Fault Tracing

by Corellian Blue

(first published 2020)

Warnings: language, sexual references

Leialeialeialeialeia—

The mantra in his head was abruptly cut off by a wave of heat, light-headedness and nausea that dumped across the top of him and forced his knees to crash onto the hard deck. He had no idea where she was, no idea what was going on: situation normal for Han Solo.

He closed his sightless eyes as another anguished, silent gasp of her name echoed through him, a plaintive call into the darkness.

Leia…

The thought of her had staved off his exhaustion for the last few hours, boosting his adrenaline, helping him to fly on all engines. Han's desperate need to find Leia and his instinctive will to survive now spluttered and stalled as he struggled to remain upright and conscious. Under the scorching intensity of Tatooine's twin suns, sweat slicked his body, dribbled off his forehead, fusing with the metallic stench of carbonite emanating from his skin.

A tremor tripped through him, surging into a shudder that set his teeth chattering. He shivered as a chill crawled up the back of his neck. He didn't know if he was hot or cold, only that he wanted to throw up again.

One name kept Han going, made him choke down the bile: Leia.

A firm hand grasped his shoulder—Chewbacca's—steadying him. Han leaned against his friend's arm, pressed his face into the expansive, hairy chest, seeking comfort in Chewie's strength and determination. Despite the blaster wound the Wookiee had received to his shin, Chewie remained Han's anchor point throughout the shit-fight happening around them.

Han's pathetic attempt to help Chewie and been futile; his eyesight was a hazy mass of shifting blobs and blurs. He felt next to useless that he couldn't relieve his friend's pain and tend to his wound—a wound he had received by attempting to rescue Han. And now Han could only keep upright on the skiff's deck because of Chewie.

That was the story of Han's life: Chewbacca propping him up; pulling him back from his worse inclinations; saving himself from his at times suicidal tendencies. Han would have been dead a thousand times over if it hadn't been for Chewie's undying loyalty and friendship, and his Life Debt to him.

That fucking Life Debt was why Chewie had been shot. And like everything else, it was Han's fault. Completely. Utterly.

It was his fault his friends had come to rescue him; they had selflessly put their lives on the line for him—a worthless, credit-less smuggler—and they were suffering as a result. Even in his semi-alert state, the enormity of what that meant was not lost on Han. If they got out of this mess—a mess he was solely responsible for—he would owe them all his own Life Debt.

His fault. All his fault.

Chewie wounded. Luke having to fight his way out of being dumped into the Sarlacc's pit. Lando nearly being eaten alive. And Leia…wherever the hell she was. Not knowing what was happening to her was driving Han crazy, his anxiety spawning a million different images.

Enslavement was a way of life and death on Tatooine, and Jabba the Hutt kept a harem of scantily clad slave girls. Working as a contractor for the crime lord meant it had been simpler for Han to ignore the perversions that Jabba imposed on others than listen to the objections of his conscience. Even though he had helped in Chewie's release from Imperial slavery, Han justified working for the Hutt by arguing that whatever Jabba's business, it was none of his; and besides, there were credits to be made. Han had jettisoned what had passed as his values as easily as he had chosen to smuggle spice.

And as Han had willingly killed those who had gotten in his way, he had also not been inclined to adopt the moral high ground when it came to the way others lived their lives. As long as people left him and Chewie the hell alone, the rest could do whatever the fuck they wanted.

Morals were a luxury that could not be afforded by those who ran outside the law. Or so Han had thought, until Leia and Luke had come into his life. In Han's eyes, the young Rebels were the most idealistic and ethical people in the galaxy, and yet they operated outside the law of the Empire, exactly as he did. The difference was Luke and Leia believed in something. Han had only believed that sooner or later, everyone would betray you; everyone except Chewie. He had broadened that exception to include Luke and Leia. And then he had fallen in love with Leia, and she with him, and everything he'd ever believed had turned upside down.

