Category: Angst
Pairing: Han/Luke
Rating: PG-13
Series: Sequel to 'Passage To Endor'
Spoilers: This is set towards the end of 'Return of the Jedi' and explores
another time gap.
Summary: Han spends a restless night on Endor after Luke has left to
confront Vader.
The night wove sinuously around him, almost ferociously alive. I'll have to leave soon, and I won't tell you when, the words ricocheted through Han's mind, setting off harsh echoes at every turn. And now Luke was gone.
Without another word to him, without the shadow of a doubt haunting those wide open, tranquil eyes -- and Han had been watching him closely from the moment they'd landed on the sanctuary moon. Hell, the pathetic irony in that designation. His stomach tightened fitfully.
Sanctuary, right. It had even felt that way for a short while, when those undersized predators had flipped over backwards and declared themselves their new allies, rustling up a readymade idyll all around the startled Rebels, complete with merry bonfires, the scent of woodsmoke and Ewok group hugs. Like the Empire and its half-finished, world-killing battle station in Endor's orbit were merely illusive turnouts of power-drugged minds. Not real. And that was the whole trouble.
Han rubbed at a crick in his neck and wandered to the edge of the timber platform, rough planks vibrating softly under each step. Nothing seemed quite real anymore since he'd been yanked from carbon-drenched coma back into familiar dimensions that felt strangely warped out of shape. Skipping six months at a stretch was nothing at all like waking from a bad drinking bout, and the mad chase from the Sarlacc pit back to the Rebel fleet had left him little time to consider and make a serious effort at readjusting. He moved through the battle preparations with a growing sense of bewilderment, always slightly out of tune with the rhythm and flow of events.
Like a gap between me and myself, Han thought uneasily, comparing the sensation to the minute dimensional shifts of hyperspeed. The phasy feeling that you could sneak a look over your shoulder and stare yourself in the eye... It triggered erratic warnings in the pit of his stomach and induced misgivings even when they were -- temporarily -- safe.
Hell, even Leia had succumbed to the Ewok version of a cozy family gathering by the fireplace. Completely relaxed, she'd slipped her hand through his arm and leaned against him. Great timing, when his own discomfort chose that very moment to climb to another pitch, coiling in his stomach like a riled living creature. No way he could let himself be lulled by that fantasy of a happy ending just out of reach.
Instead, the smoke-scented warmth of the chief's hut had grown more stifling with every breath -- or maybe that was just his own hyperactive mind, claiming a sensory equivalent for the thorough disquiet. As if a house of cards, built from his own actions and evasions, was quiely coming apart around him. All because of the promise he'd made to Luke.
Stay with Leia.
Like she needed him more than Luke did?
Yeah, you'd like to believe that, wouldn't you? Han sneered at himself. Should've known that they could both cope very well on their own, the moment he'd stepped out into the cool, liquid night air.
Among countless shades of dark brown and blue, the movement of a lithe shadow had caught his eye, while his brains shut down in instant, enraged denial. Evidently, some part of him had clung to the inane belief that Luke wouldn't go through with it. Couldn't just leave it all behind with the ease of letting a cloak slip off his shoulders.
"I have to confront my father. It's the only way. All I'm asking you is to stay with Leia."
But once he'd gone, a cocoon of loneliness seemed to close around Leia. Tense and upset, she'd backed away from Han's frustration as much as his fumbling attempts to offer comfort. 'Hold me,' she'd said eventually, taking shelter in an awkward embrace, her mind parsecs or maybe just another mile away, it made no difference. While Han patted her back, searching the night for clues, he'd sensed the residue of a greater intimacy between Luke and Leia, a pact that shut him out as efficiently as it bound them to each other.
And by light of reason, Han knew he shouldn't be surprised. Luke and Leia had had six months of getting used to living without him, and they'd managed. He snorted, aiming grim derision at himself. A six-months test run for the universe to prove it wouldn't stop revolving without the assistance and interference of Han Solo. And wasn't it Han Solo with his big mouth and inflated ego who'd kept repeating that everyone could be replaced if needs be? Luke and Leia couldn't have picked a better time to demonstrate the truth of it.
