Warning: This chapter deals with the Bespin torture scene.
The first thing Han thought when the stormtroopers dragged him into the interrogation room was: What the fuck is that? He knew what Leia had been through on the Death Star; had listened in mute fury as she'd finally verbalised her horror, tucked small and quiet against his chest. And so, he'd been expecting a torture droid, or some freaky Imperial stooge with scalpels and truth serum. Not this… contraption, whatever it was, that looked like a giant metal sandwich. Guess you're the meat, buddy.
The stormtroopers pushed him further into the room. On closer inspection, Han could see an array of electrical apparatus, sensors and needles and other sharp, nasty appendages. He felt his mouth go dry, his heart racing like a runaway bantha. The Imps weren't messing around.
"So," he smirked, to cover his fear, "Whaddaya wanna know?" He knew how this shit was supposed to go down. They asked you the location of the Rebel base, you refused to tell them, they hurt you, then realised you really didn't know and gave up. Or killed you. One or the other.
The stormtroopers ignored him, continued pushing him towards the machine.
"… I got all sorts of intelligence for you assholes," he continued mockingly, dragging his feet. "Did you know that Luke Skywalker's favourite drink is blue milk? Or…OR…" He dug his heels in harder. "…How about this one…Did you know that Jan Dodonna doesn't drink alcohol?" He turned to the nearest stormtrooper in outrageous mock-disbelief. "Fuckin' illegal not to drink on Corellia!"
The trooper gave him a whack across the back of the head with the butt of his blaster and Han stumbled to his knees.
"Quiet, Rebel scum!"
Han winced, shook his head to clear it. "Hey, if that's not the intelligence you're looking for, you could've just said so."
The troopers hauled him to his feet and shoved him into the device, strapped him tightly in place. Still, there were no questions. Must be waiting for Vader, Han thought. He was sweating now, his stomach in knots. He wished they'd just get on with it.
"Lord Vader!" The stormtroopers snapped to attention as the door swished open and Vader strode into the room. Here we go… Han thought, question time. But Vader said nothing, silent save for the harsh rasp of his respirator.
The grid below Han suddenly lit up bright red and began to hum ominously. An unpleasant heat caressed his face.
Still no questions.
Okay, he thought dismally to himself. Maybe they're gonna loosen you up before they ask you anything.
The platform began to tilt. He clenched and unclenched his fists, couldn't stop his breath from coming fast and frightened. What the fuck did this machine even do?
Still no questions. The heat from the grid was almost unbearable now; he couldn't stop himself from flinching away from it, teeth gritted.
The platform stopped.
Below him, something crackled sharply, like a blaster bolt. The pain was indescribable. It was so intense that for a moment Han couldn't breathe and the scream he'd been about to unleash caught in his throat. He wrenched his head to the side, wrenched it back the other way as another burst of electricity found him. It felt like his face was being burned off, like his very bones were being melted.
The machine paused and he took a shuddering breath. Two. He was almost surprised he still could. Then it crackled again and this time he did scream, so hard he thought his lungs would explode.
"Ask me something, you wheezing bastard!" he howled through gritted teeth, when he could form words.
Vader said nothing.
Realisation dawned on him then, like a sickening punch to the gut. They're doing this for fun. Panic and terror rose like a wave, threatening to overwhelm him. He struggled vainly until another burst of electricity discharged itself into his face, wrenching another agonised scream from his aching throat. Han was no stranger to pain or even torture, but this… This was… To his enormous relief, he felt himself begin to pass out, black spots closing in around the edges of his vision.
Suddenly, something jabbed him in the chest and a spike of adrenaline shot through him. He surged awake in horror, throwing himself against the restraints, snarling "You sick fucks, you twisted pieces of….."
The machine fired again and Han could no longer speak, could no longer think. He simply screamed.
Calmly, Vader left the room and the hatch slid shut.
In the grim quiet of Cloud City's night cycle, Leia sat cross-legged on the narrow bunk with her back pressed against the hard durasteel wall of the cell. Han was finally asleep, exhausted, his head resting in her lap with her tunic and cape as a pillow. Chewie sat on the floor beside the bunk, his long legs stretched out in front of him, alert and watchful.
They didn't speak. The discovery that they were nothing more than bait in a trap was not a great conversation starter.
Four hours had passed. Four hours since Leia had been shoved into an adjoining room and forced to watch in abject horror as Vader and his lackeys strapped Han to the scan grid and tortured him. Four hours since she'd thought he would die right there in front of her. Four hours since the tears had streamed silently down her cheeks, her mind screaming Not Han, please not Han on an endless loop, pounding ineffectually on the glass panel that separated her from the torture chamber. But the glass was one-way and sound-proof – at least from her end – Han hadn't heard her and either had Vader or the stormtroopers. Not that it would have mattered. There seemed to be no end goal to this torture except to cause Han as much pain as humanly possible. Leia was still haunted by the memories of her own torture on the Death Star, but seeing Han in such mindless pain, hearing it, feeling it and being powerless to stop it, had almost broken her where her own pain had not.
