I've disconnected my comm again. I don't want Leia to call and ask me why I ran off three weeks ago. It's better we not speak again, not meet, not gaze into each other's eyes and hold hands and open up to each other... It's better Han goes on taking care of my boys for me. He's a good father–it was better all along. I never should have gone home to him and Leia and the boys. I never should have met Anikin. I'd thought that he opened a window in my soul, but now I know that all he did was make me let my guard down. His perfectness and light lie, making it seem that somehow there was nothing wrong me conceiving a child with Leia. Better I'd never met him. Never fallen in love with him. It's wrong.

I've gone back to my old ways. There's no food in my kitchen and the circles from sleeplessness and bad nutrition are back under my eyes. Not that it matters, I think wryly. No one sees me except handfuls of people in my favorite smokey cantina, somewhere I'm not the shadiest being for a change.

This is how my life is supposed to be, I think with a tired sigh. At least now.

I guess I can only pretend so long, though. It's easy to hide, to lurk in the shadows and get high and act like I don't care about anything, including myself. But I can't deny that the past weeks since my family came back into my life–is it two months yet? or not quite?–have changed me. Changed me back, I should probably say. I know now that Leia suffers deep down the way I do. The Luke of two months ago would have smiled darkly at that, but this Luke's not quite sure how it makes him feel. There's a measure of satisfaction, to be sure, but the farmboy-would-be-Jedi has now been remembered, and his feelings are felt by me as well. That Luke hurts constantly, and longs to be at Leia's side.

You see, Leia, I think to myself, sitting in the aforesaid favorite smokey cantina with a glass of strong Corellian whisky before me and a strong lit spice stick in my hand. You see, Leia...the problem is, the hope I had, was you. I could have saved the Galaxy with my hope alone so long as I had you.

But it's more complicated than that. I shake my head, confusing myself. I can hardly keep a strait line of thought–spice and alcohol mix badly. Like I care.

I take a long drag, first letting the air out of my lungs and then holding in the smoke in for a long time to get the full effect. It's technically illegal to smoke hard spice in a cantina, but I'm sure not the only one doing it here.

A middle-aged man sitting beside me has had a few too many drinks or something, and he leans over to me, drunkenly carrying on a one-way conversation with me as I try to ignore him. I pop up the collar of my coat, hiding my face in annoyance, anger, and fear of having my space invaded.

"You got kids, boy?" he asks me eventually.

I blink, looking at him for really the first time. Boy? It's been a long time since I've been called that. I look too hardened and angry to be mistaken for a teenager anymore, regardless of the small stature and the big blue eyes. "Kinda," I mumble, downing the rest of my drink quickly. But two months ago, I would have said no.

"Kinda?" he echos. "What's that mean?"

"I have them," I admit quietly, not sure why I'm volunteering the information, "But they live with their mother."

The man laughs and slaps me on the back. I cringe and shut my eyes. Don't touch me. "She kick you out?"

I clench my teeth. "No."

"Then why'd you leave, son?"

I can't tell him the truth–because I'm still in love with her. Right. I'm not trying to explain that one. "Leave me alone," I grumble, and order another drink. A double.

"Slow down there, kiddo," the man beside me insists, as if he were one to talk. He can hardly stay on top of his stool. "Ain't ya kinda small for all that whisky?"

First he rubs acid in my love wounds, then he draws attention to my size, or lack thereof. "Fuck off," I insist, downing half the drink.

"Listen to me, boy," he persists, taking on a serious, almost fatherly tone. "It she'll take you back, go back, before you get to be an old drunk like me."

Old? Not yet. Drunk? Plenty. "I'm only going to tell you to leave me alone one more time," I warn, surprised I haven't lashed out already.

"And then what, squirt?" he asks sounding amused.

Squirt? The nerve... "Don't think I can't hurt you. I was a Jedi once."

That's all he needs to know. He draws away cautiously. "All right," he resigns. "But take my advice. When it comes right down to it, love's all that really matters anyway, right?"

I blink, startled. They weren't Vader's exact words, but the meaning was the same.

The stranger leaves, afraid I might start a fight, and I sit for a little while, finishing my drink and stick listlessly. Maybe I should go talk to Leia one last time. Tell her why I left. She deserves to know that much, and she deserves to know how Vader died. I should have told her that before.

Normally, the thought would never have occurred to me, but I've had enough spice and alcohol tonight to make anything seem like a good idea. I glance at the chrono above the bar–almost midnight. She's probably still awake. I should hurry–with the baby due in a couple weeks, she's probably tired. But she's going to hear me out, dammit.

I take a cab, too tired and intoxicated to stumble there myself. I find my way to her apartment and ring the door buzzer, no thought in my mind as to what I'll say when she answers.

The door opens quickly, and she's still dressed in a pale green gown gathered above her stomach. She hasn't been asleep. She frowns, bracing her back with one hand and holding the door open with the other. "Luke?"

"Hi," I say sheepishly. I glance behind her. What I really need to say cannot be said with anyone present. "Are Han and the boys here?"

"Han's out and the boys are asleep. Luke where have you been?" She sounds worried. "I've been trying to get ahold of you."

I steady myself on the doorframe as I enter, nearly tripping over the small rise. "I turned off my comm. I didn't want to talk to you."

Leia folds her arms across her chest and frowns. "Are you drunk?"

"No!" I insist. It's so obviously a lie that I laugh.

"Yes, you are," she insists in turn, shocked. She takes my arm to steady me and helps me to the couch in the greatroom. I sink into it tiredly. "You need to stop doing this to yourself," she pleads.

