Remain in Light – Chapter 7: Han by Erin Darroch

Ratings/Warnings (this chapter): T; mild language; themes; angst

Chapter 7: Han

Part 1:

Han regained consciousness in the midst of his second breathing tube extraction. The effect was nightmarish as he swam up out of a drug-induced haze to feel the guttural drag of tubing at the back of his throat, and a large foreign object clattering around his teeth and tongue. He gagged and spluttered as the mask was lifted away from his face, and then glared up at the apologetic face of Ensign Mellor. His alignment with the First Order and his resemblance to Ben notwithstanding, Mellor seemed like a nice guy, but he was not going to be permitted to approach Han with that breathing tube a third time without meeting some opposition. Mellor gave him a look of understanding, and turned to continue working at his tasks. Craning his neck, Han could see the back of Astor's head as he bent over the administrative desk in the corner.

Dropping his head back onto the pad of the gel tank, Han waited impatiently for full muscle movement to be restored. His brain had kicked straight into overdrive upon waking, flooding his mind with a blur of memories, producing a rush of unsettling emotions, and filling him with the urgent impulse to get up and move.

Foremost in his mind was the memory of Ben's face, bathed in red light, coldly assessing the effect of his lightsaber as it plunged through Han's upper chest. With an impatient jerk of his head, he tried to dislodge the image, only to have another anxious worry crowd his mind: the unknown fate of Chewbacca and the two kids he'd left behind on Starkiller Base. He hoped with all his heart that the Wookiee had managed to get Rey and Finn out before the station collapsed. An alternative outcome did not bear thinking about.

Lying in the cooling gel, listening to the sounds of Mellor and Astor going about their duties, he mused over the peculiar feeling that arose in his gut every time he thought of the girl from Jakku. From the moment he'd found her crouched in hiding under the Falcon's deck plates, Rey had impressed him in every way. For a start, she'd understood Shyriiwook, no mean feat for someone who had allegedly spent her entire life on a desert planet, presumably far from contact with any Wookiees—an exceptionally rare species in that part of the galaxy. Even for gifted galactic linguists, understanding of the rich vibrato tones and animalistic enunciations of Chewbacca's language was difficult to acquire without long acquaintance or immersion. Leia could understand Chewie, and so could Luke—mostly—but they'd both spent many years in his company. Han found it odd, but very interesting, that Rey had responded to Chewbacca without hesitation.

And then there was her resemblance to Breha. The thought was not a new one to Han's mind, but it was simultaneously a thrilling and terrifying idea. Thrilling because he hadn't felt a spark of that sort of hope in a long, long time, and terrifying because he was afraid to be wrong about it. The odds of encountering his lost daughter in such a manner were beyond calculation—not that he'd ever bothered much about long odds—but still...it was a very poor bet.

With a grimace, he tried to turn his thoughts away from the subject, but he was still able to move only his extremities, and those only very slightly. The two medics were ignoring him, absorbed in their tasks. The recovery of his motor skills seemed to be taking an extraordinarily long time. Han sighed in frustration.

With nothing else to do, he returned to musing over Rey and what his instincts had told him about her. She looked remarkably like he'd imagined Breha might look at that age, which was coincidentally around the same age Breha would be, if she were alive. But there was something else, something less substantial that he couldn't quite put a name to, that told him that his intuition was correct. Within minutes of their meeting, an awareness of Rey as a person had faintly illuminated a darkened corner of his mind. It was a lively spark that danced in the back of his thoughts at all times, producing an odd sensation that he could feel her, somehow.

Han had never been a big fan of the Force and all of its irritatingly mysterious workings, and he certainly wasn't gifted in its manipulations, but he'd long ago stopped dismissing it as folklore. It was no myth; it was an element to be acknowledged and respected, especially in this age of intergalactic war and strife. Han had seen the evidence of the Force in use many times, and he'd suffered catastrophic personal losses at the hands of its users. He had no doubt that it was real.

