Rating: No violence, no language.

Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars.

Author's Notes: I've always been bothered by how callous Luke seems in A New Hope when he dismisses Threepio's concerns over the charred Artoo. How does Luke know that Artoo will be fine anyway? My thoughts about that led me to this story. Luke isn't the focus, but I was able to address my concerns without changing the basic A New Hope plot ending.

Characters: Artoo, Threepio, Luke.

As Luke climbed down out of his X-wing, he felt as if nothing could shake the sense of exhilaration and joy that filled him. A monstrous world-destroying machine had been permanently removed from the galaxy. For a brief time at least, the Rebel Alliance could rejoice. They had won an important victory.

He was welcomed by other Rebels with laughter and shouting and even cheers, and seeing Han and Leia—and their beaming faces—merely bolstered his joy even more.

He did have a brief moment, though, where his happiness faltered. The blast Artoo had taken had really done a number on him. The words "charred" and "fried" were perhaps the best descriptors to be applied to him, yet even they seemed to fall short of the mark.

As Threepio fretted and talked to the technician who was helping lower the damaged robot, Luke thought about how Artoo seemed to be more than a machine—and how he even admired the droid more than most of the people he had known.

Though Luke already knew that the machine wasn't one to follow orders if there was a good reason not to, Luke had no doubts that Artoo was loyal and trustworthy and brave. In fact, he privately thought that Artoo was really the hero of this chapter of the Rebel Alliance's story. Artoo had braved Imperial forces, desert sands, greedy Jawas, and vicious Sand People just to ensure that Ben received the Death Star plans, and that wasn't even all the little machine had done to bring the Rebel Alliance to this moment.

But Luke didn't let himself dwell on the possibility that maybe Artoo, hero that he was, was damaged irreparably; somehow, he had the feeling it would take more than a lucky laserbolt to put the droid out of commission for good.

He began to once more embrace the sense of utter happiness of the Alliance's victory against the Empire, but then he heard Threepio say, "You must repair him! Sir, if any of my circuits or gears will help, I'll gladly donate them."

The protocol droid was distraught; there could be no doubt of that. For all their bickering, Artoo and Threepio were the droid equivalent of best friends.

Luke leaned over and touched the golden droid. "I'm sure they'll take care of him." Looking at the man who had lowered Artoo out of the X-wing, he told him, "Let Threepio go with you. He'd like to stay with his friend."

"All right," the mechanic said a little hesitantly, as if he didn't know why these droids were to be treated like they were human. "We'll be sure to get your astromech fixed up."

"Thanks," Luke said with a smile. And then he went walking off with his friends, all of them laughing and talking and feeling as if they could take on the galaxy.

The galaxy would have been hard-pressed to find another droid—or even an organic being—that worried as much as Threepio.

Threepio was not dumb—he was fluent in over six million forms of communication, after all—and was well aware that he worried about one thing or another almost constantly, yet it was a vital part of his makeup. When Artoo spat one of many insults regarding this characteristic, Threepio always responded with an insult in kind.

Despite all their differences, however, they had been companions for as long as Threepio could remember—memory wipes were usually done fairly frequently, but he had not had one in almost two decades, so that was quite a history he had to fall back on, though of course he had not spent all that time together with Artoo. The astromech droid had claimed they had known each other even before that, but of course Threepio had no way of confirming that and even argued that it was likely untrue.

In actuality, however, those arguments were simply made because Artoo often seemed so smug about having retained his memory. The kinship between the two of them led Threepio to believe that the astrodroid was telling the truth, but he had resolved to never admit that out loud if he could help it.

Their quarrels, their differences—all of that meant nothing right now. What mattered was that Artoo might have been permanently deactivated due to his participation in that wretched space battle. Astromech droid or not, Artoo could be of much more use on the ground than out in battle! If only he had stayed behind!

The technician working on Artoo had made some repairs already, but he was looking at the squat droid and then at his toolbox and frowning.

"Will he be all right?" Threepio asked for what was not the first time. "Will you be able to repair him? Please tell me you will be able to. I don't know what I shall do without him."

The man sighed. For some reason, he seemed annoyed. Or perhaps he was just frustrated. (Threepio really didn't understand human behavior sometimes.) "That thing you said earlier—about donating some of your parts . . . Were you serious?"

Had he been a human, Threepio might have gulped. As it was, however, he gave a tremulous nod. "Yes, sir." He would do it. What would his life be without Artoo? Who would he look after then?

"Well, you see, we have this problem—it started with . . ."

It started with the return of first his visual sensors and next his auditory ones, and then he felt an overwhelming sense of relief come over him. He hadn't been deactivated!

When Luke Skywalker's X-wing had been fired on and Artoo had been hit, he had seen his life—his "existence," perhaps, to put it in slightly more mechanical terms—flash before him.