When they'd finally released Han from the scan grid and he'd crumpled motionless to the floor, she'd thought her heart would shatter. Seconds stretched so taut they felt like hours. She heard herself whimpering, her face pressed to the glass. It wasn't until one of the stormtroopers delivered a sharp kick to Han's ribs and he'd moaned, tried and failed to push himself to his knees with shaking arms, that she'd taken a breath, felt the blood flowing through her veins again. In her rational moments, she'd known this was the risk of loving him, of letting him love her. They were in the middle of a war, with the odds stacked against them. And yet, to be confronted with the reality of losing him was almost unbearable.
She ran her hands gently through Han's hair as he slept, down the back of his neck and over his shoulders in a soothing rhythm. Whether for his benefit or her own, she wasn't sure. She couldn't seem to stop touching him, to make sure he was still here, still breathing, still alive.
Do not worry, Little Princess, Chewie rumbled softly. Cub is strong. He will get through this.
Leia nodded, yet it wasn't Han's physical wellbeing that worried her most. The scan grid had left no marks – the electrical currents acted on the nerve endings to cause extreme pain – but Leia knew full well that it was the psychological damage of torture that could be far worse. Han was nothing if not resilient, but what they'd put him through had been brutal, relentless and cruel. Once Lando and his guards had left and she and Chewie had helped Han to the bunk, he'd simply lain there, curled around his bruised side, hollow-eyed and shaking. The only time he'd spoken had been to ask her, his voice flat and hoarse from screaming, "Leia… Did they…. hurt you?" She'd reassured him that they had not, but she couldn't bear to tell him that they'd made her watch. She'd feared it would be his undoing.
"Chewie?" he'd asked then, his eyes flicking to the Wookiee.
My ears may never be the same, but I will live.
Han had nodded, closed his eyes wearily. He had said nothing further. Slowly, gradually, under Leia's gentle hands, his shaking had lessened, his shuddering breaths easing as exhaustion claimed him.
And then, Leia had sat and waited for whatever was coming next. And something else was coming, of that she had no doubt.
Now, four hours later, she was no closer to figuring out what that might be or how they were going to get out of this. All this for Luke, she thought miserably. She knew Vader had been trying to capture Luke since he'd destroyed the Death Star, but she hadn't realised the lengths he would go to. Nobody had. Why did he want Luke so badly?
Don't come here, Luke, she thought desperately into the ether. Please don't come.
Han stirred suddenly in her lap and Leia stilled her hands. He groaned, cursed in Corellian – at least he was sounding more like himself – and swallowed, wincing. To Leia's immense relief, although he was still deathly pale, his eyes – when he looked up and met hers – no longer looked like the frozen wastelands of Hoth.
"Hey," he said softly.
"Hey," she replied. She resisted asking how he was feeling; she knew the answer anyway.
He grimaced, pushed himself slowly into a sitting position, swivelling sideways so that his legs were off the edge of the bunk. He lent his elbows on his knees, rested his face in his hands, rubbing his temples as though to get rid of a headache. Leia didn't push him, simply sat quietly beside him until he was ready. Finally, he scrubbed his hands over his face and hair and straightened, laying his hands in his lap and staring blankly at them. Leia noticed the raw red welts across his palms, where he'd clenched his fists so hard that his fingernails had cut into the skin. Her throat tightened. She wanted badly to gather him into her arms, but resisted, fearful of smothering him. Han tended to withdraw when he was in pain.
Finally, he spoke: "I'm sorry, Sweetheart."
"Sorry?!" For a moment she was confused.
He waved a hand around the cell. "All of this. I got us into this mess."
She was horrified. "You can't be serious?"
Chewie concurred, even more forcefully, and less politely, from what she could decipher.
"Leia," Han said tiredly, patiently, as though he were speaking to a very small child. "I brought you right to him." He shook his head in disgust. "Vader found us because Fett was tracking me." He wiped a hand across his mouth, wincing as it came away bloody. "I should've known better. I should've left sooner. I should've…"
"Han," she said softly, gently turning his face towards her. She wiped a smear of blood from his chin with a careful thumb.
He couldn't look at her. "Bit my tongue," he explained at last, low and ashamed. "On the…When they were…." He broke off, unable to finish.
"Han."
She waited until he met her eyes.
"Han," she repeated. "It's not your fault. If it weren't for you, I'd be a corpse underneath the command centre on Hoth."
He looked like he was about to argue, then shut his mouth and nodded, although he didn't look entirely convinced. But that was a conversation for another time, if they ever got the chance. Sighing heavily, he tugged at her arm.
"Why are you all the way over there anyway?" he murmured. Leia willingly allowed him to draw her to him until she was standing between his knees. Pulling her close, he buried his face in her neck, his arms wrapping tightly around her waist. She clutched him back, her heart stuttering in her chest.
"I'll die before I let him touch you, Sweetheart," he whispered fiercely against her skin.
That's what I'm afraid of, she thought, thinking of her dream from the night before and holding him even more tightly, as though she could keep him with her through sheer force of will.
They stood like that for long moments, not speaking, until Chewie – who had discreetly moved closer to the door – suddenly let out a low growl: They come!
Han pressed his lips to hers, fast and ferocious, before releasing her and struggling to his feet.
As one, Han and Leia turned to face the door.
