With only a few hours left in their journey Han wanders into the cockpit to find Ben there alone in the co-pilot's seat, legs propped up on the dash. He toys with a small green stone and a bit of copper wire, coiling the wire around the rock delicately. Han is about to turn around and leave when Ben notices him, his lips tightening in a thin line, shoving his craft into his pocket quickly. He nods in a way that might be a gesture of welcome, or as close to that as Ben gets.
Han sighs before sinking down into the pilot's seat, figuring he hasn't got anywhere better to be. He realizes a second later when the other man's shoulders tense, stiff as a board, that he might have misconstrued Ben's 'welcoming' gesture. Perhaps the nod had been more of an 'I've got it, you don't have to stay, you can leave – please leave' sort of a thing? Han doesn't leave either way. This is his ship, after all. If Ben is so uncomfortable with his presence he can find somewhere else to brood.
"So, you seem pretty eager to get back to our marshy little 'home base'." Han says in an attempt to break the tension which hangs in the air as thickly as the humidity on Dagobah. The muscles in Ben's jaw twitch. He stares at the lights of hyperspace whizzing by as though they have wronged him in some way, though in Han's experience, Ben tends to look at just about everything that way.
"Don't get me wrong, I don't like Dagobah, but…" Ben's eyes soften as his words trail off into a small sigh.
"But you miss your girl." Han says, finishing the thought for the poor besotted idiot, rolling his eyes as he does so.
If there's one thing Han's learned in his thirty-two years of life, through heart-wrenching trial and error, mind you, it's that 'love' is a fool's game. If anyone is living proof of that, it's the lovesick sap sitting in the co-pilot's chair beside him. The guy's got his heart so twisted up over some girl that he's actually eager to return that hellish swamp planet.
"Love," Han says, blowing a puff of air out of his nose derisively. "Been there, done that. It's not all it's cracked up to be, trust me."
"You were in love before… Really?" Ben asks, genuine shock in his voice. Han isn't sure if he should be offended or not. "I never knew."
"Well, no." Han agrees, quirking an eyebrow. "How could you? Never talked about it before."
"I – what I mean is, I never would have guessed."
"Well, I do have a heart, ya know?" Han scoffs.
It's not for lack of trying, of course. Han's heart has been ripped open before, has been left raw and bleeding by hands he'd been foolish enough to trust. With time those wounds became scars. He's tried to spread those scars over his whole heart, to protect the sensitive muscle with hardened, dead flesh, though it's never quite worked.
There had been plenty of women after Qi'ra. Han's a healthy guy, and not too bad on the eyes in his own, personal opinion. He'd liked plenty of them, but never loved any of them. Love, to him, had looked like a threat, the end of a blaster pointed right at his head. Now, that traitorous heart supplies, it looks a little bit more like warm, brown eyes and a sharp tongue.
Han runs the calloused fingers of one hand through already ruffled hair. Leia's fingers are soft, he already knows that for a fact. She's a princess, after all, not an orphan from the streets of Corellia – and he's got to stop thinking about her!
Han's not a fool. She's a princess, actually full-blooded royalty, and he's a smuggler with a bounty on his head so large he'll never pay it off in ten lifetimes. She also drives him completely crazy. Her words have a way of digging under his skin and living there for days on end, festering until he can get her back with a sharp barb of his own. Even if he wanted it to, nothing between them could ever work, not really, no matter how beautiful she is or how his heart catches on the rare occasion she looks at him and isn't scowling.
"Of course," Ben says quickly, pulling Han out of his quickly spiraling and completely impossible thoughts about the princess. The man's face takes on that wounded expression that Han can never quite figure out, like he's said something that has cut Ben to his very core. "No offense intended."
"Don't worry about it." Han replies flippantly, hoping to wipe the deep hurt he doesn't understand from Ben's eyes. It doesn't quite work.
Ben stands and leaves the cockpit and Han sighs, rubbing one hand down his face. He doesn't know how to act around the other man. He's used to dealing with strange or otherwise out-of-sorts characters, it's kinda part of the deal when it comes to his chosen profession. Still, he's not sure he's ever met someone as strange as this Ben.
