Shoot first. Kill it, if you have to (Time Travel, Han Solo Style)

By Indygodusk

Chapter 3 - Tuskens and Tarps

Being patient wasn't Han's strong suit. He pulled his blaster to soothe the itch down his back but otherwise tried not to move. The tarp he'd put up to hide the cave only covered about two-thirds of the opening. It made it easy to see out, but he couldn't do anything to make himself more hidden. All he could do was rely on luck and trust in the natural difficulty of looking into a dark, shadowed space when you were in full sun to keep from being discovered and beaten to death by Sand People. Han didn't like trusting luck or nature to go his way—he wasn't like Luke. Resting his finger along the trigger guard, he grumpily waited to be discovered.

The Sand People traveled single file, so it took a while for the raiding party to pass through the canyon in front of his cave. Bulging saddlebags meant they were returning from raids on settlers. That or they'd been lucky enough to seize a smuggler's cache without running afoul of the lethal defenses. Han didn't care who they'd raided as long as they left him alone. It was unlikely they'd been brave enough, or stupid enough, to try stealing from the Hutts since everyone knew the Hutts were willing to pay mercenaries to slaughter entire villages of Tuskens or Jawas to send the locals a message and didn't much care if they targeted the wrong place. The Hutts were proud, cunning, and petty, honing their cruelty over hundreds of years of life.

Even decades later, Han still found it hard to believe that his friends had been crazy enough to try and steal him from Jabba the Hutt. That they'd succeeded despite all that had gone wrong during the rescue was due to sheer dumb luck, the magic of the Force, and the Skywalker Effect. The impossible became possible when a Skywalker was involved. Of course, that applied to the bad as well as the good—whatever could go wrong did go wrong around Skywalkers.

Han hadn't willingly gone back to Tatooine in decades. The last time, he'd gotten caught out in a deadly sandstorm in the desert while Leia met some relatives of Luke's Aunt and received her Grandmother Shmi's journal. It hadn't been a swell time for him, though the journal had at least allowed Leia to find some peace over the identity of her biological father. They hadn't talked about it much, as Leia usually preferred to pretend her hurts hadn't happened as much as possible and Han indulged her. He'd have been just as happy never to return to this place—if any Skywalker had cared to ask his opinion. Han had a sour feeling that Anakin Skywalker wasn't used to asking or listening to anyone else's opinion.

The bantha passing by his cave dropped a load of dung pellets with a loud rattle. They hit the ground and scattered along the trail. Wrinkling his nose, Han made a mental note to watch where he stepped when it was time to leave.

A gust of wind whistled down the canyon, swirling into his cave through the gap in the tarp and coating his mouth with sand. Seconds later, the stench of fresh dung, musky animals, and unwashed humanoids invaded his cave and made him want to gag. The wind picked up, going from a whistle to a howl. Han had to turn his head and squint his eyes shut against the harsh grate of sand scouring across his skin. The wind had just started to die down when Han heard the sound of ripping fabric. Eyes snapping open, he watched with horror as one corner of his tarp ripped loose and started flapping like a giant 'look over here' sign. Han lunged forward, grabbed the corner of the tarp, and yanked it down, braced himself to hear the Tuskens' undulating battle cry as they charged his cave.

Over the sound of his rapid breathing, all he could hear were the soft sounds of Banthas mooing at each other and the rustle of the Tusken's tack and saddles. They must not have noticed. Han wiped his eyes free of grit and swallowed to wet his tongue as he squinted out into the bright canyon. No one was even glancing in his direction. The last of the Banthas appeared with its Tusken rider and bulging saddlebags, meaning Han's torment was almost over. Han sighed in relief.

However, before he could relax too much, he saw something he wished he hadn't. As the last Tusken in line bent forward in the saddle to grab something from a bag, the Bantha turned parallel to Han's cave, revealing a body tied hand and foot and slung behind the Tusken like a hunting trophy. The body wasn't moving. Long brown hair matted with dried blood covered its face. It looked like a large child, a small woman, or one of the shorter alien species, though it was too big for a Jawa.

Poor sod, Han winced. He felt bad, but he wasn't getting involved. For all he knew it was already too late and that was just a dead body being dragged back for the stewpot. That or the person could've attacked the Tuskans first and were only getting what they deserved, however unpleasant. It wasn't his business and Han wasn't getting involved.

He still had to save the Force and kill some people. Helping some random bystander wasn't worth the risk of getting murdered—again—before doing that saving. He wasn't sure Ben could bring him back to life a second time (if Ben's ghost was even still around) and he'd hate to disappoint his kid all over again, not to mention his wife. He'd disappointed both of them enough the first lifetime, especially Leia, but he didn't want to think of that, so he wouldn't. Instead, he'd just be irritated by the ache of his joints and the sand making its way into his underwear and ignore what was going on outside the cave. It didn't have anything to do with him.

As if to test his resolve, the line of Bantha slowed down to a crawl. Han wanted to look away, but couldn't quite bring himself to because the closer that bound and beaten body came, the more it started to look eerily like his wife. Throat burning with acid, Han blinked and rubbed hard at his eyes and mouth, welcoming the scrape of grit on his skin to ground him in this reality.

It's just an illusion born of guilt. It has to be. Leia can't be here. You know better. Ignore it.

Firming his jaw, Han went to look away when the wind kicked up again and blew the woman's dark hair away from her face for a split second. Han's heart stopped. He only caught a quick flash of dark eyes, a clenched jaw, and skin painted with a rainbow of bruises. Then the woman pushed herself away from the Tusken and flung herself off the back of the bantha, her features once more hidden from view.