Just when he'd learned to appreciate being needed. Served him right, perhaps.
You used to need me, kid...
Before Han could raise those trusted inner flare shields, memory flashed him an image of Luke, still fuzzy around the edges, bearing evidence to the treacly fogs of hibernation sickness that obscured their escape from Tatooine.
Luke had just landed on the sandskiff's deck, catching his balance without effort. As he released his protective hold on Leia, he'd tossed a brilliant smile at Han, full of life and pride and reassurance. It was one of those moments that struck Han with the full momentum of a changed reality, with a truth crawling over his skin before it reached the brain's higher faculties.
Elegant and vibrantly physical, Luke had shed all the lingering traces of insecurity and gawky self-consciousness in what seemed like the blink of an eye. No longer the flustered farmboy, he was a promise made real, boundless energy and confidence merging into casual sensuality. It set off a possessive tingle somewhere deep in Han's body, at once unsettling and way too intense to ignore.
The man before him, dressed in unsparing black, dark blond hair tossing in a hot desert wind, was both a stranger and a friend, trusted and unknown. Whatever came from this sudden blaze of recognition, it wouldn't stop at sporadic forays into desire.
I don't believe this, kept circling through Han's head as they'd veered away from billows of smoke and flame among the dunes. But even then, misgivings had coiled through the tangle of riotous thoughts and feelings. Luke had returned only to slip away, too much of him already claimed by the Force, by whatever forces had so changed him.
One moment, his presence seemed to reach out to Han, affectionate and inviting, and the next, he'd turn away, his eyes clouding over. Cool, unrevealing, contained in the strength that surrounded him like an invisible shield.
Nerves lighting up with the searing detail of memory, Han gave in to a wash of frustration. Why'd it take me so long to accept that I want you? Why'd I have to wait 'til we're all set on a fucking countdown for heroic suicide? He'd long made it a habit to block regrets with ruthless pragmatism, but his sense of timing had been screwed over good since Bespin. One more day. If we'd had just one more day...
It was pointless.
Han crossed the walkway in angry strides, the sudden need to move abruptly quelled when he glanced down the depth of shadows dropping away between those giant trees, plunging into pearly mists that turned solid ground into a mere specter. Something that should have been there, but in truth wasn't.
He'd never had any trouble facing sheer drops such as this, yet as he leaned over the sturdy railing of the walkway, Han felt a brief twinge of vertigo tug at his senses. No way out except down, down, all the way...
What, gettin' spooked here, Solo? he consciously mocked himself, but the sudden rush of blood left a faint hum in his ears and overlaid every thought with a drained dizziness. Before he could check the reaction, he clenched one arm around his middle. As if that would contain the cramp starting in his bowels, spreading until it squeezed at his lungs.
Damn Vader and the carbon freeze. Damn the weakness. Sweat broke on his forehead as the pain scaled up to a roar of agony that blazed through every nerve and then, mercifully, pitched in a white-out that left him numb and shaken. Straightening carefully, Han hitched a breath.
Two-Onebee had told him to expect this, after he'd refused a whole week's submersion in gooey bacta. Those droids sure took pleasure in dwelling on all the gruesome details, but at least Han knew what was wrong with him the next time his entrails started twisting themselves into impossible knots. Hibernation sickness itself could knock a man out flat, but he'd been subjected to shock-freezing before he'd fully recuperated from the aftereffects of torture. His whole metabolism had been thrown off balance, and according to those supercilious medical droids, he was begging the risk of organ failure by refusing instant treatment. Lucky that Leia had been in a meeting with Mon Mothma at the time he took the medical exam -- trust her to call in security, have them whack him over the head and dunk him in the bacta tank before he came around.
Han gritted his teeth. These seizures came and went at irregular intervals, and they always passed after a minute or two. He'd performed under worse conditions too many times to count. Come morning, he'd have other things to worry about, and if they failed to blow up that bunker, an upset stomach would be the least of his complaints. But morning was still a long way off.
