En Route
Leia stared at the endless expanse as the Falcon limped through space, wounded and bleeding as the princess herself, filled to the brim with a loud, yawning, ever-present…
Awkwardness.
Total and complete awkwardness.
She winced at the tug of muscle over her weeks-old injury and then practiced steeling herself against the throb of pain. She wasn't sure which was worse: the new sensations that flared since the escape from Hoth or the unsettling presence of a torn-apart romance that haunted everyone aboard the ship.
It was all terrible. Everything. Every conversation, every look, every moment. She reminded everyone aboard that she should not be here, that this was not her place. That she was not family, not even really a friend. For all intents and purposes, she was an ex. An ex-compatriot. An ex-lover. A Salla. Someone who reminded them all of the past, even as they worked to survive the present.
Sighing, she fit her chin into her palm, trying to calm the racing of her heart and ignore the slim, invisible vibroblade that pierced between her lower ribs. She had felt far worse before and would feel it again later; there was no need to panic.
There hadn't been many quiet moments for the limping ship yet, and for that she supposed she should be grateful. The escape from Hoth had been ferocious, readily showcasing the cunning and guile of Commander Solo as only the most dire of circumstances could. Going into an asteroid field? Suicide, as Threepio had so gamely put it. Hiding in one particular asteroid while they assessed the hyperdrive, despite the fact that it had been some enormous space slug? Genius. And then, the pièce de résistance, docking onto the exterior of the Executor to avoid the watchful eyes of Vader until they could feasibly hide amongst the garbage? What a marvel that had been.
She pressed her right hand against the pain in her side, staunching the flare as it doggedly crept through frayed nerves, despite her best efforts.
She considered that she might actually hate Han for his particular brand of artistry. And there was art in the crooked wavelengths of his brain, art in how he perceived the galaxy in terms of opportunity. And she respected it—loved it, even, when she was being honest with herself—but it meant that he was never, ever predictable in his responses, never reliable in his reactions except in that he definitely would react.
But nothing in that respect meant anything when he treated other people with such callousness, did it?
Closing her eyes, Leia tried to focus on her breathing, tried to harness the peace and light that seemed to come so naturally to Luke. But that, too, held problems: yet another gut-punch that she carried with her like a second war-wound. Luke. He had escaped Hoth, she knew, but his current whereabouts were a mystery. They couldn't risk a subspace call for fear of Vader picking it up, and the heavily-coded transfer system they had used to comm Mon Mothma months ago had been destroyed with most of the Falcon's systems. And she was shielding so strongly, for fear of Vader sensing her, that she wasn't even sure she would be able to "hear" him if called, anyway.
She prayed that she would know if anything had happened to Luke. Part of her believed it: there was a low buzzing deep in her chest that seemed to assure her of his safety. But that wasn't concrete proof, and it also didn't mean he was safe at the rendezvous or wherever the Alliance had sent him.
Vader was still after them. And if he wasn't stalking the Falcon anymore, he was most assuredly pursuing Luke. They had painted a big target over her brother's head.
A mess. This was all an utter mess.
The hatch breezed open and in stalked Chewbacca: tired, annoyed and clearly hungry. His pupils were dilated and the hunter's instinct was present in the curtness of the single word he rumbled to her before turning back and leaving the cockpit.
Dinner.
Dread sat deep in her stomach, nestled next to the pain. What was this, some cosmic prank? Not like the Rogues' stupid games, their betting pools and riffs, not playful or well-intentioned for entertainment purposes. No. This was such a mysterious, painful reminder that she was stuck on the Falcon for weeks.
With Han.
The man who had broken her heart. The man who had walked away from her and demolished the growth they had achieved together. The man who had thrown her away like some space trash he could jettison without consequence—
Enough.
This was beneath her. She was Leia Organa. She didn't care what people thought of her. She had been ridiculed in the Imperial senate for her fervent beliefs and the lengths she was willing to go for refugees and people with no political capital. She had single-handedly delivered the Alliance's only chance for hope against the Empire three years ago. And today she had survived a foolhardy stand against Darth Vader.
She had had her time for self-doubt. Now was another moment for courage.
The galley smelled wonderful as she entered. Impressed as always by Chewie's prowess, she closed her eyes to appreciate the simple joy of a well-cooked meal. He had a ferocious appetite and would eat anything that was served to him, a trait shared by Leia herself. After years in the diplomatic service, she was not particularly wary of edibles.
