9
Even Asses Can Dance
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Darkness.
Complete. Absolute. Punctuated with stars.
And silence.
Silence so thick you could wrap your fingers around it and use it for a blanket.
And cold. So cold.
Cold rising in waves over a bleached and barren landscape, glistening with the feral light of a predator's eyes, even at midnight. Even in that moment of stillness when one day shifts without perception into the next. When the stars seem to slide for just a second like a freighter slipping silently into hyperspace, free to take winged flight. Released from gravity. Liberated from the clutching mass of a planet. Owing nothing to no one and connected to none.
The dark-haired man who stood rigid as a signpost pointing nowhere shook himself free of the moment and sighed. Not so long ago he had been independent as one of those hundred-ton birds, his heart steeled against any connections. Solo. No one touched him. Nothing could lay claim. He and the Falcon had operated like emancipated droids, existing outside the system, going where they willed. Flying free. Those had been the good days. Carefree days.
Care free….
A low moan drifted across the white field before him, chilling his blood- as if it could get any colder. He listened attentively, peeling his furred hood back, exposing tender skin that froze almost instantly. It was the cry of a beast. Perhaps one of the white giants who had….
Hazel eyes drifted back toward the small tent that stood outlined against a jet-black sky, fragile and impermanent as the small spark of life it housed. Han Solo bit his lower lip and took a deep breath of the frigid air, coughing as it burnt his lungs. Replacing his mask, his glanced at the stars over his head Hard. White. Unchanging.
Uncaring.
"Damn." He had to go back in.
Why did he care? Why did this hurt so much? A while back he had cursed the kid who lay silent within the shelter, and scoffed at his youthful intensity. Bright blue eyes flashed in anger within his mind's eye; blond hair wafted in the warm breeze blown from X-wing exhaust valves.
"Take care of yourself, Han. …But I guess that's what you're best at, isn't it?"
Han drew a breath and refused the tears.
"Damn."
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Hours before he had occupied himself scavenging what he could from the frozen Tauntaun that had brought him here…to nowhere. He had carefully removed the useful parts of the animal in case he – they – were forced to wait it out for one, two, or maybe more days. It had kept him from the tent. Now the beast's untouched face seemed to stare at him, ghostly lit. Eyes, deep as a black hole confronting his fears. "Run," theywhispered, mocking him, "run. Escape! Don't take the chance."
It was his habit His nature. He was good at running.
God. It was what he wanted to do.
But it was too late.
There was no where to run.
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Within the sanctuary of warmth erected by his friend, Luke Skywalker slept the sleep of the dead. His body had clung to life far longer than could be expected, scarred and battered as it was by the Ice creature's attack, frozen by hours in sub-zero temperatures. Like a sapling in snow, he had refused to give up, knowing the fate of the New Republic lay in his strength, his ability to go on. He had to go to Dagobah. Needed to find Yoda. Wanted to please Ben.
But something inside him had melted with the warmth of the blankets and run like mercury with the absence of his friend.
The medpac, deaf and dumb, sustained him; feeding his ravaged system with antibiotics and pain-killers. But the silence that surrounded him was soul deep. When he had awakened briefly in the snow and Han had touched him, concern had over-ridden the older man's instinct for survival. Now in the dark dead hours, it had returned. Han had his own demons to wrestle with, the young man knew that, but for Luke… weak… frozen…near death…. He simply didn't have the will to make it on his own. He needed the touch of another soul to pull him back from the brink.
Another hand.
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Instinctively, Han Solo knew it too.
He told himself he had done everything right. Pulling the fledgling Jedi from the rank interior of the Tauntaun, removing the fluid-encrusted garments and binding his wounds before laying him with care in the shelter he had erected. Each connection had been made. Each tube attached and activated. Each attachment that was, except for the one Luke needed. Hours had passed as Han spent his time cleaning up the remnants of the beast, checking the equipment, listening for predators…sitting in silence on the other side of the tent staring death in the face.
Death. Old enemy. Old friend. No one could touch you on the other side of the grave.
Luke would know that soon.
Han sighed. It should have been him.