Han turned back, his eyes tracing the soft shimmers of firelight that seeped out from the chief's hut. Through the half-open door flap, he could see Threepio's burnished form and the eloquent gestures of metallic extremities. No doubt the droid was enjoying his temporary elevation to godhead, he'd delivered quite a show when he'd filled the Ewoks in on recent Rebel achievements. Han's mouth went dry at the thought.
Only a short while ago, they'd all gathered right there, Luke a silent presence at the back of the wooden enclosure, no sign of unrest betraying his intentions.
I won't tell you when.
Too soon. Goddamnit, Luke --
Don't think of it. Don't --
Not now.
Han yanked his mind away from reminiscence. How much time had he spent out here anyway, tangling with pointless afterthoughts? The reasonable thing to do was find a place to crash for the night, get a rest instead of draining his last energy reserves.
When she'd calmed down, Leia had retired to another tree house, cleared out for the use of the tribe's guests. Was she asleep, was she waiting for him, had she left him alone on purpose so that he could work things out for himself? He'd never seen her so distraught and frightened, but that didn't mean she'd failed to notice his barely checked confusion. Did she guess what was driving him deeper and deeper into this state of churning disbelief and rebellion? They'd held on to each other like survivors, like close companions more than lovers.
Well, technically, they'd not become lovers yet, and maybe Leia had her own sound reasons for drawing the line at her bedroom door. Maybe she'd recognized the way he floundered between conflicting desires much sooner than he did.
Hell, Leia. Han rubbed at his bleary eyes.
What he felt for her had started in the way of an unfamiliar infection, a disturbance that mixed too many sentiments. Attraction and respect, stung pride and curiosity, and -- unadmitted for the longest time -- a protective tenderness that unnerved him more than anything else. Leia had been his prize, his challenge, a fantasy always kept at a certain distance. He'd never expected her to become his friend.
But for some reason, the carbon freeze had rearranged their relationship as much as his own feelings. En route to the Senex sector where they rejoined the Rebel fleet, he'd come to rely on her support, her optimism and determination. She'd changed. The new Leia was relaxed and warm as if every divergence of heart and intellect had been reconciled in the meantime. Before Bespin, Han might have flattered himself thinking that he'd finally liberated the passionate woman from her icy shell of duty and discipline -- but now, honest to himself, he couldn't take any credit for it. Maybe Luke was responsible with his unwavering, selfless love for her.
Whatever the reason, it had taken Han no more than a day to gauge the degree of change in their relationship. Leia and he no longer fired sparks off each other. Something had halted those erratic pendulum swings from fury to attraction that ended in a clash of wills every time. Instead of unfocused electricity, there was now a steady warmth that connected them.
Then again, introspection had never been among Han's favorite pastimes, and he'd accepted the change without a second thought, glad for the anchorage it offered in the drifts of an unraveling reality. Or was it that his own perceptions and priorities had been restructured somewhere down the line?
Strange that he'd seen much more clearly when he'd still been half blind.
Han's fingers closed hard around the railing. And you know damn well what you saw.
The way Luke's eyes would linger on him for a thoughtless moment, then swerve aside, a flicker of lashes concealing sentiments far brighter than friendly concern.
Thick-skulled spacer that he might be, Han thought with sardonic detachment, he could trust his instincts to pick up on this type of reaction anytime. And he'd wondered if Luke had trapped himself between one desire and another, just like him. The love for his Princess and... well, the heat smoldering in his glance whenever their eyes met.
New, unexpected, but definitely there.
Six months ago, Han would have taken any bet that Luke didn't even realize what was happening. But the bright-eyed kid was no longer so innocent, so unaware of possibilities that would have shocked the hell out of his moisture-farming guardians. The question was, why -- and why now?