After the Tanakian spiders …. Well. Nothing would ever be taboo after that.
Han was pickier than they were, but not by much. His childhood had cemented a unique appreciation for most basic foods—a drought makes sure you drink the water you find, as he had told her late one night in bed—and so it was no surprise to see both pilots already eating.
She went to the galley counter to find a bowl already prepared for her—a small kindness—and then brought it to Chewie's side of the holochess booth. He patted her shoulder but did not stop eating, an apology for his curtness before.
Ah, she knew what he could be like. There was no harm there.
But the other member of their makeshift dinner party… She looked at Han with an aggressiveness that bordered on overreaction, until she softened her features in compassion. Han was clearly exhausted and coming down from an adrenaline high: his shoulders were hunched, his chin tucked, and his eyes wandered as he ate, never settling on any one thing for too long.
She knew that feeling, the rabid race of the mind to control the body. How long had it been since they had detached from the Executor? Two hours? A mere blip to the nervous system.
In the past, she would have demanded he go shower and sleep after such a high-intensity, danger-filled day. Now she felt no such compunction. Best to leave him alone. She sat—doing her best to hide the twinge of pain from the crew of the Falcon—and tucked into her meal.
The food was delicious, something of a root-mash, if she wasn't mistaken, and it eased the discomfort a bit. Chewie nudged her shoulder with his, a friendly gesture amid the awkwardness, and she smiled back at him.
"Thank you for this," she said. "I hadn't realized how hungry I was."
You are welcome, he murmured, and continued to eat.
Silence descended and the homey companionship started to ebb into a stilled discomfort. Han didn't say a word. Feeling suddenly out of place, she searched for anything to say, anything at all. But there just wasn't a thread to grasp, and she hated—hated, utterly abhorred—the fact that she was affected this way. She had been a durasteel-spined princess, for goddess' sake, and now she couldn't rise above her own emotions? How many disgusting conversations had she had in her youth with lecherous, old men who eyed her like some pretty prize to take home with them? How many times had she proven to them that she would not be treated as something she wasn't, simply for their ease of mind?
And then she forced herself to stop. It was not her job to make Han feel comfortable on his ship in a situation that was entirely his doing. If he was going to act like a petulant child, then she would treat him like one.
The quiet lingered, broken only by the light clinks of utensils into bowls. It stretched and stretched over minutes, then a half-hour, and it reminded Leia of those etiquette lessons she had despised as a child. Staring at the ornate chrono in the dining hall as her tutor prattled on endlessly about decorum and tradition, when all little Leia had wanted to do was go run, go find her epee and practice. Movement, not stillness, had appealed to the young princess. But her father had taught her restraint, and so she had sat, quiet and compliant, as Miss Marlee had spoken eloquently of salad forks.
What would Miss Marlee think of me now?
What would Father think of me now?
Abiding by the imposed silence of the Falcon's crew, she seemed to have endless time to consider the answers to both those questions. Miss Marlee would be utterly scandalized by Leia's tumbling braided rings, the state of her clothing, and the way she braced a hand on her side. And her father—
"Okay, look," Han said, splitting the air like a sharp knife through Alderaanian soft-bread. "I know this is probably the last place you wanna be right now, but we don't have to be awkward about it."
Putting her spoon down, Leia swallowed the mash and shook her head. "I never said this was the last place I wanted to be."
"Can we just call a cease-fire, then? While we're all here together?"
I think you are the only one who is fighting any battles, Cub, Chewie said, and Leia tucked her smile into her hand as she dropped her eyes.
"This doesn't concern you, furball."
When Lumpawaroo makes a terrible mistake, I hold some responsibility for his foolishness.
"I'm not your kid."
You are as good as, the Wookiee rumbled. And my cubs apologize when they have acted with stupidity.
Han rolled his eyes and then turned to Leia. "Just say something."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. Talk about supplies or the damned weather. Something. You always have something to say."
Leia stared blankly at him, amused by the strength of his desperation. "We barely have enough supplies to survive the three week journey we're on. Also there is no weather in space."
Han dropped his utensil into his bowl and scrubbed his hands over his face as Chewie softly whoofed beside him. "For fuck's sake—"
"You're right," she interrupted, slicing to the heart of the matter he was trying to avoid. "I don't want to be here, in these circumstances, but it isn't because of you."
A small lie, but mostly true.
