He was a father—again. It really hadn't hit him until hours after Leia told him, hours after he'd resigned himself to bed before their departure the next morning, and hours after he'd lapsed into a bout of insomnia. He had another kid, there were pieces of himself in an entirely different person he'd hardly ever spoken to. One more person to start over with.
He wanted to be enraged, to hate Leia for robbing him of his own son, but he wasn't angry even in the slightest. He knew that it wouldn't have made a difference if Leia had told him or not, he would have been the same father he'd been to Jacen, and he wouldn't wish that on anyone. All he could do is thank the Force that he'd have a second chance with them both, to begin again with some clarity on the things he hadn't allowed himself to know.
It wasn't as if he'd been some terrible father, the problem was he hadn't been *anything*. If he'd beaten and neglected his son it would have been one thing, but hovering in the distance, never being there, never really knowing his son, it seemed somehow worse. At least if he'd been abusive, Jacen would have known how to respond, but as it was, the boy seemed to love him despite an apparent confusion as to how he was supposed to react to his so-called father.
He was wrestling with his feelings—again. Apparently the one thing that *can* travel backward in time is one's emotional state, for Han was once again locked in that sensation of being mentally ill, a decade had past and there was no change. Sure, he'd masked it, buried it, burned it, dressed it up, and given it an honorary salute as he tried to shove it over board, but the damn emotion just kept coming back. He'd once compared it to a mynock: it's ugly, it's icky (for lack of a better term), and it sucks the life out of you. Of course, although the accuracy of that statement wasn't important, the imagery seemed to fit.
It would have been nice if Leia had been physically deformed, ugly on the inside and out. She should have been stuck up and really annoying, with half her face sinking on one side and one of her eyes missing. If she were hideous than at least Han wouldn't have been physically attracted to her, he'd have been able to keep the illusions of her up and running. But no, she had to be just as beautiful as she'd ever been, dripping in grace from head to toe with her damned porcelain skin and piercing eyes.
Now he couldn't even dislike her. His rage toward the memories seemed to just melt and dispose of itself in an orderly fashion, piece by piece, all in good time. They could talk without wanting to strangle one another, even carry on a conversation that didn't end in yet another awkward silence which hinted of a deep seeded abhorrence in both persons just waiting for a moment to be unleashed. Love's favorite bedfellow had always been hatred, they'd proved that true if nothing else.
The only thing that really got to Han was that he'd wasted ten years of his life, and ten years of everyone else's time. Ten years and nothing but mistakes to show for it. He'd been a bad father, a bad friend, he'd never let his wife rest in peace, never allowed himself to move on. He'd wasted all that time on nothing but pride and regret, cutting himself off from everything he could have had simply because it would cost him what little emotional dignity he thought he had left. All hail Han Solo and his wonderfully ironic surname.
Starting over was all he had left. A clean canvas, a blank slate and a fresh start, he had a chance to go back to the beginning and renew his lease on life. He'd be damned if he'd let himself refuse. There was some happiness left for him with his family, the fuzzball, the gambler, the boys, and perhaps one other… there was a lot of fun left to be had, and they all deserved more than just their share.
He was at a cross roads—again, only this time he had some insight on where each road may lead. He could crumble into oblivion, he could remain stagnate and accept some putrid existence in a galaxy where all he could do was remain shadowed by the myth of his own heroics, only to disperse all such imaginings as he withered into the void. Or there was that other path, not paved or lined with markings to point towards a predestined fate, a road where there would be many more such choices, but many more opportunities.
Staring down each path, knowing with some lucidity which destination each boasted at its end, there wasn't much of a struggle. To hate ones self was the making of a loathsome existence, one that Han would not allow himself to buy into any longer, one that he didn't want anymore.
"You look tired," Leia said, interrupting Han's musings as they walked along the wooded trail toward the clearing where they were to meet with Chewie. She was walking beside him with her pack slung on one shoulder and a staff in the opposite hand moving in tandem with her stride.
Han laughed lightly. "Kidnapping will do that to a person… though I have to admit, I think it was the being attacked by wild beasts bit that really got me."
