Chapter 3

The next time Luke woke from his drug-induced haze, Chewie stood over him, one of his hands slowly sweeping Luke's sandy blonde hair out of his face only to replace it with his own snarly locks.

"Arr, auugh eerr," Chewie murmured. Luke worked his jaws, trying for a smile on his numb face.

"Hi, Chew," he managed. The Wookiee shook his mane, smiling away with his sharp incisors.

Luke blinked slowly, taking in his surroundings. The space he laid in was roomy and blessedly dark—Luke's eyes already ached from the strain medical screens put on his vision. There was a door on the far side of the room, glass and the main source of light. On one side of his bed sat Chewbacca, on the other side stood various medical contraptions: one that held his jagged, cliff-like heartbeat spindling from a long chord that attached to his chest, another strange red light blinking from his left middle finger in a tube-like bandage, another still dripping unknown substances into an IV port in his forearm.

All was quiet, save for the hum of machinery and the Wookiee's mumblings.

No Leia. No Han.

"Whhr—?"Luke's cheeks flushed, as the only sound from his question resembled the guttural Wookiee language. Chewie patted his shoulder gently, though it still caused Luke to flinch.

He ran his tongue over his parched lips. His throat was fiery and sharp when he swallowed, and uncomfortably scratchy in the seconds in between. It's worth another try, Luke thought, mustering up a spark of hope.

"I—" His voice gave out again. Chewbacca leaned in, thinking to catch his whispers, but Luke couldn't find the energy.

Every shift of the bed felt like an engine's roar, each beeping monitor a horn in his ears. His senses felt assaulted by every small thing. Am I hungover? Luke asked himself pathetically, not knowing his own answer. He thought of the time he and Biggs had drank themselves into a stupor, their night completely forgotten but the morning…oh sith, just remembering that next morning made his stomach roil.

Biggs and him had taken turns lurching over a bucket, their dehydrated, nauseated state only exemplified by their skull-crushing headaches. When Biggs had nothing left in him but his innards, he turned and slapped Luke on the back—Luke ended up not pulled his head out of the bucket for the rest of the day—and had made him promise to never get drunk ever again.

And Luke had kept that promise.

At least as far as he could remember, though right then he recognized each symptom: he could feel his barely contained nausea rising and drawing back in his throat, his high sensitivity to every bright glow or loud noise, the headache that settled right behind his eyes, at the back of his head, and squeezing the space in between.

And the dreams…

He had seen two figures fighting, golden sparks flying in every direction. Beautiful colors swam over their heads before they shattered, turning to millions of razor-sharp arrowheads that when they hit the ground, sizzled with heat.

Drugged up nonsense if I've every heard it, Luke admonished himself, hearing Biggs' voice. You ought'ta be ashamed of yourself.

The only link missing was the fact that he still felt high. His limbs were uncoordinated and his body numb. He let his flesh fingers twitch, one by one, all five and then all five mechanical fingers too. They were slow to respond, his middle finger weighed heavily down by the oximeter. He felt disconnected, muted.

There was no Force in his bones right then.

There was only lead—cold, heavy, molten lead.

To Luke's great chagrin, the wide, plexiglas double doors on the far side of the room opened a crack, a dark figure standing against the pane. Luke jerked, his mind jumping from his dreams to reality.

Seeing Luke was awake, the man threw open both doors and gleefully shouted: "Why, if it isn't the galaxy's favorite hotshot! Welcome back to the land of the living, Luke!"

Lando Calrissian.

He stood with a halo of the outside world's menacing light around his head, flowers tucked under his armpit. Luke blinked and blinked, eyes burning with tears from the sudden increase of light. His head split from roaring headache, pounding and pounding until sloppily, he tried to cover his ears to stop the madness within his skull.

Lando crossed the room to bend over Luke's abused body and huffed, giving his best portrayal of deep in thought. "You are looking rough, my man." As if that was all his deep thinking had produced. Luke moaned softly, covering his face and making Lando drop his usual smug expression.

"Aw, Luke, it all gonna turn out all right. You'll see. Here—Chewie—let me drag up a chair and sit for a bit. I can't stand it when my friends cry." Lando shot out comforting phrases like blaster fire, Luke watching the man inquiringly through watery gaze. Lando dragged over a cheap, plastic chair and sat down, elbows on his knees, fancy cape trailing over the flower bouquet and much of his hunched form. "I almost forgot—these are for you."

He produced a crumpled card from the bouquet and set it on the table just out of Luke's reach. Then, he placed the flowers over Luke's legs. Luke looked on helplessly, fingers itching to touch the lovely petals of yellows and oranges. He could almost see their fragrance drift up and into the light.

Then.

That smell.

Oh, Force, that smell.

