicked rocks and dripping moss.
“I don’t think they’re thinking with their brains,” said Luke absently; the landscape (or waterscape) struck a vague chord in his memory, or perhaps in the Force, although for the life of him he couldn’t think why the Force would care about a pornographic holodrama starring his poorly veiled alter-ego.
“If you ever go haring off to some hermitage,” declared Mara, “do me a favor and don’t bring me with you.”
The half-familiar echo faded at the sound of her voice, and Luke smiled at her fondly. “As if you’d ever let me go,” he teased.
“Damn straight,” Mara muttered into her whisky. “Your absence would probably start a war or some such nonsense, and then I’d have to pick up the pieces — again.”
“I solemnly swear not to become a hermit without you,” Luke promised.
“And not to grow a beard,” Mara added for him.
“It looks good on me!” Luke protested, pointing at the vidscreen.
“On him, farm boy,” Mara patted his hand patronizingly. “Duke Starkiller the ladykiller, Last of the Jedi and Hermit of Ahch-To, the planet that sounds like a sneeze. Not you.”
“Fine. No beards,” he conceded grudgingly.
Mara kissed him on the cheek. “Good. I like my Skywalkers baby-faced and smooth-cheeked.”
In retrospect, she should never have used the plural.
“Why Mara,” Vader’s too-young, too-cheerful voice laughed in her mind, “I never knew you cared.”
Paraphernalia (Star Wars)
“Have Duke and Tara lost their ever-kriffing minds?” Mara complained, pausing the holodrama on a sweeping scene of rain-slicked rocks and dripping moss.
“I don’t think they’re thinking with their brains,” said Luke absently; the landscape (or waterscape) struck a vague chord in his memory, or perhaps in the Force, although for the life of him he couldn’t think why the Force would care about a pornographic holodrama starring his poorly veiled alter-ego.
“If you ever go haring off to some hermitage,” declared Mara, “do me a favor and don’t bring me with you.”
The half-familiar echo faded at the sound of her voice, and Luke smiled at her fondly. “As if you’d ever let me go,” he teased.
“Damn straight,” Mara muttered into her whisky. “Your absence would probably start a war or some such nonsense, and then I’d have to pick up the pieces — again.”
“I solemnly swear not to become a hermit without you,” Luke promised.
“And not to grow a beard,” Mara added for him.
“It looks good on me!” Luke protested, pointing at the vidscreen.
“On him, farm boy,” Mara patted his hand patronizingly. “Duke Starkiller the ladykiller, Last of the Jedi and Hermit of Ahch-To, the planet that sounds like a sneeze. Not you.”
“Fine. No beards,” he conceded grudgingly.
Mara kissed him on the cheek. “Good. I like my Skywalkers baby-faced and smooth-cheeked.”
In retrospect, she should never have used the plural.
“Why Mara,” Vader’s too-young, too-cheerful voice laughed in her mind, “I never knew you cared.”