As his thoughts took a bitter turn, Astor left the administrative area where he'd been working, and approached Han's bedside. His piercing blue eyes scanned Han's supine form with clinical detachment. Mellor busied himself with continuing the shutdown of the cooling gel tank in which Han was stretched, naked, catheterized, and covered with a sheen of sticky orange gel.

"Your treatment is complete, Captain Solo," Astor informed him in cool, clipped tones. "It took quite a bit longer than expected due to the severity of your wound."

He paused expectantly. When Han did not respond, he continued, "I regret to inform you that you will bear a significant scar and you may suffer some difficulties of movement in your right shoulder joint. Even the intercellular hydrogel, which is remarkable indeed, does not always have the power to heal completely. However, it did save your life."

Han took in this little speech with only dim comprehension, preoccupied as he was with the unpleasant trickling sensation of cold gel as it dripped down his skin and the uncomfortable feeling that he needed a trip to the fresher. He concentrated on trying to move his extremities in anticipation of regaining voluntary muscle movement. Glancing down the length of himself, he scowled at his wiggling toes.

"How long?" he rasped out, finally, when he felt like speaking. "How long have I been unconscious?"

He'd noticed immediately upon waking that he was in a different room, albeit one that was nearly identical to the first. And the catheter line strapped to his thigh and attached to his groin was new, too. But there was something else, something he couldn't quite put his finger on, that gave him the impression that more than a few hours had passed. He saw Astor and Mellor exchange looks in response to his question. Mellor looked away quickly, rolling up tubing and stuffing it into a storage crate. Astor responded.

"As I've said, your injury required an extended period of treatment. Captain Phasma is on her way up from Keugo City to speak with you. You will soon be moved to a holding cell, where you will find a refresher unit available for your use." With that, Astor took his leave and Mellor continued the business of attending to Han. The removal of the catheter was especially unpleasant, but Han had endured such indignities—and much worse—many times before over the course of his lifetime. It was soon over, and Mellor began tidying up.

As soon as he could move his arms, Han discovered what it was that had given him the first impression of significant time having passed. Rubbing his hand over his chin and jaw, he could feel evidence of several days' growth of beard. Something in Mellor's demeanour and the way the young medic avoided his gaze made Han suspect that his extended "treatment" had been a convenient way to keep him out of trouble for a few days. The order to keep him sedated had, no doubt, come from Captain Phasma.

"So...what's going on, pal?" he asked conversationally as Mellor rinsed away the last of the orange gel from the interior of the basin where Han lay. His resemblance to Ben was, to Han's great relief, fading with longer acquaintance.

The medic gave him a polite smile and punched a button on the gel tank in the vicinity of Han's resting head. Ignoring the meaning behind Han's question, he said, "It is time to get you cleaned up and into some clothes." The entire bed of the tank began to lower towards the floor. Within moments, it was low enough for Han to swing his legs over and climb out.

Even as he stretched gingerly and tested the strength of his wobbly legs, the sound of booted feet could be heard in the corridor, heralding the appearance of two stormtroopers. They'd been dispatched, they informed Mellor, to see Han secured in the medical centre's temporary holding cells. Han surmised that he would find out soon enough from Phasma what they had planned for him.

In the meantime, he hoped that someone, somewhere, was preparing breakfast.

Part 2:

Standing in the fresher unit of his cell, dripping wet after a hot shower, and finally free of gel residue, Han paused for a moment to take stock. He regarded his murky reflection in the thin sheet of polished metal that served as a mirror. Lost a bit of weight, he thought, running a hand over his bare abdomen. Looking a little paler than usual, maybe. Not too bad for someone who had been impaled by a lightsaber and dumped in a trash compactor not long ago.

