First off, if you are following A Cause for Concern and/or Night Blind, thank you! I haven't given up on either of them, although both are vexing me in various ways. My friend 2Old4This2 suggested that I try to write something else to move past the writer's block, so here we are. My sincere thanks to her for beta-reading. Any remaining errors are mine.
This is a work of fan-fiction. Star Wars was conceived by George Lucas and is currently owned by Disney. No copyright infringement is intended.
Many, many thanks to 2Old4This2, for listening to me whine. This one's for you! Thanks for the inspiration.
The wallball score was tied when the dark-haired man collided with the shorter blond as they both dove for the ball. Han Solo slammed into the nearest wall before collapsing on the court, with Luke Skywalker landing clumsily on top of him. The ball rolled innocently away from the fracas.
Luke laughed as he disentangled himself and rose to standing. "I'll give you that point, Han," he teased. Expecting a snide retort from his friend, the young man looked down in surprise. Han had moved into a seated position, but the expression on his face was blank.
"You all right?" Luke asked, thrusting a hand in Han's direction.
Han didn't move.
Luke knotted his brows. As he withdrew his hand, he studied Han more closely. Did he hit his head? Dropping to one knee, Luke reached out and touched his friend's shoulder. "Han?" His voice was gentle.
The Corellian flinched away from his touch and closed his eyes.
"Han!" Luke's voice reflected the panic he felt. As far as he could tell, Han was fine. No bleeding, nothing obviously broken. What's the problem? He grabbed Han's shoulders and shook him, a bit more roughly than he had intended. "Han!"
The backhand was unexpected, and Luke rubbed his jaw in surprise from his vantage point flat on the floor.
"Don't you ever touch me again," Han snarled. His eyes were red-rimmed and wild; his arms wrapped across his body in a defensive posture, like twin snakes coiled to strike.
"O-kay." Luke stammered, rubbing his jaw. He sat arms-length from his friend with his arms wide open, palms up. "I'm sorry, Han. I'm sorry if I hurt you. You didn't need to hit me." Luke spat a mixture of blood and spittle, a violent splatter of red against the white tile floor.
"Luke?"
"What?"
"Why're you bleeding?"
Luke's laugh was bitter. "That happens when your best friend hits you." He rose. "Come on, Han, let's go home." He didn't offer his hand as he retrieved the game ball and walked toward the door leading to the rest of the sports complex.
Han stared at him from where he was sitting against the far wall of the court. "I did that?"
Luke turned around and frowned. "Do you see anyone else here?"
"I ... I don't remember." The way Han put his hand to his head told Luke that the smuggler wasn't lying. Luke felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He walked back toward Han with a sense of trepidation.
"What happened?" Han asked.
Luke set the ball aside and knelt next to his friend. "We were playing wallball and we went for the same shot."
"I remember that." Han absently rubbed his hand across the opposite wrist.
"And then we collided and I fell on top of you - " At this, Han shuddered and his eyelids began to flutter. Luke tentatively grabbed his nearest shoulder. When Han didn't deck him a second time, he ventured a gentle squeeze. "Han, open your eyes. Please talk to me. You're scaring me."
"Shrike," Han whispered. He closed his eyes again and began to rock back and forth.
Shrike? Who's Shrike? Dimly, Luke remembered Han saying something about working as a slave on Shrike's spaceship when he was a child. He patted Han's shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring way. "No one else is here, Han." When his friend seemed to relax slightly, Luke continued. "It's just you and me. But we need to get off the court, okay? We only rented it for a standard hour."
The man's eyes opened. "I'm sorry, Luke. I ... I didn't mean to hit you. I just remembered - " He shook his head. "I thought ..." Out of words, Han ran a hand through his hair, bit his lip, and gave Luke an imploring look. His expression made him appear about nine years old.
Luke felt his heart soften. "You thought I was Shrike, didn't you?"
Han nodded and looked away, clearly embarrassed. "He used to beat me." His troubled gaze finally returned to meet Luke's worried one. "Sometimes worse." Han shuddered again and looked away. "Never got what he really wanted, but it wasn't for lack of trying."
Luke's heart broke at the man's words. He knew that Han had suffered through a difficult childhood, but to hear him talk about it ... He wanted to gather his friend into his arms and comfort him as if he was still a small child, but Luke didn't want to traumatize Han further. He stood and studied his friend, trying to think of the best way to help.
With measured words, he spoke softly, "Han, you're safe here. It's over now." Luke stretched his hand out again. This time, Han clasped it in his own before yanking his arm back with a curse and using his left hand instead.
Luke pulled him to standing. "Let me see your arm."
"It's fine." Han tucked his right wrist behind his back and tried to appear casual.
Biting back a retort, Luke replied, "I did take a First Aid class, you know." He met Han's gaze and held it.
"Fine," the older man snapped. Reluctantly, he proffered his wrist, which, Luke noted, was most certainly not fine. The joint was somewhat enlarged and noticeably red.
"You need to see a med-tech for this, Han. I think it might be broken."
Han pulled his wrist back, a bit gingerly, Luke thought. "Nothing a bacta splint can't handle."
Luke shook his head as he picked up the game ball and they walked off the court together. "You're impossible."
"Me? I don't slam my opponents into walls to win my points." He gave Luke a playful shove.
"I said I was sorry." Rubbing his jaw in an exaggerated way, Luke gave Han a sad, puppy dog look.
Han threw his good arm over Luke's shoulder. "I'm sorry too, pal." In a low voice, he added, "I owe you one."