Her name resonated through his mind, as it had off and on with his sanity for the last ten months; the only thing that had kept him going: Leialeialeialeialeia…

Ten months—a year. Chewie had told him he'd been frozen in carbonite for almost a year. He couldn't afford to think about what it had been like; didn't want to think about it, but the nightmare was never far from the surface.

The night. The cold. The crushing, constricting darkness. Never-ending, all-consuming pain.

Draw breath…draw breath…draw breath…

He needed to focus, regroup, gain his strength. Then he could look for her: Find Leia, find Leia.

His body ached, muscles stiff and fatigued. It felt like durasteel rope was wrapped around him in thick coils, pressing deep into his chest and abdomen restricting him to pained, shallow breaths, making it difficult to move his arms and legs.

Distinct places on his torso hurt more than others; skin, bone and muscle bruised and sore, the result of the beating he'd received from the stormtroopers on Cloud City, and the blow on the side of his ribs from one of Lando's lackeys. Jabba's guards had added to his injuries after he'd vomited across them when they'd dragged him away from Leia. They had battered his stomach, thumped him across the back of the head.

Acidic bile rose and fell in his gullet, as if there was a malfunctioning microvalve in his power core. Flat out refusing to throw up again, Han clenched his chattering teeth. Grinding his jaws honed the throb in his temples into a sharp point, and it speared into his brain with each beat of his heart.

He felt like shit. And he deserved it.

His hearing had become muffled as the fight around Jabba's sail barge erupted, like nerf-wool stuffed into his auditory canals. Now there was a persistent buzzing in his ears, and the sounds he could hear above the buzz appeared to fade in and out, in sync with the bile surging in his throat.

To compound his misery, he was disoriented and dizzy, he assumed from hanging upside down off the side of the skiff as he'd helped to rescue Lando from the Sarlacc.

Focus. He needed to focus.

Focus on helping Chewie—no, focus on finding Leia. Finding Leia, then helping Chewie.

Or helping Chewie and getting him to find Leia. But he couldn't help Chewie if he couldn't see.

Lando…Lando would help. Where the fuck is Lando?

Han had only helped to rescue Lando because Chewie had told him Lando was wracked with guilt about what had happened on Bespin, and that he had acted the way he had because he'd been trying to protect the Cloud City citizens from the Empire.

So, find Lando. Get Lando to help Chewie. Then find Leia.

No, find Luke. Luke was the better option. Find Luke. Get Luke to find Leia.

Unless…Luke was already injured, or dead.

Maybe, despite Chewie's assurances, Lando had bugged out and it was just him and Chewie left on the skiff.

The tension in Han's chest contracted into a deep spasm, increasing with each breath he took, every erratic thought, radiating out from his sternum, intense enough that he feared he was having a heart attack. His anxiety levels ratcheted up—

The boom of a laser cannon firing crashed Han's panicked thoughts to a halt. Resulting detonations—targets being hit—quickly followed. To him, the blasts had sounded distant, but Han suspected it had come from the sail barge that was less than 30 metres to starboard. His impaired hearing made it difficult to be certain how far away.

His heart stopped. Leia had been on Jabba's sail barge.

And then suddenly he heard Luke's voice above the buzz and the explosions.

"Let's go! And don't forget the droids."

What?! No!

Han didn't have the strength or the voice, but his mind screamed: Leia?! What about Leia?!

"Han, she's here." Luke's voice again, from the other end of the skiff. Calm; reassuring; more mature than Han recalled, but distracted, as if he was doing something else as well as talking. "Safe. Leia's safe. She'll be with you in a moment."

Lando said something unintelligible and then the skiff took off at speed. Han lost his balance, tumbling sideways away from Chewie's hold, his thigh and rump hitting the deck, knees jarring hard up against the bench that Chewie was sitting on. With dull resignation, Han added the resultant bruises to his tally.