The painful memory was marginally easier to bear now that he was back on his feet, but it nevertheless drew his eyes back to the scar on his chest. The deep, glossy hollow of new skin was about four centimetres in diameter and was situated near the upper edge of his pectoral muscle, a narrow hand-span above the nipple. Ben had just missed puncturing his lung. Had that been deliberate, Han wondered? Did Ben, as Phasma had indicated, lack commitment to the path he was on? Han didn't think so. In any case, the scar would stand as a lasting reminder of the encounter. With a heavy heart, Han acknowledged darkly that he hoped it would prove to be their last. The knowledge of what his boy had become was unbearable, and Han would rather never see him again than to see him so corrupted.

A gentle chime at the door announced a visitor to his cell. Hastily drying himself off, Han wrapped one of the towels around his hips and stepped through the open arch into the main part of the cell just as Mellor entered. Han was mildly amused. This was easily the swankiest "prison" he'd ever been in, and he'd been in quite a few. It was more like a hotel, especially noticeable in the fact that there was a built-in delay between the command to open the door and the door actually opening, presumably to give "guests" a moment to compose themselves. He shrugged to himself, bemused by the civility.

Ensign Mellor had arrived with a handful of items for Han's comfort, including a shaver, a packet of sweets and a small stack of what looked like entertainment flimsies to keep him from getting too bored. "They're a little old," he said, apologetically, "but it's all I could find. The one on the very bottom is the latest issue." Han hid a smile and thanked Mellor with matching courtesy, shaking his head. Some prison.

As Mellor deposited these items on the small bedside table and turned to go, the door chimed again. The senior medic, Astor, entered a moment later, carrying a small bundle of clothes for Han's use. Rather bizarrely, he sketched a sort of curt bow in Han's direction as he offered the stack of garments. Han reached out for them, completely nonplussed. There was a very odd vibe in the air. These two were up to something, or he was a Wookiee's uncle.

"We are pleased to see you up and doing so well after your ordeal," Astor was saying, as primly officious as ever. "We will be leaving you in the hands of the stormtroopers now. There will be one posted at your door at all times for the duration of your stay." He gave Han a meaningful stare, as if waiting for some acknowledgement. Han nodded. Of course there would be a guard on the door. He didn't understand the significance of the long pause.

Mellor exchanged glances with the elder medic and cleared his throat. There was another expectant lull. Han waited, puzzled by their peculiar demeanour and feeling impatient for them to leave so that he could get dressed in peace. After another small hesitation, Mellor finally said, "We hope these resources will serve you well."

"Uh, okay," Han said, uncertainly. Mellor's emphasis on the word resources was as mystifying as anything else. "Thanks. Thanks a lot."

The two men took their leave, turning one last time to glance at Han through the open door as they departed. Before it swished shut, he noted the glossy white armour of the stormtrooper on duty at the door. Confused by the strange interlude with the two medics, Han turned to the bed and began picking through the stack of clothes. He pulled out a pair of dark blue trousers and stopped cold as something hard clattered to the floor of the cell. Bending, he picked up a handheld holocomm unit and swivelled to face the closed door.

What the—?

Muttering under his breath, Han tossed the communication device onto the bedside table and finished dressing. Astor had brought him generic civilian gear: slim-cut, heavyweight trousers, a loose white shirt, dark socks and underwear. No shoes, he noted. Considering the fact that the two medics were apparently trying to collude with him to aid his escape from the medical station, he thought that was a serious oversight. Han snorted softly. What were they playing at by slipping him a comm? Did they think he would fall for something like that?

He eyed the small communicator speculatively, then his eyes fell on the stack of items that Mellor had left behind. A quick check confirmed that the shaver was not, in fact, a weapon, and the sweets were just sweets. That left the stack of flimsies. Thumbing through them, Han saw the usual sensational headlines and drivel that he expected to see. But the flimsy on the bottom was something different. Lifting it to the light, Han scanned the official First Order medical record sheet with avid interest. Two items of information stood out from the rest. The first was the name of the institution in which he was being held: Avarshina Medical Station; the second was the name under which he was being treated: Lieutenant Sulvan Chol.

