I don't know how long I expect mine and Han's fear and anger to be our masters, but when I don't hear from anyone, him or Leia or my boys, for a couple of days, I begin to worry. I hardly admit it to myself, because it would be admitting that however bothered by their concern and unfaltering caring I act, deep down I've become used to it, maybe even started to need it, because it makes me feel as if I matter, in however small a way, to someone, when the best I could do before was say hurtful things, and impact people in that way. The light I had felt breaking through in my soul begins to dim once again. I fucked it up–I know I did. I had been–undeservedly, I should add–given another chance to be a good father, to be a father at all, and I fucked it up. Han understands how shaky my control of my anger is now. Not that he needed much more proof, but he got it. I'm unstable and a spice addict and manic-depressive, and the last thing that I should be is a father. It must be clear to him now. And it's for the best.

But he made a promise. Whatever else you can say about Han–and you can say a lot of bad things about Han, or at least I can–you can't say that he breaks his promises. He is always, always true to his word. He vowed to give me neither pity nor solitude, so, true to his word, he comes to see me.

He shows up at my door one evening with a canvas bag full of groceries. Near the top I can see a box of eggs. My defenses up, unwilling to be hurt, I glare at him in anger and confusion. He smiles at me helplessly, and the gesture of the omelet-makings is so absurd after the severity of our last conversation, that I can't help but laugh, leaning my head on the doorframe.

He seems heartened by this, and raises an eyebrow. "Can I come in?" he asks carefully.

I nod somewhat reluctantly, happy as hell to see him, sensing somehow–though it's not with the Force, because I've been smoking, and my sensitivity is extremely dull–that he feels the same. "Yeah," I say, and add, half because it's true, but almost meaning it as a joke, "But I'm still mad at you."

He shrugs in his characteristic offhand way. "Fair enough. I'm mad at you, too."

We're still even.

He comes in, and I shut the door behind him, watching him as he enters my small kitchen and begins to unload the bag. "Not mad enough to keep you from buying me groceries, it would seem."

"Hey," he says mock-defensively, "There's only stuff here to put in the eggs. You want groceries, you go buy 'em yourself. Whatcha want in yours?"

I pick out some things and clean up the house a little as Han cooks, somehow feeling obligated to provide him with a somewhat habitable environment. After all, he is feeding me.

"Was Leia mad that you stayed out all night the other day?" I ask from the livingroom.

"Actually, I think she was happy we spent some time together," Han calls. "She thinks you're still mad about that time way back when, when me an' her...

I clench my teeth and refuse to answer. Of course I'm still mad. But I would never admit it. I remind myself to take it in stride. Han doesn't mean anything, he's just really, really bad about knowing what's okay to say. Tactless. Even after five years of being married to a life-long diplomat.

Then, it wouldn't be so very wrong to get him back. "So, you two were speaking to one another again?"

Silence from him. Even, again. I smile to myself.

The omelets finished, Han brings them into the livingroom and we eat them side by side on the couch. But even before we sit down, as he hands my plate to me, he looks me square in the eye, and the honesty in his own is enough to almost make me squirm. I'm not used to honesty anymore. "I'm sorry I said that. About you and Leia."

"'S'okay," I mumble, wanting this exchange to be over. I never asked for an apology.

He acts bothered, his eyes drawing away and a hint of forcefulness creeping into his voice. "No, it's not. And it ain't easy for me to admit I'm wrong, so you're gonna listen. Look, kid–what happened eleven years ago wasn't your fault and it wasn't hers, and the sooner you two realize that, the sooner you're both gonna be okay. And when I said what I said, I think I kinda just made things worse. I was trying to wake you up, and I thought what you needed was a good kick in the head, but...judging by that, I guess I said the wrong thing."

The "that" to which he was referring is the ashtray on my caf table. I admit, it is incriminatingly full, testament to the fact that if my problem is changing in any way, it's only getting worse, as it has been all along. I'm so spiced right now I'm thinking in odd sporadic fragments and my eyes can't focus on any one thing for more than a few moments. And it's still morning.

I shake my head, sitting down, regarding my plate of food with sudden disinterest, when a moment ago it had almost looked good, reminding me of the happy-go-lucky kid I once was. "It's not your fault, Han," I say softly. "I can't control it anymore. Yeah, sometimes things happen that make the cravings better or worse, but they never go away. I'm way past that point–I've been past that point for a long time."

His hazel eyes cloud with worry. I know he didn't know quite how bad it was, and most of the time I don't either. I have rare moments of clarity when it's as if I'm seeing my twenty-nine-year-old self from the perspective of my eighteen-year-old self, who couldn't even fathom what I'm going through, and sees only a sickly, immoral addict, old beyond his years. Someone who can scarcely go a few hours without spice, much less live without it. Someone who is slowly spicing himself into an early grave. I know I am.

That look in Han's eyes needs something from me. I should probably accept his apology. "Thanks, though," I murmur. "I'm sorry, too. For kicking you out. I'm so on edge, so easy to upset...I..." I shake my head with a tired laugh. "I wish I'd never left Tatooine."

Han smiles. "Sure about that?"

"Sometimes," I admit. I'm not sure, as horrible as my life is, if that would be any better in the long run. I think about that a lot.

He gives me a small smile, and tells me to eat my omelet. As usual, once I start eating, I find I might actually be hungry after all. And Han's omelets are as good as ever.

"Oh, hey–almost forgot." Han fishes into a jacket pocket and digs out a paper envelope and hands it to me. I take it carefully, taken somewhat aback.

"Paper?" I ask. "What's the occasion?"

"Open it."

I do. Inside is a thicker piece of paper folded in two, looking elegant with its watermarked borders. A message is written inside by a child's hand that closely resembles mine when I was his age. It's an invitation. "Anikin's play."

Han nods. "Tomorrow night. You coming?"

I smile, thinking of Anikin up on stage. The thought brightens my mood, as thoughts of Anikin always do. "I wouldn't miss it for anything."