He tried to distract himself by watching Lando smile away at him with his winning smile, eyes trailing all over Luke's body. He watched him catalogued his swollen eye sockets, grazed chin, and mauled forehead; he followed his eyes down his blackened neck, shoulders, arms. Luke saw Lando bounce from horrified to at ease as he alternated from seeing yet another bandaged piece of his young friend to the unsteady heart monitor beeping away in the background.

"How're you feeling?" Lando said. "Talk to me, Luke."

Lando grabbed the remote at his bedside and slowly let Luke sit up, bed squawking as Luke contorted automatically from laying to semi-reclining, the pillows underneath his head acting as a wedge to keep him upright. Luke tried at a smile, only earning him a warm hand laced through his fingers. He hadn't asked for it. It just appeared.

"Arrar, arrrh," Chewie barked, and Lando threw up his hands.

"Sorry, big guy, I didn't know. Hey, you just take your time, kid, no need to rush into things. You talk to us when you're ready."

Luke couldn't figure out how to squeeze Lando's hand back, so he stared at it with all his might, hoping Lando saw his unvoiced thanks.

And he couldn't stand the smell of the flowers.

The bouquet sat across his pristine cream sheets, dribbling color into Luke's otherwise sterile-white world. You love flowers, Luke tried at convincing himself through the onslaught of potent smells. You'd always comment on…

Leia's perfume, his Aunt's best vase, a field of wild lilies…

The night of his fight with the Emperor.

"Don't be afraid, my son," his father had wheezed. His last words.

He gagged, liquid rising into his mouth at a surprising speed, and gagged again. All watched in slow-motioned horror as the mess splattered over his chin, neck, chest, lap. Lando was up in seconds, grabbing a waiting basin and thrusting it onto Luke's lap before another round ensued.

Luke kept his face down, his arms feeling too weak to hold the bucket in place.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Luke thought as he half-missed the basin in his third round, the acid cascading down his tunic. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lando wince.

Chewie's arms were around him then, hot and soft against the cold sweat on the back of his neck, the other arm pressing the bucket closer to his face.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

Luke wasn't sure how long he sat there like that, held together by Chewie's strength. There were long stretches of time where he heaved, sobbing soundlessly for his screaming throat. His exhaustion was so overwhelming during the bouts that his head lolled the second he felt a moment of reprieve. There would be a stretch of peace.

Then through the acid and sweat, he would smell the flowers.

"Don't be afraid, my son."

As he folded over the basin once again, Luke kicked out clumsily at the bouquet, trying to dethrone the menaces from their rule over his gag reflex. Shifting and shifting his knees, the petals rained over his already ruined sheets and down off the bed, followed finally by the bouquet.

It hit the tile floor without a sound.

Full, hot tears were overflowing Luke's eyes now, mad at himself for ruining Lando's gift and madder over his weakness; for the fact that Leia and Han weren't there, and for the fact that he couldn't ask for them if he wanted to. He was a vacuum; a black hole of pain and muddled words and acid breath.

His chest felt like it could explode.

Chewie, sensing the retching episodes over, plucked the reeking basin out of Luke's arms and placed it on top of Lando's get-well card, which flattened with a crunch. Then he pressed Luke into his fur and held him there, sitting as gently as a Wookiee could possibly sit on the edge of the hospital bed.

"Grrragh," Chewie murmured as Luke spluttered and sobbed, heart racing and pounding against his ribcage, as if he was keeping it captive inside of him. The spiking lines were attempting to even out of their jagged edges, shrieking in his ears without a time signature.

Shut it off, Luke pleaded, his shaking hand finding the plastic loop around his middle finger. I can't take it any—He tugged, and the oximeter slipped off into his mechanical palm.

Lando cursed, and Luke looked up from celebrating his success. "Blast it, Luke—!"

The wailing monitors were almost instantaneous.

Luke's room was flooded with droids and nurses, both of whom had annoyed, almost tired looks on their faces. As if well-rehearsed for a skit, each being grabbed onto Luke, soothed a monitor, or adjusted a piece of machinery.

One female nurse patted Luke's cheek, lowering his bed down until his line of sight was halved. Then in a weary, patient voice she said: "Mr. Skywalker, keep the oximeter on your finger. It's helping you. Let's not do this a fifth time."

And the oximeter with its blinking red light was snapped back on to his middle finger, reassuming its role to weigh down his hand. Luke stared up at the tiled ceiling, his cheek still warm with the finger pads of the nurse.

A fifth time.

Force help him, he couldn't even remember.

In an intricate system of weaving and unweaving the various chords that attached to tabs on his chest and lower abdomen, the nurses peeled his reeking clothes off and left them off, letting Luke get a true glimpse at his state. He could feel Lando doing the same.