Yet their highspeed breakaway from Tatooine afforded him no time to get to the bottom of this. All Han could do was piece scraps of information together and take a shot at guessing the rest. Fact was that Luke had spent long weeks secluded somewhere far out in the Dune Sea, preparing himself for the rescue mission. And for all his new-found confidence, something about him betrayed a severe loneliness, a constant struggle with the needs and demands that pulled at him from all sides. Sometimes, that sort of isolation could kindle familiar sentiments into a burning clarity and shape unpredicted desires.
From the vantage point of hindsight, Han could see that their friendship had always possessed an edge of hard truths and hot-headed challenge. From instinctive trust and a shared passion for flying, it went deeper and higher than any acquaintance he'd struck up over the years. For a moment, he came dangerously close to believing in destiny, and that this was where they'd been heading all along.
Into the kind of wanting that blotted out everything else. From the tightness in Han's chest, a thread of wanton heat pulled loose and curled into his blood.
One night. They'd had one night together, and if circumstances hadn't pushed him on, he might have skirted the decision much longer. He'd gone to Luke for answers and come away with rapidly multiplying questions. There, coherent thought stopped dead in its tracks, poised for the full dive into memory.
Ah, Luke...
Oh no, I ain't goin' there, Han marshaled reason against the seductive pull.
Too close to the ache and the sheer incandescence of it, he'd only get himself burned. The best he could do for Luke -- for Leia and everyone else involved in this crapshoot operation -- was prepare for the big show tomorrow. Get some rest.
Hands pushed into the back pockets of his pants, Han strolled towards the center of the village, purposefully pacing himself to an easier way of looking at things.
Been there before. Never tell me the odds. Just shut the brains down and get to work. Then we'll see.
Maybe the merry little furballs had some booze on stock that he could use to take the edge off things. Before the notion had completely formed, a brief twinge in his stomach warned Han that even mild intoxicants might not be a good idea right now. And going for a binge the night before a major shoot-out sure didn't count as commendable behavior for Alliance generals.
General Solo. He might have savored the joke in that, a couple of years ago. But actually, his new rank had been thrown in as a grateful afterthought when he'd volunteered for the mission. Lucky the brass hats had been far too busy to question his odd preference for groundhogging over space battles.
The truth was, he still didn't feel too sure of his reflexes, couldn't honestly trust himself to fly the Falcon straight into the Death Star core and back out again safely. Not with Chewie's life on the line anyway -- and the Wookiee had made it perfectly clear that Han wasn't going anywhere without him for the next decade.
Damnit, Chewie, never should've gotten mixed up with me... Another pointless regret crawled out of the murkier chambers of his mind and got stuck in his throat. Han swallowed thickly. From where he stood, he could see Chewbacca entertaining a gaggle of Ewoks behind the chief's hut. At least the Wookiee was having the time of his life, dazzling the short stuff with stories about his homeworld and its taller trees.
Han's tempo slowed as he approached the newly appointed guest house. A leather flap had been pulled across the low doorway to keep out the night. Pausing in front of it, he pictured Leia, her narrow face relaxed in sleep, long hair spilling across the rugs and furs. He could just slip in beside her, share the simple comfort of body warmth where words had lost their questionable use. Go to her just like he'd gone to Luke the night before, and pretend that nothing had changed.
Lie next to Leia and listen for Luke's breathing in the dark. Han balled his hands tight.
I can't, he thought, a jab of anger quickening his pulse. Not after this.
It could hardly be called cheating, with no promises asked or given, and still it felt like betrayal. One night had done this to him.
Frustrated by his own lack of control, Han paced across the platform and stopped where it joined the trunk of an immense tree. Might as well try sleeping out here, he told himself. Chill mists crept over Endor's surface, but this high up in the trees, the warmth of a late summer day lingered among the thick leaf sprays of giant conifers.
Han swung himself up onto a broad limb that protruded on the other side of the trunk, at least a foot wider than his bunk aboard the Falcon, and wadded up his vest into a makeshift pillow. There. He closed his eyes and willed himself into oblivion.
Specters conquered the inside of his closed lids.
Luke's face, pale and unrevealing in the sober lighting of crew quarters. I'm Vader's son.