Ben, who almost seems to actively avoid him, yet doesn't seem to hate him; at least, no more than he seems to hate everyone else – everyone but that girl that he's so devoted to. Ben, who stutters and stammers awkwardly half the times Han says anything to him.
Han had once been told that 'people are predictable', a nice little truth that has served him well enough over the years, but he thinks that Ben might be one of the least predictable people he's ever met. So, he really shouldn't be as surprised as he is when Ben returns only a few moments later, a bottle of Corellian whiskey in one hand and two tumblers in the other. He fills one glass before handing Han the bottle and second tumbler. Han eyes it, it's the good stuff, the stuff he keeps in one of the hidden smuggling compartments in the main hallway.
"How'd you find this?" Han asks, half angry and half curious.
"The Force." Ben answers quickly and blandly, sinking into the co-pilot's chair before lifting his glass to his lips for a sip, his eyes trained on the white and blue lines of hyperspace whipping past the ship outside of the viewport. "You're the one who said I needed a stiff drink." He adds tightly.
"Huh," Han huffs. "Seems like it would be pretty useful for smuggling – that Force stuff." He muses, pouring a bit of whiskey into his own glass. He sets the bottle on the floor between the two seats. "Ya know, I never even believed in that junk before I met you all. Seemed like a bunch 'a fairytales to me." He shrugs, taking a drink.
"Yeah, I know." Ben says. "I mean, I could tell."
They drink in silence for a while, which suits Han just fine. The only sounds that fill the space are the gentle hum of the engines and the clinking of glass on glass as they refill their tumblers. One of the screens on the front console, the one that shows approaching gravitational shadows, flickers and then dies. Before Han can react, Ben casually leans over, tumbler still in one hand, and turns the knob just to the right of the screen three times and then pulls on it hard. He taps the screen with one finger until the system flashes back to life.
"The Force tell ya how to do that too?" Han grumbles amused and vaguely curious.
It hasn't escaped his notice the way Ben and Rey seem to know the ins and outs of the Falcon, all of its peculiarities. They're never surprised when a system just seems to go kaput and always seem to know intuitively how to fix it. They're never surprised by any of the modifications either, or the ship's complete rewiring, which some – Chewie – have called confusing and haphazard and dangerous, though Han calls it intuitive. It's something Han just can't puzzle out, and he's been trying to.
"Ah – no." Ben says, leaning back in his chair slowly.
"So, what then?" Han chuckles, taking a drink. "You're just some kind of ship genius on top of all that Force stuff?" Han wiggles the fingers of his free hand around in the air.
"My, uh, my father had a ship like the Falcon." Ben says, his words stilted and hesitant. He downs the rest of his drink in one large gulp and bends over to grab the bottle again.
"A ship like the Falcon?" Han barks out a dry laugh. "There isn't another ship in the galaxy like the Falcon."
"No, you're right about that." Ben says, his eyes drifting around the cockpit with what might easily be confused for fondness.
Han assumes that what Ben means is that his father had YT 1300, which would make sense, it is a common ship model. Maybe his father had even made a few alterations to his own ship. Ease of modification is one of perks that drew folks to this particular make – especially folks who are fond of hidden smuggling compartments.
"So, your father," Han begins trying to sound casual. He can see Ben physically cringe at the words out of the corner of his eye. "Was he a cargo hauler?"
"That's one way to put it." Ben grumbles into the rim of his glass before another large swig, his eyebrows raising quickly.
Ah, Han thinks, so a smuggler then. Something clicks into place in Han's brain. Suddenly so many of his interactions with Ben make sense. The terse responses, the awkward half-conversations, the bizarre and angry accusation earlier. Honestly, he kind of resents the fact that Ben is clearly projecting his issues with his own father onto Han.
"I – I don't want to talk about my father."
"Don't like to talk about family?" Han asks, nodding his head in understanding, even as he does so.
"No,"
"I never knew my family, not really." Han says and then blinks dumbly down at the glass in his hand. The whiskey must be hitting him harder than he thought because he never talks about his family, or rather, his lack thereof.