He felt the skiff bank underneath him, then come to a halt a few seconds later. Deciding it was safer to remain pressed against the deck until he knew what was going on, Han tried to make sense of the noise around him. There was a clank as something metallic was tossed onto the deck. More muffled voices and a hydraulic hum that Han presumed were the droids being collected by the skiff's magnetised claws.

The skiff accelerated again, the deckplates reverberating beneath him. And then an enormous explosion rocked the desert-skimming craft, engulfing him in a fiery roar that sucked the air from his lungs and drowned out all other sound. A wind howled in his ears, one he'd lived with for ten months, in the carbonite. Han almost gagged on the recollection.

A hand touched the side of his head, his shoulder, drew him up into a sitting position, helped him rest against the metallic bench, folded his legs to one side to help with his balance.

"How are you doing there, Han?"

Han wasn't sure Luke had asked the question, but it was Luke's voice inside his head. He had a weird feeling that had happened before; Luke speaking in calm, soothing tones inside his mind, asking him to focus on his voice; to stay with him and not give up, give in; to ignore the darkness, the wind and the fear.

He nodded stiffly in response, not wanting to appear too desperate and pitiful for Leia's attention, and coming to grips with the way it appeared Luke, the wide-eyed moisture farmer, had orchestrated his rescue and their escape. Han had no words to express his thanks.

Not for the first time, Han wondered if Leia had told Luke about what had happened between them on the long light to Bespin; how their relationship had shifted into overdrive and they had spent nearly all of the trip—38 glorious days—fucking the sweet life out of one another, and acknowledging early in their journey that they were in love and had been for some time.

If Leia had told Luke, what did that mean for the friendship between the three of them? Jealousy? Resentment? Or could they all still be friends?

"Ch-ch-ch-ewww-ie..." Han stuttered through tremoring teeth.

Luke squeezed his shoulder. "I'll look after him. You take it easy. We'll get you back to the Falcon as soon as we can."

Falcon? The name of his beloved ship didn't cheer him as much as it once would have. He really wanted Leia; wanted Leia to hold him and assure him this wasn't a dream, that he had been rescued, that he was out of the carbonite.

He ached.

He was hot, cold, shivering, shuddering.

He stunk of sweat and sand and carbonite and bile.

A metallic taste coated his tongue and gums.

His throat was dry and scratchy.

All he needed was her touch and the pain would dissolve away.

A shadow passed over him, and a delicate hand cupped his cheek while the other rested on his trembling shoulder.

Leia.

He still couldn't see. Her face was a blur of light framed by something darker.

Han reflexively leaned into her touch, whimpered with relief and gratitude and love. He wanted to see her, taste her, touch her; wanted to wrap his arms around her, pull her into his body and never let her go.

He could barely manage to shunt his arms across her thighs as she squatted in front of him, his hands clutching around her waist, across the rough fabric of whatever the hell she was wearing, perhaps a disguise she had worn to rescue him. At least it didn't feel like one of the slave outfits he'd been so worried about.

"Hey," Leia said. "It's my sleeping buddy."

It was the new nickname he had given to her once they started sharing his bunk—their bunk—even if they had done a lot more than sleep. Fuck buddy had been closer to reality, and the truth had been even greater: he and Leia had become lovers, in every sense of the word.

Their love hadn't stopped Leia from eagerly adopting his favourite word and regularly using it.

"I love you fucking me."

"I want you to fuck me."

And her throaty request: "Fuck me, Han. Fuck me harder."

Luke was seated to his left as he worked on Chewie, and Han heard the young Jedi clear his throat as though he was suddenly uncomfortable or embarrassed, as if Han had given voice to his thoughts.

"Let's move you a bit here, Chewie. Give Han and Leia some room."

Leia.

Her lips brushed against his, catching on his dry, cracked skin. Han was slow to respond; she pulled away from him by the time he had started to move his mouth. Deprived of her lips, he tilted his head forward, searching for intimacy, desperate for her to kiss him again even though he knew he smelled and tasted of carbonite and vomit.