Interesting, Han thought. They're hiding me from their own people.

He was still chuckling under his breath at the two medics' comically heavy handling of the transaction, and he could only wonder at their motives. Perhaps they were in secret opposition to the First Order? Maybe they simply hated Phasma and wanted to thwart her, for kicks. Han sighed. He knew that it was far more likely that they were playing him, or being played by someone else. Of those two options, he favoured the latter. His instincts told him that the two men were genuine enough, if a bit clumsy.

Turning the holocomm over in his hands again, Han was tempted. He could make a few calls, leave a few carefully phrased messages and get word to Chewie that he was alive, for a start. Or he could plant a coded notice where Leia's people would find it in due course, and someone would eventually come after him. He shook his head, disagreeing with himself about what to do. It was too great a risk. The last thing he wanted was for Chewbacca to come blazing in here with his bowcaster out, risking his own life, with no guarantee of success. Likewise, with Leia. If communications were being monitored, and they almost certainly were, he could compromise his contacts and blow his chance of finding out where the Resistance had moved to in his absence. He pondered his options. There were a few other people he could contact, people who owed him favours, or who might be willing to break some rules in return for some reward.

With a sigh, he tucked the holocomm out of sight in the gap between the head of the bed and the wall, and slipped the record sheet under his mattress. Phasma was on her way to speak with him again, or so he'd been told, so he would wait and see what her play was going to be. If she'd resolved to hand him over to Snoke after all, the jig would be up and all of that lounging around in expensive medical gel would have come to nothing. On the other hand, Phasma clearly didn't like that option, for some reason, or it would have been her first move. As he puzzled over these realities, the door to his cell chimed again.

Part 3:

"I have made my position quite clear," Phasma said without preamble, tucking her chromium helmet under one arm. She stood just inside the door to his cell, with a very nervous-looking Ensign Mellor at her elbow. "I wish to return you to the Resistance unharmed."

No, Han thought, leaning with a deliberately casual air against the narrow bed. He squinted at Phasma's towering, armoured figure. You wish to make a holovid propaganda piece showing me returning to the Resistance unharmed. There's a difference.

Reading his sour expression, Phasma continued somewhat testily, "That will be much easier to achieve quickly if you will co-operate and facilitate our contact with your people."

"You seem a little agitated, Phasma," Han remarked conversationally, ignoring her request. "What's the big hurry?"

The tall, blonde woman drew her head back a smidge, just a fraction, but it was enough for Han to know that he'd hit some sort of mark. She was in a hurry, then. He considered the possible reasons for that, and spoke on a hunch.

"You think the longer I'm here, the more likely it is that my son will find out," he offered. "Is that it?"

Phasma glowered at him. "Your son is highly Force-sensitive, as you well know. If he forms even the smallest suspicion that you are here, he will confirm it in short order and arrive in person to strike you down. And I doubt very much that he would fail a second time."

Han noted silently the implications of her comment. Phasma didn't actually believe that Ben lacked commitment to his path; she simply wanted to paint that picture for Snoke's benefit. He realised now that it was probably for that same reason she'd hesitated to take him directly to Snoke herself. Ben—Kylo Ren, he corrected himself, viciously—was an apprentice to Snoke and would almost certainly be in his close vicinity by now, undertaking the Jedi training he craved so desperately. To bring Han before Snoke now would be to give Kylo Ren another chance to prove himself. And, as Phasma had pointed out, Han would not survive another encounter of that sort.

"Look," Phasma, evidently realising that she needed to sweeten the pot if she hoped to get Han to taste it, stepped towards him with her hand extended. "Take this, contact your people yourself, tell them where you are. I will allow them to collect you from this station, and depart unmolested, provided they're willing to go along with my plan. But you must warn them to be discreet."