"How is your shoulder?" she asked, seeming to just then remember his encounter with the native fauna.
He adjusted the joint a bit to clarify that it was doing fine before answering. "It's a little sore. I haven't been paying much attention to it, to tell the truth, there's kind of been a lot of other things to think about."
Leia remained silent for a few moments upon hearing this, though for what purpose Han was unsure. When she began again it was with a calm manner and a deep breath. "So what's next?"
Han thought carefully before answering. He knew all too well what she meant, but it wasn't always such an easy inquiry to satisfy. He didn't know what she expected of him, what they were going to do about Anakin, or whether not he should divulge some of the more risky revelations of his heart for fear they might meet with another round of rejection.
"I don't know," he began, "Leia, I--"
At that moment, the sound of a mechanical click as a blaster rifle was loaded just in time to feel the barrel of the rifle come to rest on his shoulder, its handler bringing the end to meet his neck.
Han raised his hands so that they were level with his head as what numbered perhaps a dozen men stepped out of the bushes ahead and behind him, all armed and aiming at him and his companion.
They closed in as Han glanced over at Leia to find that she had a similar weapon trained on her head, and a guard's arm wrapped around her neck, though she wasn't struggling. He made an attempt to pull further away from the man behind him, but the guard grabbed his arm and pressed the barrel of his gun further into the nape of Han's neck.
Han's eyes met Leia's as they were brought closer together in the clearing, the guards mumbling around them, seeming to organized themselves as their prisoners silently searched for a quick means of escape. Leia seemed to indicate something as she motioned with a slight jerk of her head and eyes in a movement that was downward and to the left. He followed her lead and saw that she still had the comm.-link locked onto her belt—near enough to her hand to make a world of difference.
He was going to have some adventure—again, whether he lived through it or not. Time for Han Solo to throughout the crutch of pride, the hindrances of his own mistakes, because this time it was about life and death and dead living, and it was time to make a choice. But before death or life could claim him, there was some business he had to take care of. That first step down a new path, the ground shaky underneath as he finally voiced a little something that should have been said a long time ago.
He smiled "I love you."
Leia moved her hand over the comm.-link and look him in the eyes, "I know."
He wanted to be enraged, to hate Leia for robbing him of his own son, but he wasn't angry even in the slightest. He knew that it wouldn't have made a difference if Leia had told him or not, he would have been the same father he'd been to Jacen, and he wouldn't wish that on anyone. All he could do is thank the Force that he'd have a second chance with them both, to begin again with some clarity on the things he hadn't allowed himself to know.
It wasn't as if he'd been some terrible father, the problem was he hadn't been *anything*. If he'd beaten and neglected his son it would have been one thing, but hovering in the distance, never being there, never really knowing his son, it seemed somehow worse. At least if he'd been abusive, Jacen would have known how to respond, but as it was, the boy seemed to love him despite an apparent confusion as to how he was supposed to react to his so-called father.
He was wrestling with his feelings—again. Apparently the one thing that *can* travel backward in time is one's emotional state, for Han was once again locked in that sensation of being mentally ill, a decade had past and there was no change. Sure, he'd masked it, buried it, burned it, dressed it up, and given it an honorary salute as he tried to shove it over board, but the damn emotion just kept coming back. He'd once compared it to a mynock: it's ugly, it's icky (for lack of a better term), and it sucks the life out of you. Of course, although the accuracy of that statement wasn't important, the imagery seemed to fit.
It would have been nice if Leia had been physically deformed, ugly on the inside and out. She should have been stuck up and really annoying, with half her face sinking on one side and one of her eyes missing. If she were hideous than at least Han wouldn't have been physically attracted to her, he'd have been able to keep the illusions of her up and running. But no, she had to be just as beautiful as she'd ever been, dripping in grace from head to toe with her damned porcelain skin and piercing eyes.
Now he couldn't even dislike her. His rage toward the memories seemed to just melt and dispose of itself in an orderly fashion, piece by piece, all in good time. They could talk without wanting to strangle one another, even carry on a conversation that didn't end in yet another awkward silence which hinted of a deep seeded abhorrence in both persons just waiting for a moment to be unleashed. Love's favorite bedfellow had always been hatred, they'd proved that true if nothing else.