"How's your eyes?" she asked.

He shook his head, managed to control his shivering enough to mutter, "B-b-bet-t-ter-r."

Her hand moved up his face, rested on his forehead. The relative coolness of her palm made him aware of the heat of his own skin.

"Ooh, you're burning up." She removed her hands from his head and shoulder, collected something from the deck. "Let's get some water into you."

The nozzle of a container nudged his lips and water trickled into his mouth. For a moment, he thought he'd forgotten how to swallow, then the reflex kicked in and a stale warmth slid down his gullet before pooling in his stomach. There was an uneasy sensation as the water appeared to leach around the edges of the weight sitting in his abdomen. He winced as the muscles of his stomach cramped and he pulled his mouth away from the flask, unable and unwilling to drink any more. The bile hit the back of his throat again and he heaved without releasing. He heard Leia shift to one side, felt her arm slide around his back and shoulders.

"How long, Lando?" The sound of her voice was muffled by his impaired hearing and the wind that whipped past them.

Han didn't hear Lando's answer but Leia moved her mouth next to his ear.

"Fifteen minutes, Sweetheart," Leia relayed. "Fifteen minutes and you'll be on the Falcon, in the med-bunk and we can start making you feel better."

When he didn't respond, she checked he had heard and understood. "Okay, Han? Fifteen minutes. Not long."

Fixed on trying to ignore the icy fingers prickling across his scalp, he wanted to nod but felt he would puke if he moved. And then he did.

The vomit burned all the way up his gullet, hit the back of his throat and he heaved, leaning forward and away from his legs. Warm bile spilled out of his mouth, triggering him to heave again and again, diaphragm and stomach convulsing as his body expelled the carbonite from his system. There was no food or waste left in his digestive tract as he had already vomited and expelled into the corner of the Jabba's dungeon. That didn't stop him from feeling as if this was at least twice as bad as any hangover he'd ever experienced.

Fuck...

Leia's arm had remained around his back and her other arm had come under his chest, supporting his weight and keeping him upright, holding him until the dry retching receded and the shivering returned. He couldn't have cared less who heard the miserable moan he made, but he was uneasy Leia had been forced to hold him as he had puked. She didn't deserve any of this. This was all his fault.

His fault he had failed to settle his debts. His fault he had attracted an enormous bounty on his moronic head. His fault the hyperdrive had failed. His fault Fett and then Vader had tracked them to Bespin. His fault his friends had felt compelled to rescue him. His fault he had fallen in love with a woman he did not deserve...

His mouth failed to work as he tried to spit the residual bile from his mouth, and it dribbled from his lips.

"S-s-s-s-o-ryyy," he whispered as he felt the fabric of Leia's sleeve wipe his mouth and chin.

"Shh...it's okay."

He didn't realise his strength had left him and that Leia was supporting all of his upper body. She lowered his shoulders and chest, turned him to lie on his side across her lap, his head facing away from her, fingers stroking gently through his hair.

A tepid dampness—wet fabric torn from part of her robe—gave some relief to the heat of his forehead but not the ache thumping inside his skull.

"How's that?"

He made a soft murmur of thanks, not wanting to move his head or his mouth.

Another damp cloth to the side and back of his neck gave him a little more relief.

Lying there across her lap, he was aware of the rocking motion of the skiff, the touch and scent of Leia, the fatigue and pain that exhausted his mind and body.

She had held him like this some hours ago...in the cell on Cloud City...comforting him after the scan-grid torture.

That must be where we still are, he thought. Cloud City. Lando has dumped us in it big time.

That's why he was trembling: his body twitching from the after-effects of the scan-grid. The metallic taste in his mouth was vaguely like blood and he wondered if his convulsions had caused him to bite his tongue.

Why's it so fuckin' bright and hot in here?

