As I walk to the Palace this afternoon, I'm beginning to think that it wasn't a good idea. I can't function in conversations, I can't deal with the past, and I certainly cannot act what Han, Leia, and Ben would describe as "myself." Certainly not without some help. Though I desperately want to see my...family?...sober, looking tallow and week, unable to focus, isn't going to help anything. I smoke spice as I walk to the Palace–not as discreetly as I probably should, but I've never been ticketed for it. It's colder than it's been, but it's snowing for the first time this winter, as if the sky has been holding its breath for fear and now feels safe enough to breathe again. It's almost a relief to me, somehow, to feel the white powder melting into my hair, though I've always been uncomfortable with cold weather. It feels right, this time.

My hair is sufficiently damp and the spice put away when I reach the immense building. Leia's told her various guards, posted at doors along my way, that I would be coming. They let me pass with snappy "Good afternoon, Commander"s and salutes, as if I were still a war hero. I don't know weather to laugh or shake my head in disgust. How utterly absurd.

I reach her door, an ornate double door, and I push her presence away, refusing to feel it. I remember the way, when we were married, she was always there, I could always sense her. It wasn't something I wanted to remember. Not now, especially. This was going to be hard enough as it was, and it is only the thought of my promise to Ben that gives me the courage–after I shake the snow from my hair and take a deep breath–to hit the buzzer.

Half of the door swishes aside, and there she is. I thought the sight of her would make me want to cower in fear or feel nauseous like it did the time I said good-bye. But somehow, it doesn't. She's radiantly beautiful, and her smile puts me at relative ease. "Hello, Luke."

I smile cautiously in return, as if I'm not sure that it's allowed.

She reaches for me as she might reach for a fellow dignitary, and I can see that she wants to hug me, and after so long doesn't know how to do it but formally. I let her for reasons beyond me, and I even return it, holding her as if I'll never let go, finally pulling away when I realize my slip of emotions.

I look her over curiously. She's rounder than she was during the war, resembling more the puppy-fat child princess she was when we met than the thin, over-stressed mother and soldier that she became. Her hair, braided, woven among strings of pearls and rose-colored silk cord, falls over her shoulder, reaching past her very pregnant stomach. She wears a rich velvet gown of the same color as the cord in her hair, with a vague golden undertone, bringing out her pale but somehow at once rosy and golden complexion beautifully. She is, for the first time I have seen her since perhaps our wedding, dressed in a manor becoming her high birth and exalted office. I wonder dimly if a life with me, poor, depressive sometime-farmboy, would have ever seen her so dressed again, as if somehow I had been the cause of her choosing uniforms over gowns during the war. But that's ridiculous.

"Hi," I manage at last, sheepishly. Not knowing what to say, I offer, because it's more true than it's ever been, and I want her to know, "You look well."

She smiles and thanks me, but doesn't return it–we both know it's not true of myself. "You cut all your hair off."

"Oh...." I shake the last bit of damp from the dark blond–that looks darker the shorter I cut it–little-more-than-fuzz on my head. Feeling I need to explain myself, I ramble, "Yeah. A while ago. It just wasn't me anymore, with the bangs and everything. I looked too young."

"You are young," she reminds me, as if she knows that I need reminding that I'm not even thirty yet. Continuing to look me over, she says, playing my mother hen as she used to, "Stars, Luke–you're so thin. Don't you eat?"

As she turns into the grand apartment, one I feel strange for entering for numerous reasons, I murmur, "Not a lot."

"Have you had lunch?" she calls from somewhere inside, and I step in reluctantly, seeking her out. The floors are marble and vast; the walls, painted a faint peach-ish white, reach far over-head, ending in a curved ceiling decorated in moldings. The decor is simple, obviously changed from the time of Palpitine's reign, but the finery, as well as the fact that I'm actually in Leia's apartment after all this time, makes me plenty uncomfortable. I feel unworthy of her hospitality, and too nervous to eat, so, fighting down a blush, I reply, "I'm okay...."

She reappears at a doorway at the end of the entrance-hall, through which I can see nothing but her and the sky through a window behind her. How bright it is here compared to my little, dark apartment. She rubs her round stomach with one hand in gesture, pleading, "Luke, I get hungry every ten minutes and I don't want to eat alone. Please?"

I glance at a crystal and dark wood chrono on the wall–Ben won't be home from school for twenty minutes. I don't know what else I'd do with Leia for that stretch of time, so I agree.

Once we're sitting side by side on barstools at the kitchenette counter, eating sandwiches and drinking caff–Leia's decaff–it suddenly doesn't seem so difficult. I can tell she's trying to act very casual and friendly with me, and I appreciate the gesture, because it succeeds in putting me more at ease. I wonder absently if there could be hope of us ever being friends again, but I know that I'm not capable of such a thing. I'll never be able to stop thinking of what has been.

