Lord Vader had not been hard to find. He placed his flagship in my path when he sensed me coming. I knew when to drop out of lightspeed, just as I had known which direction to head in. I had not tried to keep my approach a secret. We exchanged no communications—all was simply understood, a subconscious agreement.

I had hoped to be greeted by Vader personally—hoped and dreaded it, that is, but needed it nonetheless. I was disappointed to be received by a few Imperial officers and a squadron of Stormtroopers. They took my lightsaber away and bound my hands; I let them, indifferently. It didn't matter in the long run. I knew I'd be given back my weapon and set free. It was only a matter of time. They didn't ask me any question, but treated me with a fair amount of respect, that is, considering how much they must have hated me, probably acting so at Lord Vader's request. They called me "Commander" as if Alliance rank mattered to them. I was bemused and wary.

I was brought to a bare room—sleeping quarters for an officer, probably, but devoid of furniture save a black leather couch—and told to sit and wait. "I want to see Vader now," I insisted, and considered even mind-tricking him into obeying me. But it hardly seemed worth it. I doubted I'd be kept waiting long.

"The Dark Lord of the Sith does not take orders from a rebel boy," a captain sneered, "Nor do I. But he seems to want you alive and treated well. So if you do not want me to go against his orders and have you executed, I urge you to sit!"

As if he would. He would die for that, too. But I sat, glaring.

I waited for nearly two hours, I guessed. Finally, I felt his presence drawing near. Dark, angry…excited? Nervous? Strange. I ought to be nervous, I mused, but I wasn't. I didn't need breathing exercises to keep me calm. May hate made me calm.

He entered and did not speak, and there were shields around his mind as soon as he was in the door. He'd waited until then to put them up. Perhaps he underestimated my power. Good. That might make it easier. He regarded me, measuring me with eyes that I imagined blue beneath his mask.

"I see that you have come around, after all," he said evenly, at last. "I feel your anger."

I'm angry at you for keeping me waiting," I spat. "I'm glad you've found time in your busy schedule to—"

"Do not take that tone with me, boy," he warned. "It is not wise."

I laughed. For a moment, he had almost sounded like an angry parent. "What are you going to do, ground me, Dad?"

I suppose he was taken aback. He certainly didn't know me well, but he had seen enough of me before to know I was easily frightened not always outspoken. Or had been. But I'd since found that lashing out helped. He didn't answer for a moment. Then, "So, you've accepted the truth."

"I've accepted the truth that you knocked up my mother. That doesn't mean anything. Somebody incapable of love can never really be a father." I looked at him sidelong, waiting for some sort of reaction.

It took a moment. He didn't know what to make of me, I think. When he did, he sounded angrier than before. "You are only saying that because it disconnects yourself from me. You're my son, as you will soon see."

I nodded. "I know. I have seen. But there's one important difference between us."

He didn't ask what. He knew. I had no shields up. The difference was the love I spoke of a moment ago—my love for those Vader had hurt was what had, in part, brought me here. "But your love has also turned to hate," he reminded me.

He removed my binders without another word, and locked me alone in the bare room. I was brought food and I slept on the couch, thinking dark thoughts and dreaming dark dreams. But I didn't see Vader again for three days.

-

Old times' sake, indeed. In the old days, we were like brothers. He was my big brother—watched out for me, taught me things, kept me safe. I was his little brother—I made him laugh, gave him hope, kept him young.

Maybe he's still watching out for me, but I feel as if it's out of distrust. He hesitates in his protection of me for fear of upsetting my delicate senses of independence and sanity, that I can tell. And as for teaching me about life, well, I think I've had about all the life I can handle, and Han knows that.

A smile plays at his lips sometimes as we sit together tonight on my couch, but I don't really try to make him laugh. Awkward jokes made as nothing more than a gesture of gone-by friendship hardly sound appropriate or necessary. They grey beginning to streak though his hair is testament to the fact that he's getting old in spite of everything, and hope is the opposite of what I have to offer to him.

It nearly makes me feel guilty, but I didn't ask for his brotherhood after all this time, for his love that, I'm sure, he thinks is unrequited. He's the one, after all, who followed me out of the cantina a couple of weeks ago. He's the one who seems to want to be friends again, as if nothing had happened.