The former smuggler shifted, running a trembling hand across his face. Before this happened he had been running. Now he was stopped still. Frozen in time. A familiar curse broke his lips as he realized he was sweating. It was cold as Jabba's heart in this wasteland of frozen water and he was sweating.
This was the reason you couldn't let anyone in.
The game was fixed. The dice were loaded.
You couldn't win.
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Fast and loose.
That's what life had taught him, play it fast and loose. No commitments. No pain.
Then there was this kid. And after him the pistol-packing princess. What was wrong with him? At what moment had he lost all sense? Han tried to remember but he couldn't. He was too cold. His feet felt like they were a part of the scenery. Icy trails burned his cheeks and his fingers were stiff as boards. Couldn't have used the blaster if he had one. Shifting uncomfortably, Han brought his heel down hard on the glassy surface and watched it shatter, suddenly recalling another field of white.
She had had really little breasts. That was it. That was the first time. On the DeathStar, when the garbage compactor had stopped just short of turning them into so much pressed lunch meat, after Luke had bobbed up in the water and finally managed to make Threepio understand, Leia had hugged him. Her body had melted into his and her petal-soft lips had brushed his rough, filthy cheek.
Yeah, that was it.
Han snorted. Soft. He'd gone soft. One doe-eyed dame and a scrawny long-legged kid from a backwater dust-hole, and all of the years of hard-baked disaffection he had carefully constructed fell off like so much dust on a Dewback.
God, he was cold!
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Han struck out across the shattered landscape, startled by the sound of the snow as it crunched beneath his heavy boots. He might as well have been alone. Other than the occasional wail of one of the Wampa Ice Creatures, the only sound that touched the silent white shore was the maddening blip of the machine that monitored Luke's vitals. It had grown quiet. Weak and unsteady. Tears kissed the corners of Han's eyes as he halted in his progress toward the tent, raising one gloved hand to drive them away. Infuriatingly, they just keep on coming, refusing to mind him no matter how much his scream sought to drive them away.
In the distance a Wampa Ice Creature wailed in reply.
Happy hunting.
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Han paused before the tent door, filled with dread. Could he sit all night in a cramped confined space guarding a corpse? Warriors shared death as they did life. But could he? Could he let death get that close? Would it smell the fear on him? The fear that had always made him run away? Made him fly? The gut-wrenching emotion that propelled him forward from planet to planet, racing and yet chasing death in one great love-hate relationship? How often had wanted to die?
He wanted to die now.
He didn't, on the other hand, want Luke to die.
Ain't that a kicker?
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With one swift movement Han threw the tent flap aside and stepped in, sucking warm air as the artificial atmosphere struck him like a physical thing. Then he stopped. Petrified.
Luke wasn't alone.
"Hello, Han."
Han Solo swallowed hard. The tent-flap fell back into place like dead skin.
Death wore a familiar face.
"Obi-wan."
The old Jedi shifted to meet his eyes and as he did, Han noted the curious pale blue aura which seemed to surround and inhabit him. He was there, but not there. Alive , but….
"Old man, I watched you~"
"Die?" Obi-wan smiled that irritating smile he had. The one that made you want to put a blaster hole right between his ice-blue eyes. "So you did."
Han waited. The dead Jedi said nothing, but held his gaze, never wavering or shifting. Han blinked. Cleared his throat. Crossed his arms. Finally, unable to stand it, he twisted to fasten the tent flap. "And…." Han threw over his shoulder.
Obi-wan placed a shimmering hand over Luke's pale brow. After a moment, he shook his head. "Luke is near death."
Han swallowed. Not dead then.
Not yet.
"He needs your help."
Han bristled. "Look, old man, I have helped him. I brought him here. I built this shelter. I came out in this god-forsaken cold. I found him. Bathed him. Cleaned his wounds and hooked him up to that box. I – "
"You cared for his body. No one denies that," Obi-wan said quietly, daring him to misunderstand. "He needs you here."
Han scowled. "I am here."