Han looked down at her open, gloved palm and could not stop a guffaw of laughter bursting forth. He clapped his hand over his eyes and slid it down his face, trying to erase his wide grin with his fingertips. She was offering him a holocomm.

What is wrong with these people, Han wondered. They don't seem to have a very good grip on how this whole prisoner business is supposed to work.

In reply, Han just shook his head, waving the offer away as he straightened up from his slouch against the bed. He studiously avoided looking at Mellor, who was standing rigidly by Phasma's side. "No chance. Now you're just insulting my intelligence."

"What?" The stormtrooper captain seemed genuinely puzzled. Scowling, she withdrew the holocomm.

Han was beginning to think that Phasma was a bit dim. Far less impressive than she looked. And she was certainly on the simple side, as far as he could see, her political machinations notwithstanding. The whole point of her rescuing him from certain death had been to prove to Snoke that Kylo Ren lacked commitment to his training. To do that, she needed to document his survival but also to see him safely in the bosom of the Resistance, where it would be much harder for Kylo Ren to complete the job. He supposed she might take holovid images here, on the medical station, as Leia's delegates arrived to take him home, but Han didn't like that idea one bit. Despite Phasma's assurances, he had no doubt that she would monitor all communications and exploit any information she could glean from them. He also thought it highly unlikely that she would miss the opportunity of tracking any envoy back to the Resistance, if she could. No, he would not use her communicator.

Phasma was growing impatient. "I cannot advertise your presence here to Organa without your son also finding out," she enunciated as if speaking to a simpleton. "I do not have the means to contact her privately. You do. Don't be stupid, Solo. Contact your wife, tell her where you are, and convince her to come get you."

"Look, if you think Leia would take that kind of bait, you don't know who you're dealing with. And, anyway," he lied. "We're not really on speaking terms these days."

"On the contrary," Phasma retorted. "I have it on good authority that the two of you are still rather firmly attached, despite appearances, and you've been working for the Resistance all along. I think Organa would measure the risks and find— ."

"It doesn't matter," he interrupted sharply, imagining who her good authority might be. "I told you. I don't know how to reach her. And even if I did, she's not stupid enough to fall for what would clearly look like a trap. Give it up, Phasma."

The stormtrooper captain fell silent at last, and grimly regarded her obstinate prisoner.

"Very well. If you will not co-operate, you will remain here under guard while I make other arrangements."

Han didn't like the sound of that phrase, other arrangements, but he was reassured when she spoke again.

"I will use my own resources to contact the Resistance and will facilitate your transfer to their custody in due course. That will take considerably longer to achieve than is strictly necessary, but the end result will be the same." She paused, her cool blue eyes sweeping the length of Han's frame as he leaned back against the bed again and crossed his arms. "Provided, of course, your son doesn't find out in the meantime that you're here."

Turning to Ensign Mellor, she hardened her tone. "This medical station is lightly guarded, so I will leave you four additional stormtroopers to keep watch on Solo at all hours to prevent his escape."

Han snorted and gave Phasma a look of wry amusement. "I think you're overestimating me, pal." He glanced at Mellor and said with a wink, "I have my resources, but I'm not nearly as well-equipped as she seems to think I am."

Mellor paled, which to Han's eye was a very good sign. The young medic's efforts to help Han, and those of Astor earlier today, appeared to have been genuine—or at least, to be machinations that they wished to keep secret from the stormtrooper captain.

Phasma ignored Han's comments, and stepped in close to make her last point to Mellor. "I will hold you responsible for keeping him secure, Ensign. If Solo escapes, you will pay for it."

Han remained silent for a moment, chewing on a corner of his mouth, and watched as she pivoted on her heel and exited the room. Mellor moved to follow her.

"Hey kid," Han said softly, to avoid attracting the attention of the trooper at the door.

Mellor turned to face him, his youthful face blanched with fear.

"Don't sweat it. I'm not planning on going anywhere."

With a grateful smile, Mellor nodded and left the room.