He has a couple of memories of his father, a blur of a man showing him the ships being built in a freighter factory back on Corellia. My contributions to the galaxy, son. He'd said. Not that any of it matters, just a few lousy freighters. Han forgot what his father looked like long ago and stopped caring about the man who abandoned him even before that. He shrugs dismissively in an attempt to throw off the emotion behind the admission.
"I used to," Ben starts slowly, his eyes set heavily on the drink in his hands. "I used to think it would have been easier like that."
Han barks out a short, bitter laugh – the sound seems to startle Ben who looks up with wide eyes, or maybe it's just that he hadn't meant to speak out loud at all. Maybe the whiskey is hitting him harder than he's expected as well.
"Easier? What, like I was lucky my old man ran out on me?" Han snorts derisively. "Your parents musta been pretty rotten if you think I was lucky growing up on the streets of Corellia. I sure didn't feel lucky – I was lucky to get out."
Han looks Ben over. He knows privilege when he sees it. He sees it in the way Ben holds himself, hears it in the way he speaks. The guy is an aristocrat through and through. Ben already looks thoroughly chastened, but Han continues anyway, the spirits loosening his tongue.
"To me, it looks like you were well fed and sheltered and educated, and maybe it seems like there's more to life than that, but when no one's around to make sure you have those things, they sure as hell seem like the only things in the galaxy that matter."
"I didn't mean…" Ben throws his head back with a low groan and runs one hand slowly down his face. "I used to think that, now I..." He says softly, shaking his head, dark hair tumbling into his face. "It would have been easier for them, at least." He mutters, his voice sounding softer than Han's ever heard it, his dark eyes cast to the floor of the cockpit.
Something softens in Han as he watches the man beside him down the rest of his glass. The poor guy always looks so sad and while Han is sure that the aristocratic dolt has had an easier go of it than he did, he can't help but feel bad for him just a little. Sure, maybe the big guy's pain had been different from Han's, but does that mean it didn't hurt? Maybe Han's just a sap when he drinks too much.
"Hey, now, I don't know about that. You seem pretty alright to me." He says with a laugh, an attempt to lighten the mood, though it seems to have the opposite effect entirely.
"You don't know what you're talking about." Ben leans down and picks up the bottle again but does not pour himself another glass, he just holds it in his lap, his thumb running up and down the neck of it. "I have done terrible things." He pulls one hand from the glass and holds it out, inspecting it grimly. Han wonders what Ben sees there that he cannot.
"Maybe," Han shrugs. "Maybe you have – maybe I have. There's a lot'a people out there in the galaxy that think I've done terrible things, more than think I done good, at least. I haven't known you for very long, I'll admit, so maybe what you're sayin' is true, but in the all the time since I met you all you've done is help people."
"Not for the right reasons." Ben says glumly.
"Who cares what your reasons are?" Han laughs. "The people you helped sure as hell don't, I'll guarantee you that." Ben says nothing to that, just stares quietly at the bottle in his hands. "You can't change the past," Han says. A puff of air escapes Ben and it sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Han ignores it and presses on. "Way I see it; you can learn from it or drown in it. So, you wanna change? Don't mope about what you've already done, just change."
Ben's mouth is still set in a hard line, lips pressed so tightly together that they are going white around the edges. He looks up at Han, eyes shining with unshed tears and he smiles. It's a small thing, but its real. Han's not sure what to make of it, and all of this emotion is making his skin itch with discomfort, but at least the guy doesn't look like he's about to throw himself out of the nearest airlock anymore.
"I think you're right." Ben says quietly, nodding. He sets the bottle down on the ground and leans back slightly in his seat. "I – Thank you, Han."
Leia is glad that she is alone, that no one is around to see her, curled in on herself, crying uncontrollably as she is. She feels like she's spinning, or maybe like everything around her is. She feels powerless, helpless, and as close to hopeless as she has ever been before. She feels like all of the light has left the world and she is the one that snuffed it out.
She is heavy, made of lead. The soft ground below her might pull her down, make her a permanent part of the mud and muck, of this awful, disgusting planet. She might let it. Some part of her welcomes it, insisting it is where she belongs.