It hadn't been like that when the stormtroopers had dragged him in here earlier. The illumination levels in the cell had been cranked up, scorching the skin of his closed eyelids, and the ambient temperature had increased. His body was bathed in sweat.

Don't give up, Leia. No matter what happens. Promise me you won't give up.

His shivering tripped his muscles into spasms, and he moaned weakly.

He mumbled a protest as the cloth was removed from his forehead, then returned to his skin cooler, wetter. The same thing happened to the cloth across his neck. The relief was temporary, fleeting.

Not Bespin, he faintly realised. Tatooine. They were heading to the Falcon.

Hyperdrive. Need to tell Chewie the hyperdrive's fucked. That's why we gotta get to Bespin. Fix the hyperdrive. Lando'll fix the hyperdrive.

"L-l-ei...h-hy..d-dri…vv...Ch-Chew.."

"Shh...Try to relax, Han. Not long. Not far."

The brightness suddenly eased, but the heat was still there, engulfing him, searing his pores; it was not enough to relieve his shivering.

Not long. Not far.

It felt too long, too far. A never-ending shunting of his body as the skiff sailed over the sand dunes, irritating his skin, jabbing at his aches, stoking his nausea. The caress of Leia's fingers through his hair now causing him no end of pain, his nerves hypersensitive to the slightest touch.

He longed to pass out, hoping unconsciousness would relieve his agony, if only temporarily. He knew that was wishful thinking. He was getting everything he deserved. This was all his own fault.

After an unknown length of time, and despite the loss of sight and his muffled hearing, Han felt the skiff's speed reduce and then it came to a grinding stop.

Falcon. Home.

The urge to board his ship was undeniable. He lurched upright into a sitting position…and it was suddenly apparent why the brightness of the suns had faded: something clung to his face.

Carbonite.

He panicked, clawed at the material that was already falling from his head and shoulders, exposing his now open eyes to a piercing flash of white, bright light. Leia scooted the fabric away from him.

"Easy," she told him. "Just a bit of shade for you."

He gulped, drawing deep breaths to calm his racing heart.

"Are you all right?" The concern was evident in her voice.

He nodded cautiously, uncertain if the movement would make him want to puke again.

"Sit here and Lando and Luke will help us once they've gotten Chewie and the droids onboard."

"C-c'n mmm-ma-kk' i-i-i'," he insisted, rising unsteadily to his feet before she could stop him. "N-n-no-tt-t…'nnn-va-li-ddd."

He needed to get onboard his ship. Now. Needed to run up the boarding ramp, swing around into the cockpit and fire up the engines before the Empire arrived. Before something—anything—worse happened to them all. That would be his fault as well.

Leia tucked herself against him, slipping her arm around his lower back and shrugging his arm over her shoulders. She felt tiny against his side, thin, insubstantial, as if the lightest puff of wind would blow her away from him. But Han knew different.

Leia was stronger than he was, physically, mentally, morally. She could hold him up, had been holding him up for years, well before they had become lovers, before he had fallen in love with her.

"Put your weight on me."

He gladly did as she requested, hardly noticing the dip of her shoulders as she adjusted her place under his arm and her hold around his waist, hooking her fingers into the belt loops of his trousers.

It was easier to close his eyes and allow Leia to lead him off the skiff, painfully shifting his legs as she nudged him with her hip, bending his knees as she directed him down the skiff's short ramp.

His boots sank into the soft Tatooine sand and Leia took more of his weight as he stumbled.

"Nearly there," she encouraged. "A few steps and we're home."

He could sense the outline of his ship, smell the distinct tang of durasteel, lubricants and coolants. And then he was there.

Han raised a shaky hand to touch the starboard docking ring, ducked his head and moved onto the boarding ramp. He had entered his ship so many times he didn't need to see be able to do it.

He inhaled, seeking solidity and resolve in the Falcon's scent and the sound of systems being brought online—life support, environ, comms, nav, weapons, countermeasures—each calling to him with its distinctive signature.