The Jedi rose and appeared to glide toward him like a smoke over a Sabacc table. Han didn't move, refusing to quake before a bent old man when he had held his ground against the likes of Jabba the Hut and his thugs – against Greedo. Hell, he'd even run Darth Vader off like a dog with his tail between his black boots. Still, as the Obi-wan's grey ghost drew near Han broke into a cold sweat. This 'old man' had been Vader's Master. The air sparked with electricity and a cool wind ruffled Han's unruly brown hair as the Jedi came face to face with him, raising a transparent hand to his chest.
"No," Obi-wan remarked, almost casually, like it was an everyday thing. "Luke needs you here."
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"What do you fear, Corellian?"
The ex-smuggler snorted, his hand shifting unconsciously towards his empty gun-belt. "Not you, old man."
Obi-wan's eyes sparkled as he recognized the empty bravado behind that response, and then even though the old man's blue-white hand didn't shift, Han felt an increase in pressure as the intensity of the Jedi's mind willed it to take hold of his soul.
"No, not me."
"Hell of a lot you know," Han projected, chagrined. Seconds later, curious, he asked aloud, "What then?"
Within Han's mind's eyes images exploded of a childhood gone wrong, of old friend's swept aside by the advance of the Empire like insects crushed under foot, of one young girl in particular, not a lover but a friend – abused, misused, lost in the pit where you bartered your soul and sold your flesh…lost. Lost so young. Han started to protest, but then was confronted with other images. A young man. Blond. Full of life. On the brink of death. A girl. Soft. Steel underneath. Beautiful. Alive. Not dead. Not dying. But vulnerable.
Capable of dying.
Obi-wan withdrew his hand. He met Han's hazel eyes and then turned to the young man who lay silent, his flesh growing cold as his spirit sought to join the Master he loved.
"What then?" he echoed. "What indeed…?"
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Han drew a breath. It was a gamble, but wasn't he the one, after all, who never quoted the odds? "Okay, old man. What do I need to do?"
A smile touched Obi-wan's pale lips. White eyebrows lifted. "It might involve 'hocus-pocus religions' and that' mythical' energy field that binds the cosmos together…."
The dark-haired man ran a hand through russet locks. "Where do I go to sign up?"
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If the small fighter ships that found them the next morning had flown past that night, they would have witnessed a miraculous event. A supernatural glow surrounded the tiny collapsible shelter where it dotted the vast snow-covered landscape of Hoth. Electric fire burned through the darkness, arcing high into the black sky, alternately attracting and repelling the Ice Creatures who had unwittingly brought about this crisis, filling the dark night with their mournful cries. And from the icy wilderness that nurtured them and sought to destroy him, a portion of the life-force of the sky, the snow, even the snow beasts themselves was drawn into Luke Skywalker's wounded frame in order to rebuild the strength of the dying Jedi-to-be. The pale youth's cheeks flushed rosy as dawn as renewed life poured into him, channeled through his friend's human hands and heart, aided by the Master whom he had loved and lost.
Obi-wan alone could not have done it, for he had lost the human touch; lost the ability to bridge the gulf between life and death, hope and despair, fear and love. Lost what Han Solo had only now found.
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The first thing Han Solo did when they returned to the base was to look for the sharp-tongued princess whom he had refused to talk to – was in fact running away from seemingly years ago when this whole thing had begun.
Leia was pale. Her normally well-ordered braids undone. Her dark billowing hair unkempt and uncombed.
She was beautiful.
Han watched her large brown eyes light when she saw Luke carried off of the small fighter, first with relief and then with fear when she saw the condition he was in and realized how close she had come to losing him. Then she met Han's gaze. For a moment Leia just stared, doe-eyes filled with tears, but then, quickly growing self-consciously, she looked away. Han watched her turn to follow the medical-droids and almost let her go.
Almost.
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Two minutes later as she huffed down the corridor after the others his cheek still stung. But the scent of her skin lingered. And the touch of her lips on his own. He had kissed her. Passionately. And yes, her body felt just as he had remembered.
Small. Soft. Steel.
Watching Leia disappear around the corner heading for the unit where they kept the Bacta tanks, a sly smile touched Han's scarred face, lighting his hazel eyes. He remembered, when he was a little boy, his mother's mother had taught him a story that her mother's mother had taught her – a story about love and loss, and taking chances.
About how love could teach even asses to dance.
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And dance they would. Even if he had to teach her how.