"I just wanna check on Luke," Han said softly to the woman who was still legally his wife, the woman who had delivered their daughter thirty-six hours ago, who now held her, wrapped in a white blanket. She had insisted of walking out of the Medical Center, saying that riding a repulser-chair made no sense to someone young and healthy, over a day after giving birth. She insisted she was fine, that she was only a little tired, and that she could make it to the speeder, for crying out loud. Han had learned long ago not to argue with her.
He could tell by the sudden longing that crossed her face that she wanted to see him, too, but she looked down at the baby and said, "Alright. I'll wait over there." She looked in the direction of a small sitting area full of cushioned chairs.
"I won't be long, babe," he said, biting his tongue at the babe. "Sorry."
She shook her head. "It's okay. Take as long as you need."
Han thought he'd seen Luke bad off yesterday. When he brought him to Medical Center, he'd been barely hanging on and getting worse. It was touch and go for awhile there, and then, eighteen hours later, when the kid'd finally woken up, he'd acted like his body was so heavy he couldn't even begin to move it. Apparently, he'd visited Leia in her room late last night, which Han found a bit hard to believe, seeing the shape he'd been in. How had he managed to walk that far?
Han wasn't ready for how badly off Luke was tonight.
He was still in intensive care, though they said they'd move him in a day or two to the mental health ward, and then in two more weeks to a rehabilitation clinic. The whole business gave Han the creeps-Luke in a metal ward?-but he supposed that really was the best place for a boy with an ixetal addiction, severe depression, and a history of suicide attempts. Besides, it was just for a few days, just until they were sure he was physically well enough to be moved.
He asked a droid how he was doing on his way to the room. "As well as can be expected, General Solo," the medical droid replied eloquently. "His body seems to be ridding itself of the toxins rather quickly."
When he opened the door to Luke's room, and saw him curled into a ball, shivering, almost convulsing, he realized that the droid had spoken from a mechanical perspective. To Han's eyes, Luke was in fact, getting rid of the toxins quickly, and his body hated him for it.
He could hear his labored breath from the doorway. He shut the door, unsure what to do or say.
"Go away!" Luke's weak voice snapped with as much volume and spite as he was capable of at the moment.
"It's me, kid," Han said softly. In the old days, Luke had always been able to sense his presence. The drugs had probably dulled that ability of his, however.
His head shot up and he looked at Han, his eyes glassy and huge and sunken, glowing bright blue, feverishly, angry and pained tears stuck to light brown eyelashes. His face was pale and lifeless, and the circles under his eyes were so dark they almost looked like bruises. If Han had thought he looked bad before, this was a hundred times worse. "Han," he said in acknowledgment.
"Yeah. What's up?"
"I…." he attempted, faltered, curled back up with his head buried in the pillow. "I want to get out of here," came his muffled voice.
"I know, Luke. You gotta stay."
"No…. You don't understand. You don't know how much this hurts!" He sobbed into the pillow, uncontrollable, venomously angry, helpless sobs, chocking on them, hyperventilating.
Han decided he didn't care what anyone, including Luke, thought. He wasn't gonna watch this anymore. He lied behind Luke in his medical bed and put his arms around him tightly, giving him his warmth, his stillness, his strength, his calm. He took the smaller, lifeless hands in his, squeezing, holding on. He found himself saying comforting things, over and over: "It's gonna be okay. You just gotta breathe. Breathe slow. You're gonna make it."
It took a long time, but the shaking slowed and stopped. He started breathing normally. He relaxed into Han's arms. Han couldn't believe how small and weak he was, and suddenly felt even more protective. He'd seen Luke's chart and read how little he weighed. Now he believed it.
"I'm gonna die," the boy whispered, sounding scared.
"They ain't gonna let you die, kid."
"I've never gone more than two days. Not in years…."
"You're gonna go a lot longer than two days."
"I don't want this. I want to go home-!"
Han hushed him as his voice started to break with panic. "You're gonna stay put. It's gonna get easier."
"You don't know that."
He hushed him again, holding him tighter. Eventually, he fell asleep, exhausted from the episode. Han didn't leave until he was sure he could do so without waking him up.
At home, Leia put the baby to sleep. Han went for the liquor cabinet before deciding that him drinking while Luke was in that bed feeling like he might die was hypocritical. Or something. He sat on the couch in the main room, lost in thought, until Leia came in. "She's asleep," she said dreamily. New baby. It was magical.
He wished it could have come at a time when he wasn't preoccupied by Luke's addiction. He smiled up at her, but didn't answer.
"How bad is he?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest.
"I think he was using pretty damn heavily for years," he murmured. "I'm glad you didn't see him. He's in a lot of pain."
Leia blinked, and her eyes came away glassier. "I wish there was some way to make it easier for him."
"Yeah."
She sighed, looked longingly at Han, and turned and walked away.
Han followed her into the room that used to be theirs. She was lying on their bed, curled up in a ball on her right side, her head buried in the pillow. She was in the exact same position that Luke had been.
Han learned long ago to stop being surprised when things like this happened. Their family did weird things like that. Especially Luke and Leia. Before he could second-guess himself, he took off his boots and spooned up behind her as he had Luke earlier, taking her hands, being her strength. "He's gonna be okay," he whispered. "He's gotta go through hell before he gets better."
"I know," she said softly. She wouldn't cry, he knew. She hardly ever did. "It's just so much at one."
"Yeah," he said. "Sweetheart…we can wait to split up. We're smart and close enough to know where we stand. I can stick around, and we can do it when we're ready. When things settle back down." It sounded stupid in its blatant unconventionality to his own ears, but he knew what he meant, and he thought she must, too.
"I don't know, Han. It would just be drawing out something painful."
He still loved her. And he wanted to hold her like this for the rest of his life. But he had been the first to admit, almost a year ago, that it wasn't working. Mylia was the product of their lasting denial, their well-meaning insistence that they could still have a happy marriage. He loved her, but he didn't want this. He hadn't in a long time.
Wanted her, but not this. What the hell did that mean?
She was right, it was too much at once.
The next morning, Leia went to see Luke. She found him curled up in a ball, shaking. He looked physically like she felt emotionally. But when she lied down before him, he opened his eyes, and looked relieved. He put his arms around her, and his trembling stopped, and his breathing slowed. And Leia's broken heart was still broken, but for a little while, it didn't hurt quite as badly.