He remembered he needed to tell Chewie that the hyperdrive was fucked, the motivator having been hammered and Lando would fix it. They just needed to make it to Bespin. He was already preparing a flight plan in his mind, but first he needed to make it to the cockpit.

Han felt as though he could walk up the steep angle of ramp unaided, convinced he continued to hold onto Leia because he craved her touch, not because he needed her help. He didn't want to board his ship without the woman he loved by his side.

Away from the blinding brilliance of the sunslight, it was darker inside, cooler. Han opened his useless eyes as if that might make a difference. It didn't. He still couldn't see. No matter. He knew where he needed to be. Needed to set things right. Get them all out of here, quick, fast, no clearances, the way he regularly departed from Mos Eisley spaceport. A cold launch to put some distance between them and this godsforsaken planet.

With Leia pressed against his side, twelve strides carried him to the top of the ramp; he counted each one of them. It almost did him in. He really needed to catch his breath, but there was no time for weakness. He turned to the right. His next seven steps were more a shuffle and he turned right again, heading towards the cockpit, vaguely aware of Leia tugging on his belt as she spoke his name.

"Han. No, no, no." Easily using her own body weight to stop him in his tracks. "Med-bunk."

"Ll-a'-err," he insisted. "G-ged u-zz out-tta h-here."

A different, firmer hand touched his chest and he turned towards its owner who had approached from the cockpit end of the accessway.

"Hey, Han." It was Luke. "What's happening?"

Han's exhaustion returned with unexpected vengeance, draping over him like a blanket. He could only feebly point towards the cockpit, the direction he needed to head.

"Great idea," Luke enthused. "Let me help you.

Luke took his elbow and between him and Leia they led him through his ship. Han thought they were heading towards the cockpit, until he tripped down the raised decking and heard the distinctive clicks and whirs from the tech station. He uselessly glanced to his left.

"C-c-o-ppp-it," he weakly insisted.

"That's where we're going," Luke agreed.

Confusion heightened his disorientation; it felt like they were leading him across the main hold, not down the cockpit accessway.

A ripple of vertigo buckled his knees, his hands scrabbling for purchase. His friend and his lover were there to stop him from falling.

"We've got you, Han," Leia assured him.

Fuck…

He was frustrated that his body was refusing to co-operate with his wishes.

"Why don't you take a breather and we'll get you to the cockpit later?"

Luke's idea made sense; Han wanted to agree but his mouth was unable to form the words.

The gentle hands led him a few steps forward, before shuffling him around on the spot. A more intense wave of dizziness made his head spin.

"You can sit down now," Leia encouraged.

At her suggestion, he almost collapsed, comforted to feel something firm hit the back of his thighs and his backside. His upper body sagged with relief until Luke propped him up again.

"Can you undress him? I'll prep the mediscan. I almost guarantee he'll need an IV. He's probably dangerously dehydrated."

Han figured that was Leia speaking to Luke, not him, when he heard Luke reply, "Sure." And then Luke told him, "We're going to get you comfortable."

The pre-flight start-up sequence commenced. Han perked up as the Falcon's sublight engines hummed into life.

"Han? Do you think you can stay upright while I do that?"

Han didn't respond. The familiar song of the Girodyne SRB-42s took all his attention as he concentrated on the different notes of the sublights, listening for any faults in the various components of the fusion reactor. They couldn't afford for the subs to pack it in as well.

He distantly felt one of his boots being tugged off.

"I understand you got Leia safely off Hoth just before the Empire turned up."

Han frowned, distracted from his assessment by the name of the planet. Aren't we still on Hoth? Cold enough to be Hoth. That's why he was shaking so badly. The ice had set into his bones.

Luke began removing his other boot.

"Leia told me if it hadn't been for you, she would've been buried in the Command Centre or taken prisoner."

We're on Tatooine, Han amended. That's why Luke's here. We're on Tatooine and headin' to Bespin to fix the hyperdrive.