She continued, "I want to be at the rendezvous, helping Carlist take stock of who survived the evacuation. I want to help explain why Hoth fell so easily. I want to accept blame, because there will be plenty of it to go around."
"Can't blame you for Vader showing up."
She laughed humorlessly. "Are you kidding? Of course they can. I was the one who pushed to go to Hoth in the first place. And then Jan abandoned us there after … well."
After he realized I was sleeping with you, she thought but kept to herself.
Another quiet moment but this one was a little warmer. One of the things she had always appreciated about Han and Chewie, even before, was their frankness. No one patronized anyone on this ship. You worked and pulled your weight and that was all that mattered. It was refreshing, even when it stung.
"Anyone who survived the initial assault made it off Hoth, Leia," Han said quietly. "You and Luke held him off for a good while. Don't beat yourself up about that."
Him. Even just the pronoun made her spine break out in shivers.
You were a valiant warrior, Little Princess. Master Yoda will be proud to learn of your stand against the Dark Lord.
"Yoda," she half-laughed under her breath. "I'm not entirely sure he wasn't playing a hand in it, to be honest."
She remembered the voice urging her to breathe, warning her of darkness. She remembered how powerful she had felt, holding the lightsaber. She remembered the cold rightness of it in her grip, and the impossible strength of Luke's telekinesis.
"Point is," Han interrupted a little too loudly, "we'll get you there soon enough and then you'll have lots of ammunition to defend yourself with."
Her eyes caught his, and it felt like the Falcon's hatch had just been ripped out and tossed into the vacuum that held them prisoner. There was no air in the hold, only an irresistible pulling in her chest. But it didn't go toward Han. It pulled away from him, away from this strange situation, in which he pretended his completely reprehensible abdication of responsibilities and connection was in service to her.
As if she had asked him for such self-sacrifice. As if it was her fault.
The tone changed, deepened, like dye blooming in still water, and the heaviness seeped into their bones as they sat around the table, listening to his false reassurance echo through the corridor.
No. His own failure to accept the breadth of their situation was not a positive to celebrate. His shrinking perspective was nothing to honor. She accepted his choices, but he needed to realize—truly realize—that they were exactly that.
Choices.
"And what ammunition defends you?"
She let her words sink in, thanked Chewie again for the meal, and then rose and went to clean up the galley.
—0—
Her words drove him crazy.
Their bite was vicious and they cut him to the quick, as ruthless as a shiv in the gut. He was tempted to declare them heartless, but no. Leia was never heartless. Merciless, sometimes. Ambitious. Quick to attack when she felt cornered. All of that was true. But everything she did was done with impunity and full conviction.
Ammunition? He had all the ammunition in the world. And yet he couldn't think of his reasons for leaving without a shadow of unease, now, when he was expected to give them on command. He had avoided her the past few weeks purely to not have to shoulder that weight.
He sighed, frustrated. It was so hard—so bad in the battle-bled topography of his mind—that he couldn't seem to find reprieve enough to try to sleep. Exhaustion sat at his heels, a faithful pet, while the clip of Leia's accent wouldn't let him rest.
What ammunition defends you?
Her life. Her crusade. The entire starfield of possibility laid out in front of her. What more did he need? What more did she?
He couldn't sleep. Might as well work.
But staring at the hyperdrive casing didn't ease the maelstrom. Out of all the problems facing them, their lack of lightspeed was the most dire, the most dangerous to life and limb. They were lightyears from the rendezvous, lightyears from help. Worse, they were en route to a port that was far from friendly.
Lando.
The last time he had seen Lando Calrissian, the man had been angry. Ahh, that was probably puting it too mildly. The last time he had seen Lando Calrissian, the man had been spitting furious. Undignified, in a way that would horrify the apparently-former conman. Han had done him dirty, as he had hundreds of others, and here now was yet another example of how people just didn't deserve to be treated like shit. Salla, Lando, and now Leia. All of them showing Han a different facet of his many failings.
He was not used to examining such things. That was more Chewie's game. No one would ever claim Han Solo to be a philosopher, or even naturally self-doubting. He just didn't have it in him to peer so far beneath his own veneer. Pragmatism had saved his life, from orphanage cradle to the pilot's seat of the Millennium Falcon, and he didn't know how to handle all this reflection. He was sharp as a tack, quick, and a realist.
