Mind Tricks
by Corellian Blue
(first published 2003, revised 2016, 2020)
Warnings: mental health issues; suicide attempt
V
It seemed to take Han forever to wake up. His head felt heavy, stuffy, and he knew it was the after-effects of the sedative. It was tempting to lie there and let the galaxy carry on without him, and so he did just that for a while.
The webbing belt that had encircled his hips eventually put paid to that plan; the clasp was now digging into his hip. Wondering how his belt had managed to come undone, he opened his eyes and pushed himself from his side onto his back.
The dim lighting revealed that he was in his cabin, though where else he might be, he had no idea. His feet were bare, poking up at him from the end of a blanket, a blanket he couldn't remember placing over himself. That must've been Leia. He closed his eyes and cringed. He hadn't returned outside to see her when she had been expecting him. Hadn't even said good night to her. He looked at the empty space next to him on the bunk. She hadn't spent the night with him either.
Pulling the blanket from himself, he realised his clothing had been loosened, hence the reason for the belt becoming entangled underneath him. And then he understood perhaps why Leia hadn't slept with him: he stunk. It was more than just body odour. It was a battle's worth of sweat, mud and blood. The smoke from Vader's pyre had also seeped into his clothes and skin.
He was in the refresher cubicle before he had time to think, pushing the fatigues to the deck as he stood in the stream of hot water, his uniform piling up around his feet. For long minutes he stood there, face and mouth open to the shower, and allowed the water to wash over him. He soaped himself up with the liquid cleanser, rubbed it through his hair and across his body.
Once he'd rinsed himself, he swiped off the flow of water. He dragged the clothing out of the stall and shoved them into the auto valet, then stepped back in and set the 'fresher for sonics. The sounds waves gently buffeted him, opening his pores and extracting the dirt and grime that he still felt covered him. With the sonics completed, he had a final water rinse. Only then did he feel clean.
His right hand was trembling again, but as it had been happening for days now, he was beyond caring. If one hand refused to cooperate, then he would use the other one. Naked, he stood in front of the mirror and methodically combed his hair with his left hand, then used the shaver to cut through the week's growth of beard. He lifted his chin and stopped when he saw the synthflesh patch. The synthetic skin had taken nicely, the edges melding with his own skin. Soon, it would be impossible to tell he'd burnt himself with the muzzle of his blaster. Only he would know the truth.
The hair follicles had not yet grown through the synthflesh and as he didn't want to disturb the healing process, he chose not to shave over the patch. He was mildly surprised at how easy it was shaving with his left hand, but then he'd always been moderately ambidextrous.
Back in his cabin, he dressed in his old spacer clothing: boots, trousers, a light-coloured shirt, and the jacket Leia had given him to replace the one lost on Bespin. Deciding these clothes felt better than the uniform of an Alliance general, he then stripped the bedclothes from the bunk and replaced them with clean sheets and covers.
The gun-belt encircling the medpack on the desk eventually caught his attention. That hadn't been where he'd dropped his holster and blaster when he'd come into the cabin last night. His fingers brushed over the DL-44's scope and he released the restraining strap, slid the blaster from the holster, drew it towards himself. He studied the muzzle, looking for any traces of his skin that might have stuck to it. Even now, both of his hands shook with the memory of how he'd pushed the weapon under his jaw and pulled the trigger. So close. He'd come so close to ending it all. And it was only through fate, dumb luck, or blind instinct that he was standing here, hadn't left his brains fried across the forest.
He returned the blaster to its holster and pushed it aside. He couldn't wear the gun-rig, not now. The memories were raw; the injury barely healed. The temptation to try it again, perhaps still there.
He went to seal the medpack and noticed the drofic capsules on the desk.
A 'present' from Leia, he thought wryly.
The observation grated on him. That wasn't fair. After all, he was the one who had asked her to get the medication for him. But he couldn't take it. He longed to feel the way he had back on the Mon Cal cruiser when the doctor had first prescribed the drofic for him. He'd been unstoppable, one hundred metres tall and laser-proof, like he'd been before the carbonite. The trembling in his hand had even ceased. The craving to feel that way again—the craving for the drug—was almost undeniable. Almost, but not quite.
Han sealed the capsules inside the medpack and left it on the desk. Stroking his hand down the thigh his blaster normally sat on, he turned and left his cabin. He had a speeder bike to return.