This came about ages ago because Puggy told me she couldn't write happy and I told her I couldn't write sad. Which resulted in the two of us attempting fics outside of our comfort realms. It's not the best work I've ever done but nothing ever is. Read, review and make fun of the title.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way. I was supposed to go first. I wasn't as strong, I wasn't as brave, I wasn't as alive. And now, here I am, broken, scared, alive and... alone.
They want me to go down and identify the body. I'm tempted to send Luke. Because I don't think that it's something I can handle. Not alone.
But, of course, I have to go, I have to see. One more time. It might very well ruin all my memories of our time together but I need closure. To see those eyes closed in eternal sleep, the chest still with lifeless breath, to see what remains of that one loving, all consuming force in my life.
I'm not ready for this.
Luke is already here. I should have known he would be. His eyes reflect the tears in my own and I'm grateful that this is something we'll face together, bitter that we even have to face it at all.
Our steps are even, slow as we draw close to the doors where we'll see Death's work, a sculpture out of life.
It's always been the three of us. Even when we had our family and Luke had his, we were still a trio powerfully bonded by love, life and circumstances. No more. I'm left with the painful truth that everybody dies.
The doctor opens the door and leads us in. I can't remember his name and, honestly, I can't say it's that important to me right now. All that matters is what's beneath that white sheet, what I don't want to see but can't seem to turn away from.
My breath turns to ice in my throat and for an instant, my heart stops, almost willing me to join my beloved in that sleepless slumber. If only I could...
Please don't pull the sheet down, I don't know if I could bear it.
I can't force myself to say it aloud though and two professionally sympathetic hands gently pull the sheet back from the familiar face and shoulders. Those eyes wouldn't have to be open for me to tell that the teasing laughter is gone forever from their depths. That presence that was once so vibrant in the Force is calm, an echo of the boundless energy that was Han Solo, my husband, my lover, my best friend.
The sob escapes me and I try, unsuccessfully, to muffle it with a hand.
Don't cry. The words are tender, soothing, and tantalizingly close.
I look at Luke but he has his head bowed over Han's body, grief coursing through his soul.
For a few moments, I allow the shallow hope that there's been a terrible mistake, that Han is really just sleeping. I have an irrational urge to shake him, to tell him to wake up and stop scaring me.
Instead, I reach out and lay a hand on his chest. It's cold, dead; my tears rain down on his heart each making a gentle splash where I used to lay my head at night.
A warmth seems to surround me and I can almost feel my lost love next to me, his hand a needed comfort on my shoulder. I close my eyes and savor the phantom touch. Maybe it's in my mind, or maybe he's really standing there prepared to walk the rest of my life with me as he'd once told me he would.
Are you still there for me, Flyboy?
Always and forever, Sweetheart.