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Chapter 17

I wake up hungover again, and in the drowsy one-with-the-Force phase I have before I'm awake enough to control it, I sense Han still in my apartment. I snap awake. Pulling on an undershirt and sleep-pants, I stumble into the livingroom. Sure enough, Han is still fast asleep on the couch, mid-morning light streaming in from the transparasteel balcony doors. He's still dressed, even shod, but his black jacket is lying in a heap in the floor, beside the two empty ale bottles and the nearly-gone rum. I sigh and pick up the jacket, annoyed with him, because he has broken my solitude by staying, and my head hurts too much to put up with it. I throw the jacket at his face to wake him up. He jumps from sleep, pulling the jacket away. "Wha—"

"Wake up, Han," I say tiredly.

"Man, am I still here?" he asks, looking around, yawning. "Sith—what time is it?"

I grit my teeth. I hate it when people use that word as a curse. At least Han knows enough not to say "son of a Sith." "Late," I mumble, wandering into the kitchen to see about caf and maybe some toast. "Isn't Leia going to be worried about you?" I ask dryly.

He sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Nah. She probably knows where I am. Besides, I don't always come home, anyway."

I raise an eyebrow at him, but neither of us continues with the subject. He knows what I think of him. Jerk.

He stands, stretching, and follows me into the kitchen. I almost stop him from looking into the cooler, but it's only a reflex coming out of not trusting him any more than he trusts me. He glances over the loaf of bread, small container of bantha milk—it's not exactly classy, but other milk just tastes weird to me—and not much else, and says, "No wonder you're so skinny, kid. You don't eat."

I look up, startled that he would address it so bluntly. But it's true, and even though I don't trust him, and I'm not terribly happy with him right now, I'd like it if I could be honest with him. My low weight is even more apparent in the tight, sleeveless undershirt I'm wearing, and I decide not to dismiss his comment. "It's the spice…."

"Oh…right." He knows, as I knew he would. Spice all but kills the appetite.

"Got any eggs?" he asks, head in the cooler.

A memory flashes into my mind: being eighteen and tasting eggs for the first time—birds are rare on Tatooine—in an omelet made by Han the morning after the Yavin celebration. We were both hungover, as we are now, and he pulled me away from the cup of caf Leia had given me, telling me that caffeine would only make my headache worse in the long run, and what I really needed was some good old Corellian cooking to soak up the alcohol. After that, he almost always made me omelets on morning after parties or battles…or the morning after Ben was born. I wonder if, as ridiculous as it sounds, eggs have a sentimental value for him as they do for me, because of that. That's why I don't buy them.

I don't look up from prepping the caf machine. I don't want to know it there is longing in his eyes for the way things were, before they wert so very wrong. "No," I reply nonchalantly, trying to appear unphased.

"Yeah…you don't have anything."

No, I don't. And I'm not sure if he was only talking about food.

"You gotta eat something with that caf, kid," he says, closing the cooler door and leaning against it casually. "Don't you remember anything I taught you?"

I hesitantly let a fond smile creep across my face, recalling our early friendship. "I remember everything you taught me, Han," I say.

He meets my eyes. I hate it when his own get that soft, imploring look in them. I hate it because it reminds me of how close we had been, tears at the defensive wall of anger that I've been building so long. "Yeah?" he asks, smiling suddenly. "Still got that mean right hook?"

I shrug. "I haven' fought in years."

"Yeah, I guess not. You don't even carry your lightsaber anymore."

I clench my teeth, the anger mounting again. But he didn't know it was a touchy subject. "No," is all I say.

"Why not?"

Fuck. I'd hoped he'd just let it drop.

"I just don't. I don't have it anymore."

True to Han fashion, he doesn't get it. "Yeah, I know you lost one on Cloud City, but I thought you built—"

"I lost that one, too, okay?" I snap.

He blinks, thrown by my outburst. "Okay…."

I sigh to calm myself. The caf machine beeps—it's finished. I pour myself a cup. "Have some if you want," I mumble to Han as I brush past him and sit on the couch. I absently take a spice stick from the box on the caf table, light it, and take a slow drag from it, leaning back. It's been…what? Eighteen, twenty hours since I've had one? No wonder it rushes trough me like enlightenment, like hope and peace. I sigh again, but this time because I am calm, and feeling drastically better.

Han leans in the doorway, looking as if he's trying to say something but can't find the words. At last, at my questioning look, he asks, "Aren't you starting kinda early?"

As if he knew what I was going through…. "Fuck off, Han. It calms me down," I growl.

Glaring at me, he picks his jacket up off the floor and puts it on as he speaks, or shouts, or growls right back, "Come the fuck off it, Luke! I'm trying to spend some time with you to cheer you up, and what do I get? You can't keep treating people like this, people who care about you. Somehow you got it into your head that you get some kinda monopoly on misery just because you fucked your sister, and you can just keep spicing yourself into oblivion until the day you die. And I don't know what you want from me. I don't know if you want someone to give you pity, or just for everyone to leave you alone, but from now on, I ain't giving you either, get it?"

Han isn't much one for long speeches, nor does he often tell someone exactly what's on his mind. Thrown by that, and the intensity and nerve of what he said, I can only sit with wide eyes for a long moment.

Wait…fucked my sister? How dare he….

I stand, threatening more with my eyes than I ever could with my body. I know I'm short, and I know I'm thin, and I know I'm not very healthy. But I also know that I can turn my eyes into ice at will, helped by my anger, and it's usually more than enough to scare off anyone. "Get out," I order. "Get out of my apartment."

He doesn't say another word, just goes. He slams the door behind him, and I know I'm upset him at least as much as he's upset me. It seems no matter how far we go, we're always even. I stare at the door for a few minutes, wondering if he'll keep his vow not to leave me alone. Maybe not, and good riddance.

After all, being alone is what I want….

Isn't it?