Part 4:

I'm here.

Can you hear me?

Han's eyes snapped open as he awoke from a dead sleep. The echo of an echo, the faintest whisper of a voice lingered in his mind as he blinked and turned his head to look at the chrono display embedded in the wall near the door. Its soft blue glow showed that he'd been asleep for scarcely an hour. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he sat up with a groan and vigorously rubbed his face with both hands.

An idea—an absurd idea, the stuff of dreams, completely unbecoming of a practical man like himself—had just popped into his head. Leaning over, he pulled the holocomm from its hiding place behind the bed, and tried to talk some sense into himself. After a moment of staring down at the device, his thumb hovering over the activation button, he sighed. He'd already considered all of those options, weighed up those risks and rejected those plans. He would not use the holocomm to contact anyone.

He tossed it onto the bed and stood up, pacing the floor in mild agitation. It was a ridiculous suggestion that kept butting at the one door in his mind that had always remained the most firmly shut. He felt simultaneously excited and extremely foolish for entertaining the notion.

The idea of trying to go back to sleep didn't appeal in the slightest. He was thrumming with adrenaline. But there was nothing else to do, nowhere to go. He let out a noise of disgust and dropped back down to sit on the edge of the bed.

Ah hell, he thought. Why not?

Shaking his head at the absurdity, feeling utterly ridiculous, he closed his eyes and tried to "reach out with his feelings".

Long moments passed in the silent room.

Nothing happened.

Han realised that he'd been holding his breath and let it out with a short laugh. Well, at least he could say that he'd tried, right? He thought of those fleeting feelings he'd been having since the confrontation with Ben, the sense of Leia—a signature that he somehow knew was distinctly, uniquely Leia—in his mind. He considered also the faint awareness of Rey that had twinkled to life somewhere deep in his soul the moment he'd met her. Was it real? Any of it?

He decided to try again, more seriously this time. Casting back thirty, forty years into his memory, he tried to recall everything he'd ever heard about the mysterious use of the Force as a telepathic link. He thought he had the gist of it: just close your eyes, reach out with your feelings (whatever that meant)...and then what?

Hello? Anybody out there? Is this thing on?

He opened his eyes, feeling very, very silly. He remembered clearly Leia's explanation of how she'd known where to find a desperately injured Luke on Bespin all those years ago. There was no other explanation for how she could have located him, except through use of the Force, so he'd simply accepted it. He'd found it mildly intriguing but thoroughly confusing, and had subsequently put it out of his mind.

And so it had continued over the years, whenever he'd had the occasional brush with the Force. In the years after the Battle of Endor, when he and Leia were newly married, he'd listened with less than half of his attention as Luke and Leia discussed such things. Leia had gone on to a tentative study of the subject, under Luke's tutelage, for a while, and Han had left them to it. The truth was, he didn't understand the Force, he didn't particularly need it in his life, and so he'd simply ignored it. That had changed—boy, had it changed—when Ben had come along. His son's obsession with all things Force-related had made them all deeply uneasy, perhaps Han most of all. The arrival of their daughter and her extraordinary abilities had made it even more imperative that they give greater attention to the mysterious power.

And look where that has led us.

He realised that he was absentmindedly rubbing at the deep scar on his chest and gave himself a shake. Irritated, he stretched out on the bed again and tried to relax, letting his mind drift. Unbidden, a memory floated to the surface of old Obi-Wan Kenobi—Ben Kenobi, his son's namesake—on board the Falcon for the first and only time. He'd explained the concept of the Force to Luke, and Han had scoffed at them both. Cringing now at the memory, Han tried to recall precisely what Kenobi had said then, and variations of it that Luke had often repeated.

It's an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us; it binds the galaxy together.

"Something like that, anyway," Han muttered under his breath.

So what does that mean? We're all connected? Yeah, that sounds like something Luke would say. What about Leia? Did Leia buy into this stuff?