Something cold and electric and sharp creeps along her bones, digs at her heart. You were right. A voice in her head whispers. It sounds enough like her own that she is sure it must be. He betrayed you - he made you fight him. He forced your hand. You didn't want this.
She didn't, Leia didn't want any of this. She didn't want to fight her brother, didn't want to harm him, didn't want to be sent away from the Rebel Alliance, didn't want to become a Jedi. When did she lose so much control of her own life? When did she give it up?
She had understood her father's reasoning in sending her to Dagobah. She had been content in the fact that, as a target of Vader, she would be protecting the Alliance by staying away. She had just begun to understand why she was being trained in the Force - to one day confront Vader. It made sense, it was a real, solid plan, one that would see the galaxy better off in the end - but now? Leia doesn't understand anything.
She's heard nothing but radio silence from the Alliance for weeks now, even her father's personal comm lines are quiet, and she's sure that something has happened. Luke has gone to Vader and she is certain, dreadfully, unyieldingly certain, that he will die by Vader's hand or be turned by it. If Vader does turn Luke, she will have to fight him as well. She sees no other possibilities, no other futures.
"Surrounds you, the Dark Side does." Leia's head snaps up at the sound of Yoda's voice. "Resist it, you must."
"What?" Leia asks, standing sharply. She winces as she tries to put weight on her twisted ankle.
"Drawn in by your anger, your fear, your hatred it is." Yoda says gravely. "You must let go of those emotions, lead you down a dark path, they will."
Before Leia can respond, something incredulous stirring in her at the idea that though Luke was the one to run off to Vader, Master Yoda is worried about her falling to the Dark Side, Ahsoka tears through the brush and into the clearing followed closely by Rey. The Togruta's eyes are wide and wild, her lightsabers burning a bright white by her sides. She surveys the clearing quickly, searching for a threat that is simply not there.
"What happened?" Ahsoka asks.
"Where's Ben's ship?" Rey adds, her own saber falling to her side. Something like horror settles on her face. "Where is Luke?"
"Luke is gone." Leia responds grimly, not allowing her voice to belay her true emotional state. She stands firm, her back straight, her shoulders squared. She balls her hands into tight fists to hide the way they are trembling. She is thankful for the thick sheets of rain that disguise the tears on her cheeks.
"Gone?" Ahsoka gasps. Rey says nothing, though she flinches at Leia's words.
"Gone to Vader, he has." Yoda says.
"No," Ahsoka says solemnly, her lightsabers flicking off, her shoulders slumping. "No," She repeats, as though her denial with revert the truth of Yoda's statement.
"He thinks he can help him." Leia explains slowly, willing her voice to remain steady. The storm above still rages, pouring water in thick sheets over their heads. It shows no signs of letting up soon. "I tried to stop him, I tried, but I…" Suddenly she can't get the words out, all sound blocked by a quickly forming lump in her throat.
Leia wants to run, to hide, and she is so deeply ashamed of that cowardice and of this outpouring of emotion that she just cannot get control of. She wishes she could feel the anger Yoda had warned her to let go of. Anger has always been such a simple thing for Leia to grasp onto. It is an emotion that serves a purpose. Anger has always been an easy fuel, a motivator, an energy she can channel, something that keeps her head clear and her path straight. She doesn't feel that anger now. All she feels is pointless, useless misery.
"Leia," Rey says softly.
The girl approaches and pulls Leia into an embrace. Leia wants to push her off, to insist that she is fine, that they have more important things to worry about than how miserable she is, but only a wordless wail escape her. She wraps her arms around Rey and begins to sob again in earnest.
"I hurt him," Leia cries. "I didn't - I didn't want to, but I -" Another pitiful sob wracks her. She is actually shaking in Rey's arms and it is so embarrassing. "We need to leave; we can't stay here."
"Everything is going to be alright." Rey assures her soothingly, but Leia keeps crying because she simply doesn't see how that can be true.
Ahsoka helps Leia and Rey set up a small, temporary shelter along the tree line of the clearing out of fallen branches and thick pieces of bark. According to Master Yoda, the rainy season is just beginning, so even though the skies have cleared for now the storms will start up again sooner rather than later and they will be thankful for even a makeshift roof above their heads when night falls.