She tells me about Ben and Anikin's school exploits. I try not to act too interested, perhaps because I don't want to be interested. But I am. Very. From what she tells me, they both do very well grades-wise, but Ben gets into a lot of trouble conduct-wise. I'm sure she sees me start at that, fearing the darkness that he and I have both inherited from one I don't like to think about, because she quickly adds that he doesn't fight or have trouble getting along with the other children. He just doesn't follow rules very well. Anikin, on the other hand, is a perfect angel–quiet and sweet, and the most intelligent child his teachers have encountered. So intelligent, at times, it scares people–he seems to know things that he has no way of knowing. But it's no bother to her. She loves him very much.

I hoped that Leia's promise would hold true, and that Anikin wouldn't be home until a hour or two after Ben, at which time I would be gone. I didn't want to meet the boy. I was afraid of seeing too much of myself in his eyes.

"Why is he staying at school late?" I ask curiously.

She smiles, as if greatly amused and swallows a bite of sandwich before answering. "He's in a play."

I blink. Perhaps he wasn't so very like me, after all. "My son's in a play?" I ask in disbelief and some measure of awe. "My son has the courage and public speaking skills to be in a play? This is Anikin we're talking about, right?"

Leia laughs out loud. "Yes. He didn't exactly inherit your bashfulness."

Though I wouldn't use that word to describe the insecurity that had plagued me as a child, I'm grateful that he not have to go through that. "Well...good." And as Leia laughs again, I suddenly see the humor of the situation and laugh with her.

Her laughter is like the sunshine, and laughing with her is like basking in it, and I suddenly realize anew how beautiful she is. She makes me remember being a boy, being eighteen and full of hope and happiness, and the breath catches in my throat. I stand in a panic, refusing to feel things for her, or at all. She frightens me terribly, the way I'd assumed she would when I arrived at the door. I feel sick suddenly, and the left cargo pocket of my pants feels heavy with the spice box I keep there. I need it so badly...but not now, I tell myself. Wait at least an hour. You can do that.

"What's wrong?" she asks, concerned.

"Nothing," I lie. I push the spice craving out of my mind in frustration. Changing my mind, I sit again tiredly, fishing the box out of my pocket and handing it to her. Something makes me need to tell her.

There is distrust and something of fear in her eyes as she weighs me, then the little sliver box, with them. Opening it, she blinks in surprise and understanding. "Oh," she breaths, as if disappointed. But she knew. I told her, a week ago. Maybe she didn't believe me, or didn't want to. But that can't make it untrue.

"The withdrawal starts sooner all the time. It's already coming." I'm not sure if I'm trying to scare her or not. It's fun to scare her, easy, makes me feel powerful...but I think I just need her to know the truth.

Frowning in concern, she turns glassy eyes to me. "You're addicted to death sticks?"

I blink, then understand. I shake my head. "They don't call them that anymore."

"That doesn't matter," she snaps. I don't blame her for being angry. "I didn't know it was this bad. I told myself it couldn't be.... Luke, you need help."

I'm tired if hearing that. I'm tired of hearing it from my landlord, from the doctors at Medcenter, from everyone. I know it's probably true, but I don't want to hear it anymore. They think that by telling me I have a problem, they'll make it go away, or make me suddenly realize that I've been a drug addict for however many years, and make me suddenly want the help I'd never seek otherwise. It makes them feel better, I think. As if it absolves them of fault. What doesn't occur to them is that they have no fault. It's my doing, my business, and they need take no blame nor supply advice. I can handle it myself. I shake my head stubbornly. "I don't want any help."

She tilts her head as if that will help her see through me. "Then why did you show them to me?"

I take the box back and slip it into my pocket. "You have a right to know what's going on."

She holds my gaze for a long moment, trying to get me to admit that I want her help. But I don't. At last she looks away and asks, business-like, "I can trust you not to say anything about it to Ben, can't I?"

It hadn't occurred to me. "Of course...I'd never...."

She cuts me off as I search for words. "Thank you." She looks worriedly into my eyes for a moment. I want to look away, but I don't. I also want to hold her, but I don't do that, either. I just look at her. "This isn't like you," she says, disappointed.

I shake my head slowly. "No. You don't know me anymore, Leia. It all too much like me now."

"How did this happen?"

I shrug. I'm not really sure, myself. "It...it was alcohol at first, after I left. I tried different things to make me forget, and...this is the one that...well, worked best."

She swallows, brow furrowed in uncertainty; I notice fine worry-lines on her forehead and around her eyes that weren't there last I saw her. "Please be careful," she begs.

"I am." I'll say anything to get that frightened look out of her eyes, even if it's not true.

I think she'll do anything to make me feel better, too. She smiles for me, a smile I know is only out of desperation, and reaches for my hand. Unsure why I would trust her so, I give it to her, gently infolding hers. Maybe I just need to feel the warmth tingling up from her palm. Maybe it's more. There's feeling in her touch, emotion. It's been years since I've allowed myself to feel any emotions but desolation, fear, hurt, sadness...because when I feel good things, it always reminds me of her. For once, I open myself to it, and it seems to stab at my soul, but I hold onto it for a moment, that feeling. Unwittingly, I also reach for her presence in the Force, needing it to come washing over me the way that it used to, the way nothing else ever could. But as soon as I touch the Force I retreat from it, burned. I cower from it, as well as her, as I draw my hand away.