None of that helped him to understand this feeling of unworthiness. He wasn't even sure if that was the right word for it. The feeling that he deserved the pain and Leia didn't. The feeling that she had sacrificed enough and that his immolation had just begun.
What ammunition defends you?
She was so good at that, at finding the kind of parasitic words that bevelled into his soul—if indeed he had one of those; the evidence was stacked against him at this point—and reproduced in haunting echoes that stabbed some vital part of him that only she and Chewie knew existed.
Vulnerability? Yes. And no, not even close, because up until two weeks ago, he had let her see every single part of him.
Did you?
He had. The parts that were worth showing, at least.
He sat heavy on the durasteel deck plating, glaring at the ruined hyperdrive casing, and wondered how exactly he was going to survive three weeks of this. The decision to leave had been made upon an invisible condition that he wouldn't have to actually witness the fallout. But here she was. Ground zero. Angry and virtuous and some kind of living, breathing condemnation.
She thought she hid it well, or maybe she didn't but was desperately trying to hide it well. Either way, it was obvious that she felt just as untethered as he did. The difference was that they both knew he was wrong, both knew what he had done to them was horrible. Unforgivable, even if he wanted to be forgiven, which again, he wasn't sure he did. The essential problem still existed, the king of them all. Jabba was sending out Mandolorians to capture him, and apparently everyone in the damn galaxy knew she was the key to destroying him.
Maybe he hadn't been vulnerable then, but he sure as hell was now.
"Fuck," he whispered to himself.
So many problems and not a single solution except forward motion. He would take them to Bespin and pray that Lando was a better person than Han was himself. He would get Leia to the rendezvous as she barbed his back with her little, dangerous truths. And then he would surrender himself to Jabba, try and negotiate his way through some kind of repayment. And if that didn't work, well, then, at least she wouldn't die on his account.
And that was worth everything.
Standing, he wiped his hands on his pants and gave up. The hyperdrive could not be fixed, not in any meaningful way. They could tinker with the auxiliary controls but anything else might endanger the life support systems and that was the last thing they needed.
He was still too wired to try to sleep—and sleeping brought a whole new set of difficulties that he didn't want to imagine, either—and so he decided to grab whatever he could find to drink in the galley and sort out some minor system while he waited to process all this adrenaline. He would soon hit a wall, based on too much experience on this end of hair-trigger escapes. He probably needed a fresher and about thirty hours of sleep.
But first he needed to unclench his jaw. Needed to stop the racing of his thoughts
The galley was clean and occupied by a figure in white. Han nearly turned around to leave before he noticed the soft, slim hand placed over a suspiciously familiar left side of her abdomen.
"Are you injured?"
She jumped, startled, and whirled to face him with a cool mask settling over her features. "No."
He looked pointedly at her hand and raised an eyebrow.
"Not a new injury," she explained as she dropped her hand. "It's fine."
He wanted to kick himself. It had been … what? He counted the days and then grimaced. Just under two standard weeks since Ord Mantell, when the side of her torso had been riddled with pellets. And then she had stood in front of Vader, moving shit with her mind and waving around a lightsaber like she'd been born with one in her hand. Plenty of opportunities to injure tissue that might still be healing. Or worse, the ribs just above that tissue.
"Lemme see," he said, thinking only of her pain, thinking that he might have something in the med bunk that could take the edge off, but then stopped when he caught the perplexed look on her face. "What?"
"You want to see it now?"
Confused, he plowed on. "If I know what I'm dealing with, I can—"
Later, he would look back on this moment as the pinnacle of his own stupidity. The thoughtlessness he displayed in not recognizing the damage he had wrought. The shock of discovering something outside his own pain and heartache. The jolt of suddenly recognizing the path of destruction winding behind him, as evidenced by Leia's disbelief.
"Han, you didn't even come with me to Medical when we first got back," she interrupted.
If he somehow made it to old age, he would never forget that look on her face. The crease in her forehead. The thin line of her lips. Her wide eyes, accusation written on them in bewilderment as obvious as if it had been written in Aurebesh.
"I think it's a little late to be concerned," she finished.
Han's first instinct was to defend himself. There were reasons he hadn't gone to Medical with her on that bloody night, though he couldn't think of them now. And she wouldn't have wanted him there anyway, after what he had put her through, after being ripped apart by a bounty hunter.