His bare chest was bandaged expertly, thankfully saved from the contents of his stomach. The gauze dodged the tabs and chords connecting him to the monitors hanging above his head and at his side. Bacta patches pocked his arms and stomach. Slowly, he turned his head to see his left bicep wound up in a bandage, the dark band of stitches peeking out of each end, one lacing up his hopelessly numb neck. Darkly, Luke realized his legs must be in a similar state, if not worse: his right leg was raised up slightly, thicker and heavier than his left.

As the nurses left and the remaining droids turned to a protocol check, prodding at his chest, listening intently and pressing cold metal cones to his ribs, stomach, neck, and what it could reach of his back. The machinery only looked up from their work when the door swung open once again, sending Luke back into a teary, blinking mess. His hands went back up to his ears, careful as to not upset the all-important red light.

Go, please, Luke pleaded. Please, just leave me alone.

Only when he heard a familiar voice did he try to look up.

"Luke?" Leia's worried face appeared blurrily above him, hands trailing everywhere, checking everything, squeezing assurance. "Is his voice back?" she asked quickly, turning out of Luke's view, to Chewbacca. The Wookiee growled back: Not anymore.

Luke tried to reason the disappointment from Leia's face.

Five times, or at least four, Luke had been awake enough to wrench the oximeter from his finger. Four times he must have looked up at the unostentatious ceiling. Maybe Leia and Han were there. Maybe he had been alone. Maybe it was an hour ago, a day ago, a week. He had no idea.

Leia placed her hand on his chest. "Is this all right?" she asked quietly, like a secret Lando and Chewie weren't supposed to hear.

Luke managed single nod, eyes closed, melting into Leia's ghostlike touch.

He felt the air shift and a warm hand appeared on his forehead. "'Night, Luke."

And he slept.

"And I told that nerfherder where he could go!"

The smothered laughing made Luke stir.

Han was bent low, his fingers raised like a gun, one eye closed in focus at the wall. Chewie stood behind him, arms above his head, shaking and rattling imaginary beings. Han would dodge a blast and fire one back, dodge and fire, never leaving his position of covering the Wookiee's back. Leia looked on with clear amusement, her eyebrow raised.

"Now, Chewie and I were in it knee deep, and as the troopers started to close in we—" Chewie mimed growling, slamming imaginary heads together. Han aimed and fired off more rounds, rolling on the unforgiving tile to improve effects. Then, looking to see if his immediate surroundings were clear, Han cleaned his finger blaster and shoved it into his belt loop. Chewie smoothed his hair back into place.

"I can't believe you made it out alive," Leia said, eyes rolling.

"Ah, but we…" Han trailed off, his eyes locking onto Luke's. "Hey. Hey! Luke's up! Hey, buddy!" The room tilted in his direction immediately; Leia, Han, and Chewie all clambering to get the plastic chairs. Leia and Chewie won out, and Han sat gently on the edge of the bed. Luke could hear the crinkling bedspread underneath him.

"Hey," Luke croaked. Three beaming smiles.

"It's so good to hear your voice!" Leia placed a kiss on his cheek. Luke automatically looked to Han, but there was no tight grimace. Only relief.

"How long have I been out?" Luke asked tentatively. Chewie itched at his back uncomfortably. Leia and Han shared a knowing glance.

"About a day," Leia finally said. Han smirked.

"But you gave us one helluva week, kid."

Luke wiggled his flesh fingers, then his toes. "Can I sit up?"

Leia picked up the remote. "We'll take it slow."

Luke nodded. Then whirring noisily, he was upright. The room looked the same—the plastic chairs, the glass double doors, the medical screens. There was more light, now, emanating from small bulbs on the walls. He could see his friends' eager faces, and he swallowed hard. There was so much to say, and yet nothing seemed like the right thing to say.

"Where am I?" That was a good place to start.

Han swept a hand through his mop of hair. "Chandrila."

"Chandrila!" Luke squawked. Leia's hand was on his chest again. Luke stared at his friends, confused. "What about Endor?"

"Eh?" Han asked, leaning in closer. Luke's voice was already reduced to whispering. Nevertheless, he repeated himself. Han leaned back, thinking. Leia shot him warning looks. "We were on Endor for about three hours. That stupid droid told us you were becoming unstable, and there was nothing more we could do for you on the planet surface without proper medical attention. So, we took you back up into the air and the first answer to our distress call was—"

"Mon Motha," Leia finished, cutting Han's story short. "She opened up her home and her private facilities. She probably saved your life."

Luke sank into the pillows, feeling weak. "How did you find me?"

Leia, placed her other hand on Han's chest now, as if separating the two young men in a fight, not a whispered conversation. "We don't have to talk about this now, Luke."

"I want to know."

"He deserves to know."