Two principal figures had stuck out, Anakin Skywalker and his son, and the images of the two had seemed to merge together. Perhaps it was some minor software malfunction, yet there were so many similarities between the two that Artoo was not quite certain. The droid had not known the younger Skywalker for long, but the young man was taking after his father in many ways. Artoo would be proud to be his companion. He felt his fate would always be connected to the Skywalkers.

The technician standing in front of him had a tiny smile—perhaps it was a smirk? but what was he smirking about?—on his face, and after giving Artoo a few moments to orient himself, he said, "Run some diagnostics, and then give me your report." He was hooking a datapad up to Artoo so he could read the response.

After doing some tests, Artoo confirmed that he was in fine working order. The technician gave a grunt and said curtly, "Good. Have fun talking with your friend." And then, with a little laugh, he left them alone. After such a space battle as that which had just taken place, Artoo knew there were probably several things for the mechanic to do. Yet there was something odd about his behavior.

Artoo swiveled his dome around and took in Threepio—who was not deactivated—with some surprise. The golden protocol droid had not said a word. To call that "unusual" would be like saying that it was "strange" that the Tatooinian suns had not risen. It wasn't just unusual. It was unheard of. Could Artoo be mistaken? Was Threepio deactivated?

Threepio tilted his head, his glowing eyes taking in Artoo. No, he wasn't deactivated.

"What is wrong?" Artoo asked. "Are you functioning properly?"

It was only as Threepio extended his hand that Artoo noticed there was a datapad in it, connected to Threepio by a cord. The datapad was placed in front of Artoo in such a way that he could read it.

I told them I was willing to donate some of my gears and circuits to repair you, though the Maker knows you did not deserve it, said the text flashing across the datapad. And it turns out that it was good that I did, or you would be nothing but a forgotten pile of circuits in the scrap heap. The Rebel Alliance is short on quite a few important supplies, and I was required to give up some of my parts so that you could be reactivated.

There was a pause in the text before more came on the screen: Well, that is one possible reason. Your mechanic also confessed that the general chaos of the Alliance has led to many important supply boxes being scattered throughout the Temple. He says that finding all the parts he requires is nearly impossible.

Left unsaid was the fact that those parts Threepio had donated to help Artoo included ones that enabled the protocol droid to speak. That was the only reason that Threepio would not be loudly rejoicing over Artoo's recovery while also scolding him for his venture into danger.

Artoo looked at Threepio. Many humans thought that droids couldn't feel anything, that they were just a conglomeration of mechanical parts. But it wasn't true. Artoo felt touched by Threepio's sacrifice, and he couldn't help but think of how the move had been more than just a transfer of parts. A protocol droid who couldn't speak would be useless to humans.

Artoo whistled, telling his friend, If he's having problems finding the parts, then I guess we'll have to try to help him. Come on.

"Come on," groaned Lebertek Naicin, smacking his datapad against the wall.

He didn't know what idiot had decided that organizing supply boxes meant scattering them across the temple, but while all the other Rebels were toasting the recent victory, he was stuck fixing everybody's messes. The Rebel Alliance would have to abandon the base before long, and he had to help make sure they were organized enough to do so.

He wasn't sure how he'd gotten roped into this job. He was just supposed to be a mechanic. Of course, that new recruit Skywalker, who had destroyed the Death Star, was supposedly just a farmboy when he'd signed up. Lebertek supposed everybody did what they had to do. It didn't make things any less frustrating.

He was walking into one of the temple rooms when he saw a slight movement that gave him pause. Then he realized that the astromech droid he'd fixed earlier was digging through some supply boxes with the aid of its much taller protocol droid companion.

Lebertek couldn't help but feel a little satisfaction in rendering the talkative protocol droid speechless, even as he felt oddly touched that one droid would be sacrificial for the sake of another. It was in their programming to help humans . . . but there shouldn't have been anything like this written into their artificial intelligence. He didn't understand it.

He stood there, watching them, and then the astromech made a triumphant sound and held up a part with its claw arm.

The golden droid put a hand on the R2 unit's dome, the cord attached to the datapad Lebertek had provided dangling down momentarily and draping over the astromech, as if providing a closer connection between them.

Lebertek looked at the pair of droids for a few moments more before he turned and left to return to the shop. He had a feeling he would be needed soon. Organizing the supply boxes could wait.

But as he walked away, he shook his head to himself with a frown. It was stupid, but somehow he couldn't shake the feeling that the two droids, in that odd moment they'd shared, had been smiling.

Author's Note: Thanks for taking the time to read! For people interested in Pride and Prejudice or Regency romance works, I would like to put in a plug for my newly published book Waiting for an Echo: Words in the Darkness, co-authored with Jann Rowland. It can be found on Amazon. If you would like more details, please visit our blog at rowlandandeye (dott) com. We would appreciate your support!