And she just casually said shit like this to him, to make him defend himself? Little hits to the chest every time she opened her mouth. He was tired, so fucking tired, of feeling like he was just trying to help her when she wouldn't let him—
But then he stopped himself. Stopped the avalanche of reasons and excuses, the bricks he himself had stacked sky-high, and just looked at her. The woman he loved with every fiber of his being: hurt, alone, and unsure in his motivations. And what else could she possibly think? What other explanation was there aside from the one that was truest?
And yet Leia's physical pain was unacceptable. Especially when there was a perfectly good bone-knitter in the medbunk.
"Anything broken?" he asked.
"Bruised, I think. It's fine."
"Any pain when you take a deep breath?"
"I didn't puncture a lung, if that's what you're getting at."
"Trying to help, here, Leia," he said as his temper flared, the back-and-forth so cold it was like they were still on Hoth. "You don't have to be in pain to prove a point."
Waiting, he captured her reactions like a security cam, every flash of hesitation, every twitch of uncertainty. And it hurt, the way she seemed so unsure, so damn skittish. What did she think he would do? When had he ever acted like he would hurt her? Even in the worst days, he had never threatened her. It was tempting to return to that safe harbor of indignation, but he fought it.
Leia's pain was more important than his hurt feelings.
Finally, she relented with a nod, and that spoke volumes about how much pain she was actually in. Turning, she unzipped the top of her snowsuit and lifted the standard-issue camisole she wore underneath with a speed and precision that made it clear this was not some romantic interlude. How many times had he—had they—undressed her with ceremony, such beloved care...?
This was not helping. She was right to be so brusque, to be intentional with how she interacted with him. They were not together, there was nothing there aside from painful memories that had no place in the space between them. He crouched to be at eye-level, still a good meter away from her but close enough that he would be able to see the tell-tale purple splotches of a burgeoning internal bleed.
But then he came face-to-face with the very clear, very pale skin he'd held between his fingers two weeks ago, unscarred but, yes, bruised. And he suddenly felt like he was about to lose his shit.
Not now, he commanded himself. Pull it together. She's hurt.
He inhaled against the rush of images, but felt the fruitlessness in the way his right hand started to shake. Next would be the flashbacks of helplessness and the dull pain that radiated from his chest like poison through his veins. And then the anxiety, the breathlessness, the need to go somewhere, without a firm destination. Just mindless energy with no outlet, on a circuit that ran through clenched, frozen muscles like electricity. Infuriating and isolating and deep-dark shameful in its impotence.
He attempted to rally his senses, knowing the phantom was not real, that it was all in his head, and maybe this time he could forestall it, focus on the here-and-now. Beautiful skin, unmarked, though the hand that sat at her hip had a softly-bleeding cut on the index finger. She didn't smell of her typical soap and flowers, but of smoke and sweat and carbon scoring. The waistline of her pants slid across said skin, but the fabric was dirty from the battle. He heard her shallow breaths, saw the rise and fall of her chest, but everything else was muted, like he was in a tunnel far away from her.
What else? he urged himself. This is what those Two-One-Bees told Mac to do, right? Describe your surroundings?
Find a reason to stay in the present. Don't fall in. Fight it. Fight it.
Nothing worked. His heart thundered away and he slipped back in time as surely as if a wormhole had opened up behind him. Seized in place, his muscles froze while his heart clicked into overdrive. Adrenaline again, exactly as it had just been a few hours ago in the height of that escape from Hoth, but so much worse now because there was nothing for him to fight against.
Where did all this useless energy come from?
Fuck, he thought, and that was all there was to think. Fuck.
She was fine. He could see that. There wasn't even a scar there, where the compression bandage had been, where his fingers had slipped through her blood, just before she had fallen backwards and flatlined—
"Han?"
It was like her voice was coming from another room. He couldn't move. He tried to breathe, tried to pull himself back, but the trauma had a grip on him as sure as Chewie's. Inescapable, and wasn't that ironic? That he had escaped the inescapable hours before, but now he couldn't break himself free of a fucking memory?
She called his name again but he didn't answer. And then the view changed as she crouched, too, and here were big, concerned brown eyes staring right at him. They flitted around his face, taking stock, but he couldn't react to anything anymore. It was out of his hands now, the panic, the directionless rage, the ways his body threw him backward but adamantly refused to move on from it with any kind of productivity.
A Wookiee growl and then she nodded but didn't look away, like she was trying to anchor him with her eyes.
"You're stuck?" she asked, soft and low. "Flashbacks?"