But, granted, I'm the one who invited him in on some strange bout of friendliness. I'm the one who gave him the bottle of ale he's drinking. I'm the one who could ask him to leave any time I want. But I don't.

After all, why should I wallow in my misery? Yes, this is an absurd situation, and I would rather be alone tonight, to think, to hold onto the tiny spark of hope burning in my soul called Anikin, than to be distracted and reminded of hard times by Han. My emotions about him ever conflict. I view him, even as we talk in my living room, as both a rival and a friend.

Resolved to let it go, forget, maybe someday forgive, in the name of making things better all around for the sake of my sons, I make some stupid jokes which he laughs at. That's encouraging, and I laugh, too. We take shots of the rum together as we had during the Revolution, which, in those days, often brought tears to my eyes and along with some amount of coughing. Today I can take them as unphased as he. Something about that makes me proud, as if the little corner of me that is still a farmboy has finally proved himself to Han. See, I can drink like a man, too.

We drink a little too much, but Han knows when to stop before a little too much becomes a lot too much. He recaps the bottle and sets it on the floor beside his legs, out of my reach. It's probably a good move.

Leaning back on the couch, feeling sleepy from the alcohol, I ask, "Why don't you want the boys to call you 'Dad?'" I ask without thinking first. Had I thought, I probably wouldn't have asked it. I'm glad I did.

"'Cause you're their dad," Han answers, as if it's obvious.

I laugh sadly, shaking my head. "Some dad. I never even met Anikin until a couple weeks ago." I look sincerely into his eyes. "You've been a hell of a lot better dad than I have." It's hard to say that. But it's true, and I'm drunk…and he needs to know that I at least acknowledge it, maybe even, between the times I'm resenting it, appreciate it.

He doesn't answer at first; his hazel eyes shift away, and I can tell I've made him uncomfortable. "I knew you'd come back, sometime. You couldn't stay away from them forever. Leia and the boys, I mean."

I clench my teeth. "I tried. You're the one who followed me out of the cantina," I remind him as I had reminded myself.

He frowns. "Yeah? What was I supposed t'do? Let you run? You're a mess, kid. And Leia's a mess without you—"

"She's not a mess!" I interrupt, either trying to convince him or trying to convince myself. I refuse to believe that Leia could be as week as I. "She's president of the New Republic and is raising two amazing boys—"

Han shakes his head. "No. I mean, yeah. She is. And she has it real together on the surface—and everyone else probably thinks it's real like you. But she just breaks sometimes, Luke. Between what happened to Alderaan and the war and the whole thing with you…."

I draw a deep breath, feeling it shake as if I might cry. But I won't—not in front of Han. "I didn't know," I murmur. "I thought she was okay."

He shrugs. "She usually is, but you think you have it bad, try being' the one would had to carry and give birth to Ben, and do the same with Anikin after you left. I'm surprised she made it at all."

I hadn't thought of that. True to my self-absorbed, self-pitying self, I have seen the evil in my leaving Leia pregnant, but only as it relates to me, what a monster it makes me. I thought she'd be okay. Leia is a survivor. And then I remember the nightmares and the sleepless nights she had after the first Death Star, the memories of Alderaan and her interrogation and Vader, and how she'd crawl into bed with me before we were married, crying. I would hold her, whispering things to make the pain and fear go away, and she'd fall asleep eventually. In the morning, she'd be the same old Leia again, happy but feisty and determined. No one saw the scared little girl Leia but me. And now, it seems, Han knows her pretty well. And the nightmares are partially my fault, now. My fault.

I breathe deeply to hold in the panic, hold in the tears. I need spice. No. No spice—it mixes badly with alcohol. But I need it. My desperation over Leia slowly ebbs away and it becomes about spice…it's suddenly all I can think of.

No. Just let it go. Go to sleep.

I stand, needing to get away, get to sleep so I can stop torturing myself. "I should go to bed," I mumble absently, or at least something resembling the sentence.

"I'll go," Han volunteers, and I can hear in his tone that he knows he's upset me.

I have enough wits about me to say, "Don't drive, Han. You're too drunk."

"I won't," he says, smiling, perhaps touched by my concern.

I smile half-heartedly and stumble off to bed. I thought that it would take awhile to fall asleep, upset as I am. But my thoughts aren't quite as strong as the alcohol, which quiets my mind, and I hardly even dream.