She looks at me questioningly, and I have to look away from those huge, dark eyes. How am I supposed to answer her unspoken thought? I could never explain myself to her. That is not what I came here to do.

Breaking the silence, the double door in the entrance hall swishes open and a child's quick, light footfalls echo across the marble floors and off of the high ceilings. A still high voice calls, as the footfalls draw nearer, "Mom! Is he here?"

It still sounds like him. His voice has changed drastically, but it still sounds like him. I realize as he nears that I'm very nervous to see him, but not afraid. I want to see him. Suddenly, I want it more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. He bursts into the greatroom and smiles brilliantly at me, his huge brown eyes, just like his mother's, twinkling. He still looks just like her, tiny and pale with glossy brown hair cut straight across his forehead. His smile is so joyous and innocent that I can't help but smile back. I try to say hello, but I find my throat to be too tight with emotion to utter a single word.

His smile broadens as he looks at me, perhaps remembering me, finding the caring boy of a father I'd been somewhere in my changed face. "Hi, Dad."

He called me "Dad." I don't know what I'd been expecting, but it's been so long, and I'd thought that maybe he'd be resentful, or at least unfamiliar enough that he wouldn't call me by the same title he once had. But he did. Dad. I will my voice to work, and I'm able to manage, "Hey."

He stands there a moment, not knowing what to do or say. I realize I'm still sitting, and as we're both at a loss of what to do next, then maybe I should act like an adult for once and go to the child. I rise and walk to him, kneeling to less his height, and he throws his arms around my neck without hesitating. I remember this–as a smaller child he nearly tackled me with his hugs. Taken aback for a moment, my fear slowly melts into love as his own becomes evident to me, even after all this time, after I left him as little more than a baby. This feeling doesn't hurt, doesn't frighten me. The boy is innocent, as he had been at three when I hugged him hello before saying goodbye forever. And he loves me back. There can be nothing wrong with this. I hold him tightly.

"Missed you, Dad," he whispers. There's no mistaking Han's Corellian accent's influence on his speech, but his honesty reminds me of myself at his age when I'd still been a little shooting star twinkling with hope and promise. Hold onto it, Ben, I think.

"I missed you, too," I breathe, marveling at my ability to open up to him. It's true. Not a day has gone by that I haven't thought about him, wished that I could be with him. He's the only thing I've ever loved in my life that I haven't felt guilty about later.

I pull away. He's on the brink of the time when one is no longer a child, though not quite a teenager, though not there yet–he is still distinctly a child. A tooth is missing on the side of his mouth, perhaps the last one he'll lose, and when he smiles I can see its replacement growing in. Thanks to Leia, he's very well groomed, his hair neatly trimmed and his emerald-green tunic pressed. He's a little chubby, as I imagine Leia had been at his age. He's absolutely gorgeous. Almost wanting to cry with happiness, I say, though I know it's a very cliché line, "You're all grown up."

"I'll be eleven in two months," he brags, blushing slightly.

I laugh softly. "I know. Eleven, huh? That's a pretty big deal."

"Why?"

I shrug. "It's just a good age to be, that's all. It's a fun age to be." He makes me feel at ease, myself, eighteen, happy. He's the first person that's been able to do that in far too long.

I notice Han standing in the doorway to the front hall, arms crossed. Of course–he must have picked Ben up from school. I offer him a half-smile and a soft hello, and he returns it in much the same way. "How you doin'?" he asks, and I'm not sure if it's meant as a pleasantry or not.

"Okay," I lie, though seeing Ben has made me feel much better. "You?"

He nods. That doesn't mean anything. "Thanks for coming. Means a lot to Ben."

I nod.

He doesn't go to kiss Leia or even say hello. All he says to her is, "I'll make dinner after I pick up Anikin."

She nods, not really looking at him.

Han retreats into a hallway leading away from the greatroom. I watch him go, not sure what to make of what just took place.

"Are you staying for dinner?" asks Ben excitedly, unfazed, unnoticing, or simply used to Han and Leia's seeming indifference towards one another.

I almost want to say yes, but I shake my head. I'm not staying that long.

"Maybe another time, Ben," Leia offers helpfully, rising, stretching her back. "Your Dad has to go in a little while, but he'll come back."

Well, I certainly haven't agreed to that, but I'm thankful to her all the same. I seem to have forgotten how to talk to children.

"Okay," Ben says sadly. "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Mom says you're the best pilot she ever met."

"Well...." What do you say to that? "I haven't flown in a really long time. But I used to be good, I guess. I...I commanded Rogue Squadron."

"Yeah, I know," he chimes in excitedly. "And I have these flight sims that are really hard, but Mom and Han both say I'm doing really well for my age, but I was wondering if you could maybe help me with them? Just for a little while?"

I smile. At least this will make the time go quickly by, maybe even without giving me a chance to need spice or get scared of all that's happened today. "Sure," I say. "I can do that."