The only thing that really got to Han was that he'd wasted ten years of his life, and ten years of everyone else's time. Ten years and nothing but mistakes to show for it. He'd been a bad father, a bad friend, he'd never let his wife rest in peace, never allowed himself to move on. He'd wasted all that time on nothing but pride and regret, cutting himself off from everything he could have had simply because it would cost him what little emotional dignity he thought he had left. All hail Han Solo and his wonderfully ironic surname.
Starting over was all he had left. A clean canvas, a blank slate and a fresh start, he had a chance to go back to the beginning and renew his lease on life. He'd be damned if he'd let himself refuse. There was some happiness left for him with his family, the fuzzball, the gambler, the boys, and perhaps one other… there was a lot of fun left to be had, and they all deserved more than just their share.
He was at a cross roads—again, only this time he had some insight on where each road may lead. He could crumble into oblivion, he could remain stagnate and accept some putrid existence in a galaxy where all he could do was remain shadowed by the myth of his own heroics, only to disperse all such imaginings as he withered into the void. Or there was that other path, not paved or lined with markings to point towards a predestined fate, a road where there would be many more such choices, but many more opportunities.
Staring down each path, knowing with some lucidity which destination each boasted at its end, there wasn't much of a struggle. To hate ones self was the making of a loathsome existence, one that Han would not allow himself to buy into any longer, one that he didn't want anymore.
"You look tired," Leia said, interrupting Han's musings as they walked along the wooded trail toward the clearing where they were to meet with Chewie. She was walking beside him with her pack slung on one shoulder and a staff in the opposite hand moving in tandem with her stride.
Han laughed lightly. "Kidnapping will do that to a person… though I have to admit, I think it was the being attacked by wild beasts bit that really got me."
"How is your shoulder?" she asked, seeming to just then remember his encounter with the native fauna.
He adjusted the joint a bit to clarify that it was doing fine before answering. "It's a little sore. I haven't been paying much attention to it, to tell the truth, there's kind of been a lot of other things to think about."
Leia remained silent for a few moments upon hearing this, though for what purpose Han was unsure. When she began again it was with a calm manner and a deep breath. "So what's next?"
Han thought carefully before answering. He knew all too well what she meant, but it wasn't always such an easy inquiry to satisfy. He didn't know what she expected of him, what they were going to do about Anakin, or whether not he should divulge some of the more risky revelations of his heart for fear they might meet with another round of rejection.
"I don't know," he began, "Leia, I--"
At that moment, the sound of a mechanical click as a blaster rifle was loaded just in time to feel the barrel of the rifle come to rest on his shoulder, its handler bringing the end to meet his neck.
Han raised his hands so that they were level with his head as what numbered perhaps a dozen men stepped out of the bushes ahead and behind him, all armed and aiming at him and his companion.
They closed in as Han glanced over at Leia to find that she had a similar weapon trained on her head, and a guard's arm wrapped around her neck, though she wasn't struggling. He made an attempt to pull further away from the man behind him, but the guard grabbed his arm and pressed the barrel of his gun further into the nape of Han's neck.
Han's eyes met Leia's as they were brought closer together in the clearing, the guards mumbling around them, seeming to organized themselves as their prisoners silently searched for a quick means of escape. Leia seemed to indicate something as she motioned with a slight jerk of her head and eyes in a movement that was downward and to the left. He followed her lead and saw that she still had the comm.-link locked onto her belt—near enough to her hand to make a world of difference.
He was going to have some adventure—again, whether he lived through it or not. Time for Han Solo to throughout the crutch of pride, the hindrances of his own mistakes, because this time it was about life and death and dead living, and it was time to make a choice. But before death or life could claim him, there was some business he had to take care of. That first step down a new path, the ground shaky underneath as he finally voiced a little something that should have been said a long time ago.
He smiled "I love you."
Leia moved her hand over the comm.-link and look him in the eyes, "I know."