Luke, straightening slowly after the fall they'd taken from the Ewoks' net, laughter sparkling in his eyes. Gods, the levity of that moment, like they were out for a picnic, not a ride to hell.
The pressure of Luke's fingers around his wrist, stopping a quick draw when they'd found themselves surrounded by the hunting tribe. And his revealing reluctance to let go again.
Han shifted and through his shirt felt the rough bark scrape at tense muscles. All the throwaway moments of this one long day assailed him -- squandered, gone, taunting him with a sense of wasted possibilities.
The way Luke had thrown his arms around Leia and him when they were reunited in the Ewok village, though Leia alone had gone missing. No reason for that kind of exuberance, except the clear and present need to touch. And damnit all, Han thought, how much I want that myself.
Swathed in crawling fatigue, his mind started to float among the disconnected remains of the day.
...couldn't take my eyes off him anymore -- it's the way we connect, the way he can make me feel light-headed and believe we'll get through this alive, when my brains should be processing backup plans for all kinds of emergencies -- with Leia right there between us, and if that isn't ironic, I don't know what is.
And then he just walks out and leaves.
It struck up a quick chill under Han's sternum and jolted him back to full awareness, pulse speeding at the awfully familiar sensation. He'd felt the same icy tension snap through him when Luke had gone missing on Hoth. Except that it was worse now, when he couldn't just storm out after the kid and beat the crap out of him.
And why not? Han thought belligerently, pushing up on his elbows. Several miles of difficult terrain lay between the village and the Imperial bunker. If he took off at maximum speed, maybe he could still catch up with Luke. Change his mind.
There, reason kicked back in. He'd learned some time ago that Luke's stubbornness was a fair match for his own, and this particular decision had been all but carved in granite. Damn Jedi.
A stir of hot anger faltered quickly as Han lay back down, tense and wide awake. He'd promised to stay right where he was. And how'd he get me to agree to that anyway?
Like you don't know?
In a state far from rationality, he'd made that promise because hope and desperation were tearing at Luke with equal force. Because, more than anything, they needed to trust each other. It was all Luke had asked of him, and Han couldn't betray that, no matter what happened. Even if --
He cut himself off in mid-thought. Drop all the Ifs and Maybes, it's too late for that anyway. Luke had a tendency to neglect his own safety, but he'd always been smart. There had to be a well-considered plan behind all that unyielding resolve. Cold sweat prickled at the back of Han's neck as he listened to his own reasoning without a shred of faith.
Evasions, all. Frantic escapes to protect himself against the void threatening between one thought and the next. Through the filigree of branches, he could see a blurry glimmer of stars in the distant sky. None of the worlds out there would stop turning if Luke died tonight.
The chill in Han's chest returned with greater violence, and when speculation finally imploded on his mind, he felt too drained to ward it off with hard logic.
I have to confront my father, he heard Luke's quiet voice again, and it could mean about anything. Most likely, it meant conscious suicide. The calm, abstract statement segmented into a full score of fatal scenarios, overshadowed by the tall frame of the Dark Lord.
Vader didn't kill him on Bespin, Han argued with the part of his mind that rebelled against betting on a Sith Lord's compassion. He won't kill him now.
But Vader had also taken Luke's hand. That he wanted his son alive didn't mean a damn thing, it might even make matters worse.
For several moments, Han struggled with some very precise memories of Imperial interrogation, of screaming himself hoarse while slicing scarlet beams targeted the most vulnerable nerve. But if Vader intended to claim his son for the Empire, he'd hardly stop at wrenching information from him. What kind of tortures would Vader devise, when torture was so much a part of ordinary Imperial proceedings anyway? And Vader wasn't just another Imperial jailor. A hybrid of crippled flesh and cyborg components like him could have no real conception of pain or the human limits of endurance. If Luke resisted too much or too long --
In a single, abrupt motion, Han sat up and jumped back down to pace across the platform. Not that it could stop his mind from pushing onward and the raw fear from clenching in his gut.
He'd seen Luke battered, injured, unconscious way too often, and his imagination whipped up the worst of it, chasing icy bursts of adrenaline into his veins. Han cursed himself viciously, but the image leaped into focus with instant clarity.