Oh, hell no. That voice wasn't gonna work on him. "Get away," he said through clenched teeth.
She shouldn't see this. She needed to get away from him, because he didn't trust himself right now. He could either say something hurtful or crawl into her lap and seek forgiveness, there was no telling which at this point. Both were unacceptable.
Leave him be, Chewie said, and Han was grateful. At least someone was on his side.
But it was like Leia couldn't hear him. "Breathe, Han."
Hackles raised, he shook his head but couldn't look anywhere but at her. "Go away."
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't move, still crouched in an identical pose to his. "Don't you recognize this?" she whispered.
The room changed, rotated, and now he could imagine what they must look like, crouched on the deck plates of the galley, space between them seeming so much more distant that it actually was.
And a twitch in the back of his mind. A warm night in a past lifetime. Leia in a corner, hugging her knees, pleading for her mother in a voice that had broken him. He remembered her flinching from his touch, and he remembered thinking that maybe the best thing he could do would be to just sit there with her. Not solving a problem, because what Leia had been through was unfathomable and unsolvable. There was no undoing a genocide.
They hadn't even been friends at that point. He hadn't been in love with her and she had definitely not been in love with him. But suffering was suffering. No one should feel so alone.
"Do you really want me to go?" Now-Leia asked.
Brown on hazel, asking for truth when everything was so damn complicated. She was echoing his words back to him from all those years ago, words he had whispered to her as she cried but wouldn't accept his comfort.
It had been complicated back then, too.
He swallowed and just felt worse for his answer. "No."
Nodding, she folded to the floor cross-legged in front of him with the smallest of winces. Her face was not soft, no graceful smile or light in her eyes, but she kept looking at him, a center to focus on. Her strength humbled him, even as he leeched her for all she was worth.
"Pathetic," he said between clenched teeth.
This was why he had wanted to leave so badly. So she wouldn't see this. So she would let him go without the… the shame of this moment.
She shook her head. "No, it isn't."
"Letting this happen, it's fucking weak—"
"Would you call me that? Weak?"
Silence as he grappled with that response, and she pushed her advantage.
"Trauma isn't weakness."
It was so easy for her to say that, on the other side of it. Trauma. Like the acknowledgement was a cure for the problem.
'How often?"
He didn't know and it must've shown on his face.
Often, particularly at night, Chewie rumbled softly from Han's right.
"Definitely familiar." Her voice was not soothing in any way and yet it was exactly what he needed in that moment. No coddling. No kind lies. "I suppose I should be concerned that the side of my stomach does this to you."
Ah, a joke. A cruel one, but funny nonetheless. "Could be worse," he bit out.
"Oh?"
"Could be the pilot's controls."
Not a laugh. A kind of humored exhale as she put her chin on her fist, elbow balanced on her knee.
And then something broke through, like a light in the dark. Something outside of his own clenched world. Very important. Most important.
"Chewie. Boneknitter."
She was still hurt. Reality existed outside of these attacks. And she needed help.
As expected, she shook her head. "I don't need—"
Ignoring her protests, he spoke over her, hurrying to get out the words he needed to say before another wave hit him. "Screwed it up before."
He should have gone with her to Medical. He should have been there. He would fight her about the rest of it until his dying breath, but she was right in this one aspect. He should have gone with her that night.
She opened her mouth but then relented with a quick exhale. "Fine."
It wasn't enough, of course it wasn't. But at least this was a problem that could be solved.
He had that much power, at least.
Author's Note: Happy August, my friends, and thank you for joining me for yet another month! A special thank you to my hibiscus friends, who have set up some kind of wellness check on me the last week of each month. I love you ladies very, very much. Special love to my bestie, for doing a pre-read for me, because this chapter is about trauma and I needed another set of eyes to feel okay about it.
I want to apologize to anyone's fic that I have unintentionally plagiarized this month or the next few chapters. The TTB is rife with fanfic and I've been reading it for so long that I'm not sure I haven't absorbed some parts of it into my subconscious.
My shaping of Han's trauma is with the use of the breathtakingly poignant book The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma, by Bessel Van Der Kolk, MD. When I don't know something, I look to experts. I encourage every human to read this book. Period.
The next chapter of Specter will be posted Wednesday, September 1st, and we'll continue trying to unclench some of those fists. Have faith, dear readers; our beloved princess and confused scoundrel will make it through. - KR