Han and Luke had protested at the same time, making Leia recollect herself. She sighed, taking her hands down and placing them in her lap.

"When the shield went down, and the fleet went in to attack the main reactor… I felt… we knew something had gone wrong. We sent up a transmission to the Admiral and he got one of his pilots to go in after you."

"They said it was just chaos in there, kid. They had no idea where you were, there were troopers and officers everywhere—no one even went to stop them. When they finally found you… Vader had escaped, and so had the Emperor. They found you lying on the edge of this hole." Han tried to motion out the events, standing up and flailing his hands. Luke was lost in the details.

His father was gone?

"The Emperor…" Luke started, "My father killed him. He threw him down that hole."

Silence.

Han sat down heavily.

"It's true," Luke pleaded unnecessarily. He knew that they believed him. "But… Vader he…he was hurt."

"He was gone, Luke." Leia wouldn't make eye contact. She stared only at the monitor.

"Then what happened?" he pressed, despite knowing Leia had enough.

"Then the pilot hauled your sorry ass back to the Millennium Falcon, where we were all waiting. We watched that battle station get blown to bits as you…"

Han cringed. Leia stood up, brushing invisible dirt off of her white flight suit.

"Uarrrgh, huarrh," Chewie growled.

"Chewie's right. You are healing. That is what matters. We are all safe, we are all together, and Luke is healing."

Han and Chewie both agree mutedly.

Luke wanted to scream.

His body was in shambles, his memories were spotty at best, and here were his closest friends dancing around him like a thermal detonator.

But he heard the Emperor's gravelly voice: "Good! Your hate has made you powerful. Now, fulfill your destiny and take your father's place at my side!"

He shivered. The anger drained away.

"Is there anything to drink?" Luke asked. Han stood up, eager to help.

"Hey, sure kid. What would you like? Ice chips? Water? Ice chips and water?"

Luke smiled wanly. "Sure, Han."

"It's just good to hear your voice, hotshot!" he called over his shoulder, speeding out of the room, double doors swinging behind him.

A companionable silence followed, Leia's hand entwined with his, Chewie looking on the two with a certain sadness. Luke tried to ignore it, mainly staring at the ceiling in an effort to not aggravate the reaching wound on his neck. Without the thick numbness, he was distinctly aware of its bite and itch.

Soon after Han's departure, Chewie stood as well.

"Uurggheh uuh raahhgh huurh."

The doors swung closed once more. Luke watched with a smirk as his friend's furry figure pushed past a smattering of surprised nurses. Leia squeezed his hand, obviously watching the same ordeal.

"He is frightening," Leia admitted softly. "When you let him get to you."

Luke scoffed hoarsely. "Ah, not good ol' Chewie."

"You scared us, too. We had no idea what had happened to you. We still don't." Leia looked at the monitors again, her eyes reflecting the jagged green line. "You don't have to explain, but I felt—"

"Then you know," Luke looked into his sister's face. "You know how close I was to killing him, and how close the Emperor was to winning. Leia, I was so close to becoming…." Luke's voice broke, and he started again. "Our father spoke with me, before—"

"Please don't call him that."

Luke allowed himself a breath. "Vader, after the explosion, he told me that… that I was going to leave for a little while. As if he knew something was going to happen to me. And I wasn't really scared, then. But now…"

She looked at him, then away, then at his bandaged chest. Then tucking the loose strands of hair behind her ears she said, "I'm scared too."

Then she folded him in her arms, gently maneuvering him so as not to upset the tubes and wires. Luke squeezed his eyes shut as his body went rigid against his will, shoulder and ribs protesting.

"This isn't your fault," Luke said, and it resonated with a memory, hidden somewhere beyond the drugs and the pain. He let her go, switching out to interlock fingers with her.

They held onto each other through Han's dramatic entrance with the prized ice chips, through the horrendous ordeal of eating them, and after an hour or so, the ceremonial 'fresher trip. Leia gripped onto his arm as he shifted so his feet touched the icy tile. On his right leg wrapped a chunky black brace, gathering in a boot at his ankle. Luke reasoned it was meant for walking, and tested his weight on it. It held.

"Let me help."

"No, Leia, please. Let me do this on my own. I-I need to do this alone."

"Jeez, let the kid pee in peace. It's not like he's asking to go fight his maniacal father alone in the Emperor's throne room," Han watched the room as his joke fell flat. He then cleared his throat. "Let him go, princess."

Leia let go of his hand.

After a few seconds of unsteadiness, Luke settled himself on his own two feet and accepted the crutch given to him, and made his way to the 'fresher. He could feel his friends holding their breath as he shut the door behind him.

Hobbling the last few steps to the toilet, Luke collapsed fully clothed onto the seat. Swollen face in bandaged hands, Luke mourned.