He knew that she did. Over time, she'd become increasingly uncomfortable with some of her abilities, and deeply wary of their misuse, given the consequences to her own family. But he knew that she was capable of tapping into them. He'd seen her do it before, when their children were small.

So what now? Something to do with connections. Okay.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on his connection to Leia. He struggled for a moment, confused by the jumble of emotions that spilled out when he opened that particular box. After over thirty years together, their connection was complex. He exhaled heavily. He felt swarmed by recent memories of the past few years, overwhelmed by fleeting thoughts of his own angry words and Leia's bitter tears. The devastation of Ben's betrayal and the subsequent loss of their daughter had laid waste to their family, shredding the ties that had held them all together. Even Luke—especially, Luke—had been driven away by the enormity of the cataclysm. He'd blamed himself, and neither Han nor Leia had been in the frame of mind to offer any consolation. In fact, the three of them had—.

Han interrupted his own thoughts with an angry jerk of his head against the pillow.

This is not helping!

He drew deep breaths, trying to let go of the feelings of agitation that those memories evoked, to veer away from thoughts of Luke and focus on his connection with Leia.

Abruptly, his rational mind interrupted his meditation to remind him of the fact that he was lying on a bed, light years away from his wife, trying to "reach" her through the Force. The thought made him want to vault to his feet and find a more sensible way to use his time. What he was attempting was plainly absurd, and he felt like a fool. With grim determination, though, he wrestled his rationality into submission, choosing instead to follow his intuition and the niggling sense that Leia was somehow within his reach, if he could just find the right channel.

Right, Leia. Let's start at the beginning instead of the end.

Drawing a deep breath, Han settled more comfortably on the bed, closed his eyes and cast his mind back to his earliest memories of his wife. He remembered his first sight of her, retreating down a corridor on board the Death Star, snatching Luke's blaster out of his hands, barking orders at them, and criticising their methods. She'd saved their lives—and her own—with her quick thinking and her fearlessness.

Drifting in memory, he recalled an early confrontation between them, inside the hangar of the base on Yavin 4, and the look of disgust on her face when he'd defiantly confirmed that he was leaving her and her Rebel friends on the eve of their greatest battle. In truth, it had been the memory of her deep disappointment that had turned him around and sent him back into the fray to watch Luke's back. She'd flung her arms around him after that victorious battle, and looked up at him with an expression that had burned a permanent imprint on his mind.

He thought of their long-ago first visit to Ord Mantell, and the feel of her lithe young body melting against his for the first time, as she'd finally given in to the magnetic attraction that had always existed between them. He remembered that momentous kiss in the circuitry bay on board the Falcon when their slow-burning courtship had blazed fully to life. And, finally, he recalled every intimate moment of that long, life-changing trip from Hoth to Bespin, when he'd first begun to hope that they might actually have a lasting future together.

With a zap, as if he'd touched a live circuit with his thoughts, he found her.

He could feel her. The sensation was like nothing he'd ever experienced, and he struggled for a moment to hang on to it. His rational mind kept intruding to inform him that he was, in all likelihood, still sedated, lying in a tank covered in hydrogel. A dry, scornful voice kept muttering that this was just a vivid dream.

With effort, he blocked it out and tried to concentrate on that breathtaking awareness of Leia as an entity, out there, somewhere. The sensation between them was like a broad beam of liquid, golden light, pulsing and writhing with life. With a thrill, he felt a series of thoughts—not quite thoughts, exactly—but certainly emotions, imagery, impressions that transformed in his mind into a swirl of words and feelings.

Joy.

Relief.

Worry.

Love.

Then something else. Again, not words exactly, but clearly a question, nonetheless; a question borne of longing, of searching, of wanting.

Where are you?