He scrunched up his face. Something about that thought made no sense to him.

"And then you did some pretty hairy manoeuvres through an asteroid field."

We hid in an asteroid cos the hyperdrive is—was?—fucked. Then we headed to Bespin.

Luke's fingers were releasing the fasteners of his shirt.

"If it hadn't been for you, Han, I could've lost Leia."

Not yours to lose, Han possessively thought. I'm hers. She's mine. That's what happened on the way to Bespin.

The shirt slipped from his chest and shoulders. His shivering increased as the Falcon's regulated air hit his skin, but Han was focused on his relationship with Leia. He remembered Leia telling him that she loved him, and he had eagerly replied in kind. Although he'd been in love with her for two years, he hadn't wanted to overwhelm her when they had first become intimate, but he had a memory of their admissions to each other happening while they had been making love.

Then he wondered if any of that had happened. The flight to Bespin. The lovemaking. The declarations of love.

Maybe it had all been part of the fantasies he'd had about Leia for over two years.

Maybe the idea that they loved each other was a carbonite dream.

Maybe he was still in the carbonite.

Han leaned forward and heaved, bile splashing against his toes. Luke's hands were behind him, steadying his shoulders.

He didn't know how many times he threw up, only that it seemed to last forever and that he dry-retched long after there was no more bile to expel. Hunched over, he felt something wipe across his mouth as the shuddering returned.

"F-f-uck t-t-tis ssss-hit," he stuttered.

Luke chuckled. "Now you're sounding more like your old self."

Han automatically replied, "P-pp-rick."

Luke laughed. "You are feeling better."

Though annoying, Luke's amusement at Han's expense was nearly as familiar as the sound of the sublights.

"I'll get these off you."

Han slumped back onto what he presumed was the med-bunk as Luke worked on undoing his belt and trousers.

He lost all sense of what happened next. The cold and heat, shivering and sweating, pain and nausea slid over him and he existed in a white fog.

The fog gradually dissipated to a drowsy mist and he didn't know if he was feeling better or simply numb. There was a barrier between his consciousness and the pain, created by medication or sedative or both. He was still sweating but the shivering had lessened. The nausea had also ebbed away; hidden, he suspected, but still there if he went looking for it.

He was in the med-bunk, bits of apparatus attached to him. He'd been placed into the recovery position, half on his stomach, half on his side, he suspected in case he threw up again.

Han opened his eyes, but the mist persisted. He could see the shapes of Luke and Leia crouching down next to the bunk, speaking in hushed tones, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. They must've have noticed he was awake because they stopped talking.

"L-lu-ke…th-tha-anks," Han mumbled. For coming after me. Finding Leia. Keeping her safe. Being a friend. "Owe ya."

He couldn't even do this much right; he knew his words were inadequate. What he didn't know was what Luke had become.

A month ago, as far has Han was concerned, Luke had been a young Rebel commander helping to establish a new base on Hoth, still green enough that he'd been wiped out by a Wampa. And now, a year later, Chewie had told him that Luke was a Jedi Knight. He was a friend, as dear and loyal as Chewie. A brother, like Chewie as well.

Was he also Han's rival for Leia's love?

"I'd say we're even." Luke touched the back of his hand. "Take care of yourself and Leia. I'll see you back at the Fleet in a few days."

And then Luke was gone, and it was just him and Leia.

"'M s-s-sorr…" His tongue was thick and heavy, his shivered words slurring in his mouth.

Her hand smoothed his hair again and this time it didn't hurt. "Hey, I'm just so glad to have you back. I missed you."

"L-love you." At least he got that much right.

"I know. I love you too."

Han closed his eyes. He was so grateful. He didn't deserve her. He'd fucked so much up, for far too long.

Lando spoke from the other side of the main hold. "We're ready for take-off. How's things here?"

Leia's voice was the last he heard before he fell asleep. "We're good."