Silence falls over the group as they work. It is heavy and tense. Leia is especially quiet, nibbling at her ration bar without complaint before curling up on one of the beds of leaves they have set up under the shelter. Ahsoka waits until Leia has fallen asleep before she and Rey sneak off to Master Yoda's hut. She would prefer to stay close to the girl, to watch her, but Leia cannot be around for the conversation they need to have. She will have to trust that Leia will stay asleep. At least there are no more ships around to steal.
"Leia is right, we need to leave as soon as possible. If Luke really has gone to Vader, we're not safe here." Ahsoka begins once she and Rey have crowded into the old Jedi Master's hut. He hands each of them a cup of tea brewed from some of the planet's leaves and roots. The taste is not something Ahsoka particularly enjoys, it is too bitter, but it fills her with much-needed warmth so she drinks it gladly.
"I'm not sure Luke would tell Vader where we are." Rey says taking a sip from her own cup.
"He might not have a choice." Ahsoka responds grimly. Rey opens her mouth as if to say something but seems to think better of it at the last moment and frowns into her cup instead.
"Tell them, Bail should not have, of their relation to Vader." Yoda says solemnly. "Ready, they were not, to learn this."
"What are you saying?" Rey's attention snaps to the Jedi Master, fire in her eyes. "That you would have kept it from them? When would they have been ready?"
"When complete their training was." Yoda responds plainly. "After they had faced him, then, would they be ready."
"Faced him?" Ahsoka asks, her cup freezing mid-sip. "What do you mean, 'after they'd faced him'? You were going to send them after Vader, after their own – is that what we are training them for?" She asks, unable to mask the horror settling over her. She sets the cup down roughly on a small, nearby table, tea spilling over the sides.
"Face him they must. Their destiny, it is, to bring balance to the Force, to…"
"Wait a second!" Ahsoka interrupts, throwing one hand out in front of her. "Their destiny? You think that one of them is – I thought that Anakin was the 'Chosen One'?"
"Misread, the prophecy must have been." Yoda responds simply.
"Oh, but you're so sure now?" A laugh escapes her, though she finds none of this funny in the least. "So is it Luke or Leia – or is it both?" She asks, her voice going a little shrill. "Maybe it has always been the 'Chosen Two'? Huh?"
"Never clear, these things are." Yoda responds looking away from Ahsoka, perhaps looking out of the small, rounded window of his hut and towards the night outside. It has already begun to rain again.
"You know, Anakin wanted to leave the Order – maybe if he had he…" But Ahsoka can't finish that line of thought, it is too painful. "He stayed because he was the 'Chosen One', because that's what you told him, what you all told him over and over…"
"Blame the Order, you do, for Anakin's fall?" Yoda asks curiously, his tone too light in Ahsoka's opinion.
"You don't?"
"Never said that, did I." He responds lowly. "But perhaps more blame, should you lay, at Anakin's feet – at Vader's."
"Anakin isn't what this is about – or, he is, but…" Ahsoka growls, frustrated. "You were going to send Luke and Leia after their own father. When were you going to tell them?"
"Earlier today, I did."
"That's why Luke left." Rey says solemnly. "He's been so worried about Vader. He's spoken to me about wanting to help him like I – I should have kept a closer eye on him, I –"
"This isn't your fault, Rey." Ahsoka says softly, placing a hand on the girl's shoulder. Rey doesn't meet her eyes, her focus trained on the contents of the cup in her hands.
"Too attached to Vader, he has become." Yoda says with a sigh, shaking his head.
"Of course he's attached! That's his father!" Rey says, raising her voice. "You were never going to tell him at all!" She accuses, tea sloshing over her hands as they shake angrily. "You were just going to use him to – to –"
"Use him," Yoda snorts, turning his attention to a pot of simmering something hanging in his fireplace. "Tools of the Force, we are." He says plainly, stirring the greenish-brown liquid once and then twice.
"He's a person." Rey says, stressing the last word.
"More than that, must a Jedi be," Yoda says setting the spoon down on the rim of the pot. "And less."
"Luke was right about you," Rey says so softly Ahsoka almost doesn't hear her over the crackling of the fire in Yoda's hearth. "About the Jedi."