Luke -- broken, beaten into submission -- his eyes lifeless and the blond hair clotted with blood, the bruised, slender body curled up on the floor of a steel cubicle.
Goddamnit stop, stop --
Han raised a shaky hand to his face. His hold on himself was slipping. There was only one thing he could place against that image -- the memory he'd tried to dodge all along. No matter if he invited worse regrets with this, anything would be better than the savage, sickening fear that undermined his defenses.
He steadied himself with a deep breath, both hands braced against the wide trunk of the tree. Silky moss grew in the furrows of weathered bark, and he dug his fingers into it, reflexively reaching for something alive, something clear and simple.
It was all too easy to relive the feel of soft, blond hair sliding across his chest and stomach, the strength in the hands that drew up every residue of a numbing cold from the depth of his body, melting it into weightless, boundless yearning. A gentle mouth covered his own and sent jolts of searing curiosity through his flesh, so different from the predictable rise and flow of pleasure. And he couldn't seem to stop touching Luke.
From breathless surprise, from the friction of bared skin and straining muscle grew a rhythm of entranced anticipation, mirrored by the restless motion of his own hands. His responses had been wildly off scale, wrenching through him at a fevered pace as he felt the power of Luke's need. The way he gave himself over to it, passionate and wide open to sensation.
Han heard a ragged breath escape into stillness and realized with delay that it was his own. The memory had taken hold of his body, trailing spurious heat through his nerves like a shadow caress. He could feel Luke hold him and surround him, electrified anew by every touch, but through the echoes of desire, stronger feelings poured into his senses.
I could've stopped him, kept him with me.
Oh yeah? And how'd you do that?
Han turned to lean back against the tree and glanced up blindly into the shifting tapestry of branches and nightsky. I should've told him...
What? And what kind of difference could it make anyway? Luke had been too deeply involved in his own plans to turn back, even if he wanted to.
I need you, Han thought.
I don't need anybody, came the reflexive protest, with a merest trace of the old bite.
Need always led to dependence, and he'd never been good at depending. He'd spent years cutting himself loose, accepting only basic necessities in order to live by his own choices.
But what if Luke doesn't come back?
What if he doesn't survive?
What if he --
Han gritted his teeth. Just the right moment for his mind to go into panicked overdrive. With forcible detachment, he grasped at the knowledge he'd found in himself when Luke had insisted on leaving. He's doing all this so that he can come back... for real, this time.
Only twenty hours ago, he'd managed to convince himself of that.
Tired to the bone, Han slumped down on the wooden planks and leaned against the tree. He had no choice but to believe, if only to keep himself functional for the day ahead. Exhaustion rose into his mind like a grey flood, blurring shades of reminiscence and apprehension into shapeless, miasmic fogs. He felt himself sinking, drifting as it took the weight off his body.
...and he was back in the Falcon's cockpit, the tremors of wild speed shivering through the deck plates. On the control board flashed a frenzy of warning lights as deflector shields collapsed one by one. The old freighter's hull sizzled and glowed under the bombardment of incandescent particles. In strange fascination, Han watched as overheating colors filled the viewport, and the Falcon dived through the corona of an unstable primary star.
Corrosive brilliance exploded behind his lids. He came awake gasping, his chest tight with a scream that rode on the shadow-trail of nightmare, in a voice not his own.
Disoriented, Han felt a hard, uneven surface under his cheek. He'd sagged to the side in his troubled sleep, sprawled out on the platform, the grip of his blaster digging into his thigh. After another moment, he rolled over to lie on his back.
The first shimmers of dawn leavened through the dense forest, and he was goddamn glad for it, because this was the point of no return. He could go to his own battle now and be done with it all. By daylight, he could slip back into old habits and assumed responsibilities, adhering only to the demands of the moment. Everything would be decided by tomorrow night.
Han got to his feet and hauled in a deep breath of the cool morning air while he raked his fingers through mussed hair.
No longer tomorrow.
Today.