I laugh again, ironically this time. "Why?"

"It's destructive. You're going to hurt yourself–"

"Things mover from order to disorder. It's the way of the universe. And it's the same with people." Everything's distracting me as if I have a fever, and I grapple with my mind to form one coherent thought about why I came. But the only thought I can quite fathom, quite grab onto as I look up into her dark eyes is, "I love you."

There, I said it.

Her eyes go wide and she shifts away. If I wasn't so hammered I think I would be able to feel her nervousness without trying. I laugh. This is ridicules. "So shocked? Why do you think I drink and smoke so much? Why do you think I ran out of here the other day after how well things were going? Why do you think I never came back after I killed Vader? Leia, I'm not so scared of what has happened as what might still. Don't you understand? It's not because I married you, or because I killed my father or anything so much as the fact that after all I know, after seven years, my feelings for you haven't changed. Not at all. I love you." I draw a shuddering breath. "That's why I had to come back to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?"

I nod. "Yeah. I have to get away from you and Ben and Han and especially Anikin once and for all."

She blinks and a tear streams down her right cheek. "But...you were getting better."

I shake my head sadly. "No. I'm never going to get better. Every time I look at you..." I brush the tear away gently and kiss the place it had been. "It hurts too much." We come together and hug tightly, and even after it stops being a real hug, I cradle her against myself lovingly. "I need to tell you something else, and I'm sorry I've hidden it from you. Vader died saving my life, Leia. I gave him his mortal wound, but it was saving me from the Emperor that finished him off so quickly. He would have died regardless, but he used his last ounce of strength...for me. He killed the Emperor for me. After that, he told me that love is all we really have, and then he died. He still loved me–you were right. I don't know how he could have loved me, but he did. I've been thinking about it a lot lately, and, well, I thought you should know."

She looks up into my eyes, tears coursing down her face though she is completely calm. I wipe them away again, and kiss her.

I kiss her softly and sadly on her lips, lingering longer than I know I should–I shouldn't even be doing this–but I can't help it. I've needed this so long.

Just as I'm beginning to pull away, I hand on my shoulder forces me to, and even before I realize the hand belongs to Han, he's punched me across the face. I fall off the couch to the floor, and motor controls are sorely lacking as I try to gather myself up. I glare at Han. It is not wise to piss me off.

"Han!" Leia shouts, sounding frightened. "Han, stop it! He's drunk–you can't hit a drunk man! And I am not going to let you hit Luke at all."

He's calmed enough by her words to leave me laying on the floor and not try it again, but under other circumstances I wouldn't put it past him. I've seen him pick up men he's knocked down just to knock them down again. "Get out of my house," he growls through clenched teeth.

My own words back at me. Well, if he wants to be even again, it's gonna take more than that. I wipe the blood from my cut lip and stand with quite a bit of difficulty. Leia tries to help me, but I pull away. "I'm all right, Leia. I'll go." I take two calm but wobbly steps towards Han, not intimidated in the least by his size. It might be the drugs, it might be my anger. Either way, I'm not afraid of him. I turn my eyes to ice. I'm so calmed by my anger, in fact, that he doesn't see it coming when I hit him square across the jaw, throwing him to the floor. I laugh. "Mean right hook–right, Han?" I jeer, already heading for the door.

When I finally get home, and I've walked off some of the alcohol, the reality of what happened sinks in. I kissed Leia.

I kissed Leia.

I kissed her...

Oh, fuck...

I run for the bathroom, making it just in time to throw up what little is in my stomach–mostly whisky. What the fuck's the matter with me? When I was kissing her, I liked it. And now it makes me sick.

I was just drunk, that's all.

Sure. That's all.

You're not fooling anyone, you know.

I shake my head, sitting tiredly on the bathroom floor. After all, it's not as if I don't understand the situation. I do. It's what takes up my thoughts too much of the time, wondering about this, about her. I know I can't have her, and I hate myself for wanting her, for still dreaming about making love with her, and then feeling sick in the morning. It's always these cycles of wanting and then resenting, spiraling downwards, and then repeating it all again. Except this time, I really did kiss her. And I want to again, dammit.

I shut my eyes tightly and will the nausea back. What am I supposed to do now? I've said goodbye, so there's nothing keeping me on Courscant. I could go off planet and hide for awhile somewhere, somewhere far away, start over as I have a dozen times whenever I get attached to someone or get in trouble or have any other reason to uproot, because there's nothing keeping me anywhere.

But if I keep running, Leia's going to keep catching up with me inside like she always has. She doesn't even know it, because it's all in my head. Eventually the strange promise of a new place evaporates and the only thing I can think about is her.

I shake my head, resting it on my knees. I'm out of my mind.

Well...

I raise my head and regard my tiny, dark apartment. I can't stay here, either.

My head is starting to pound with stress and sickness and too much spice and alcohol for one night, so I pull myself to my feet and take couple strong pain killers, not bothering to swallow them with water–I gave up on that a long time ago. Honestly, I just chew them. On the bottle it warns not to mix them with other drugs, but my head hurts now–it's not going to wait for me to sober up.

I flop down on the couch, still looking at the bottle. It's about half full.

Half full, huh? Optimistic all of a sudden?

Yeah. I smile to myself. More optimistic than I've been in a long time.

Drug and Alcohol Warning, the bottle reads, Do not take with alcohol. If you are using other medicines or drugs, consult your medd before use. If overdose occurs, or of accidently taken with alcohol, seek immediate medical attention.

Accidently. Right.

I smile grimly to myself.

Half full.

That should be more than enough.