"What?" Ahsoka asks, turning her attention to the girl.
"When I went to train with Luke." She begins grimly, her eyes focused on the cup in her hands and nothing else. "He gave me three lessons, only three – all about why the Jedi had to end. He said that they were arrogant and hypocritical, that they thought they owned the Force. He said that they were more concerned with keeping the status quo than with actually helping those in need. When he came back, when he saved my friends from –" She shakes her head as if to clear her thoughts. "I thought that he had changed his mind, that he had realized he was wrong, that he was the greatest Jedi who ever lived. I was wrong. He was more than a Jedi. He was a hero."
"Hero," Yoda says and hums dismissively. "Seek such grand titles, a Jedi does not."
"No, Luke wasn't seeking a title or glory – he was just… doing the right thing! That's what I thought being a Jedi was about, I thought..." Rey sets her cup down on the table next to her gently. "I was wrong." She shakes her head before standing as much as she possibly can in the small space. "Maybe Ben and Luke were right," She says with a bitter sounding little laugh. "Maybe it is time for it all to end – or, I don't know… I need to go. Goodnight." She says, one hand already on the frame of Yoda's small doorway.
"Too old," Master Yoda hums a short time after Rey leaves. "Too old for training." He shakes his head, resting both hands on the knot at the top of his gimer stick. "All of them are, I fear."
"Too old," Ahsoka repeats sourly. "That's what you're worried about."
"Agree with her, you do?"
"I – I do," Ahsoka agrees hesitantly. "With parts of what she said, at least. I thought I knew why I was here, what I was doing, but now?"
"What is it, you thought?"
"I –" Ahsoka begins but doesn't finish, she can't. Why had she thought she was here? "Not that I would be training Luke and Leia so that you could send them off to kill their own father." She says and it is only mostly true. Some part of her has to have suspected that this was the end-goal for their training. What else could it have been for? "I know what he is now, but he's still…"
"Anakin?"
"No," She says, her tone low with warning. "That's not what this is about."
"Sure about that, you are?"
"I'm done." Ahsoka says abruptly. She stands as much as she can, the tips of her montrals brushing the low, curved ceiling. "With all of this."
She storms into the night, rain falling gently around her. She shivers though she is not cold as she makes her way back towards the camp. She finds Leia still fast asleep and Rey curled up in one corner facing a wall of branches. Rey, she can sense, is not asleep at all, but neither of them speak. Ahsoka isn't quite sure what either of them could say at this point.
She finds no rest in sleep that night and it has nothing to do with the sodden ground beneath the thin piles of leaves she'd made up for her bed or the rainwater dripping on her face from the leaky hand-crafted ceiling. It is the voice she hears whispered just behind her ear that keeps her awake.
"Ahsoka," It is a voice she recognizes. The one that is not Anakin's or Vader's, but a combination of both. The one that confronts her with the fact that her master is not gone, not truly, he's just changed so much that he might as well be.
"Are you going to keep working with Leia?"
"Why don't you just give up?"
"Don't you think you've failed enough Skywalkers?"
With her eyes closed she can see the cracked mask and the man beneath, the one who is so undeniably Anakin and yet… She gives up on pretending to sleep as the first light of dawn paints the sky above the palest silver. There's no rain coming down now, but she can feel in her bones with electric certainty that it will come back.
She rifles through the crates of supplies Luke left behind – there's nothing but ration bars, so that will have to do yet again. She seats herself on top of a crate and eats slowly, languidly, tiredly. Her mind and body are exhausted, though the real weariness she feels is an emotional one. Don't you think you've failed enough Skywalkers? Rings through her head on repeat, a terrible chorus. She has, she knows.
When Rey wakes she perches herself on a crate next to Ahsoka. Neither of them speak and nothing is said as Leia wakes an hour later. The three women stare at the sky, waiting. The Falcon breaks through the trees and lowers itself into the clearing. The ramp lowers and Ben is already stomping down it the moment it hits the ground. He looks around the clearing, one hand held across his brow to block the sunlight shining through the trees, frowning deeply. He looks directly at Ahsoka.
"What the hell happened?"