Abruptly, he lost it. The conduit was gone. He found himself lying supine on the bed, eyes wide in the darkness of his cell, his chest heaving as if he'd just run up a mountainside without pausing for breath. He felt so deeply startled, so overwhelmed, for a moment he could not move. Finally, rocking his head against the pillow, he sought to re-establish the connection and faltered. For several long minutes he groped around in that strange dimension, sensing nothing but emptiness where Leia had been. The creeping rationality began to intrude once more, and he felt a moment of panic, in case he couldn't find her again.

C'mon, Solo, his inner voice jeered. What are you afraid of?

Calming his breathing, he closed his eyes and concentrated, then reached for her as he had before. The connection this time was less startling, more soothing. He could feel her frantic question and sought to calm it, acting on instinct to comfort her somehow.

I'm here

She seemed deeply agitated, upset. In response, he tried to communicate something like a sense of well-being, peace and ease.

I'm alright.

Her response came back as a blaze of intense joy—he could swear that it was a response, a direct answer of sorts to his own communication.

"Ha ha haaaa!" he crowed out loud, keeping his eyes closed just in case. "I'm getting the hang of this."

The door chimed, warning of entry, and Han jolted back to reality. After the customary polite pause, the door swished open, revealing the stormtrooper with his blaster trained on Han.

"What's going on in here?"

Han rose up on one elbow and held a hand up against the glare of the light. "Do you mind?" he complained, gesturing down at his reclining form. "Trying to sleep here." He was barefoot, clad only in a pair of dark boxer briefs, lying on top of the blankets. It was evident that he was not in imminent danger of making an escape. The stormtrooper hesitated for a moment, mumbled something and reached to palm the door closed. Han dropped back onto the bed and reached for Leia again. This time, he found her immediately.

Sorry, Sweetheart. I'm back.

Her answer was another blaze of joy, wordless and powerful.

Their connection was so easy, he marvelled. Why had he never understood this before, never tried it? Never wondered? A part of him suspected that his sudden sensitivity had something to do with recent events—meeting Rey, seeing Leia again after an absence that had stretched on for far too long, and confronting Ben. All of it had happened so fast, from the moment he'd spotted the Falcon trying to escape from Jakku until the moment he'd been dragged from the trash compactor in the belly of Starkiller Base—it was all a blur. And now this. This deeply intimate connection that transfixed him. He lay in the dark, simply enjoying the awareness of her presence, revelling in it.

At the door, he heard the clink of armour as the stormtrooper bumped against the metal surface. The sound reminded him of the reality of his surroundings and his circumstances. Abruptly, his highly practical nature re-asserted itself and insisted that he stop mooning over his distant wife and start communicating something meaningful.

Listen to me, Leia.

Avarshina.

Chol.

Her response reflected nothing but confusion, consternation. He repeated the words a few more times, trying to convey them somehow, growing more determined. But he knew instinctively that his meaning was not getting through. Her reaction to his efforts felt like bewilderment and worry. He stopped insisting on those words and just rested, holding an awareness of her loosely in his mind. In the darkness, he smiled at the emotions he could sense through their connection. She was astonished and euphoric, grateful and full of yearning. He felt his throat close up and swallowed hard against it. After so many years, and so much pain, it felt deeply satisfying to know for sure that she still loved him, truly.

Exhaustion overtook him after a while. The effort of communicating in so alien a fashion had knocked the wind out of him, magnified by the lingering effects of his recent ordeals. He yawned widely and pulled the pillow under his head. He reached out one more time with an apology and a promise.

Sorry, Sweetheart. So tired. Wait for me. I'll figure something out.

In response he felt the liquid, golden connection between them intensify in a swell of love and tenderness. He returned the sentiment tenfold and let the darkness overtake him.

:: :: :: * :: :: ::

NB: I like to imagine that my H/L exist in the same universe as Susan Zahn's H/L (with her kind permission), because I love that universe so much. I'm thinking of their trip to Ord Mantell as featured in her Mergers and Acquisitions, and their slow journey to Bespin as described in Into the Fire.