That quick flash of face sent him reeling. It felt like the stab of a strobe light waking you from a sound sleep in a dark room, the bite of a blaster shot in the back, the blister of a torture droid. It was horror and outrage and visceral denial—because Han knew that stubborn jaw and had worshiped it with hands and tongue and teeth. That was his wife. That was his Leia, but Leia was supposed to be safe in the embrace of the Force and fighting to hold onto the old timeline with Luke until Han made this time into a better place for her to flourish. She was supposed to be not here and safe.

How dare Vader hurt her like this again? How dare he carelessly use her as bait in one of his traps? Again?

They must've been wrong about Anakin Skywalker. He wasn't redeemed, certainly not enough to care about his daughter's welfare or anything else but himself and his own agenda. That first killing of Palpatine was just a fluke. They'd all been deceived. Han was going to kill him. He would put a blaster bolt right through each of Vader's glowing blue eyes, kick him in a Sarlacc pit, and piss on his corpse.

Heart clawing up his throat, Han saw Leia's body hit the ground hard, rolling several times before slamming to a stop against the canyon wall. Hands and legs still tied and hair tangled across her face, she tried to get up onto her knees, only to collapse. Sobbing for breath, she dug her bound hands and feet into the sand and tried to drag herself away from her captors. Even bruised and battered and outnumbered, she still refused to quit.

That was his wife, that was his Leia, that was—"LEIA!" Han roared, breaking out of his shock. Gripping his blaster, he rolled out of the cave already firing, unable to keep from bellowing Leia's name again and again. "LEIA! Leia!"

He'd forgotten about the sandy tarp still gripped in one fist. The other corners ripped free from their anchors as he rolled, tangling the tarp across his chest and over his back and arms. As he jumped to his feet, the tarp whipped through the air wildly and released great clouds of sand to billow about him in the air, making it hard to see anything clearly as he fought to get free and save her. "Leia! Leia! Leia!" His voice echoed back and forth in the narrow canyon, amplifying and distorting like the cry of some great fell beast.

Startled, the banthas stamped their massive feet in fright. The Sand People cried out and fell back. Taking a deep breath and remembering the story of Kenobi saving Luke from Sand People by bellowing like a Krayt Dragon, Han shrieked even louder, grabbing the edge of the tarp with his free hand and swinging it around over his head to make himself seem bigger, flapping it at the eyes of the nearest bantha and stirring up more clouds of sand and grit. He kept shooting wildly in the opposite direction of where Leia lay, adding to the chaos. His shots hit several of the banthas, not doing serious damage but making them rear, toss their riders, and start to run away, trying to escape the painful sting and the sound of his shrieking. Crying out in fear and panic, the Tuskens followed, disappearing into the desert landscape within seconds.

Dropping the tarp as he rushed forward, Han dropped to his knees by Leia's side, ignoring the unhappy jolt of pain from his back and aging knees. "Leia," he said urgently, turning her over, "Leia sweetheart, are you alri—" Han stopped abruptly, hands jerking away from where they'd been about to cup a stranger's face.

It wasn't Leia.

Swollen brown eyes wet with tears met Han's warily, yet with dignity and poise. She had the same shape of jaw, the same shade of hair and eyes, but thinner lips and an upturned nose. Her clothes were torn and her skin cut and bruised from captivity, but there was still fight in her. It was a face lined by a lifetime of harsh sun, too much work, and even more sorrow, with poor but serviceable clothing.

Not his Leia.

Feeling winded, Han looked down and away, trying to slow his galloping heartbeat as he fumbled at his belt until he could get his knife loose. Turning back, Han cut the woman free, unwinding the rope from the furrows in her swollen skin with a wince. He was grateful she didn't scream, just gritted her teeth and focused on the canyon wall over his shoulder.

"Thank you," she said when he'd finished, her voice raspy from either lack of water or crying. Han grunted in response. He hoped she was just thirsty. At least that was something he could fix.

If he decided to get more involved, that is. He probably shouldn't. Doing even this much was probably going to come back to bite him.

Stalking back to the cave, he pulled out a fresh canteen and brought it back, dropping it in the woman's lap. "Here."

"Thanks," she said.

Han didn't want her thanks, he just wanted this day to be over. His heart hurt and he felt lost and lonely. He missed having Chewie at his back and he wanted Leia by his side trying to tell him what to do so they could argue about it and then make up and snuggle together on the Falcon's couch. Instead, he was alone and aching in the middle of the desert. He wanted this mission done and this second life to be over.

The woman seemed to be having trouble opening the canteen with her cut and swollen fingers. Han tried to harden his heart and looked away, though he couldn't help but keep her in the corner of his eye. He didn't want to get more involved. The woman finally managed it, lifting the canteen to her cracked and bleeding lips, closing her eyes at the first swallow with a sound perilously close to a sob.

It hurt to hear and it hurt to look at this eerily familiar stranger. He didn't want to think of Leia tied up and tortured like that. It isn't Leia, Han reminded himself. It's just some stranger. The woman's clothing looked threadbare and poor, though well-mended. She didn't look rich enough to pay him a reward for saving her. He'd already done more than enough. More than he'd intended. Time to wash his hands of this situation and move on, especially with the twin suns turning gold on the edge of the sky. "Night's coming and those Tuskens won't be scared off for long," Han said, squinting into the sunset. "They'll be back. You should get out of here while you can."

"On foot? Alone?" She looked at him helplessly and then around the stark canyon, not seeming to notice the speeder hidden in the cave at his back. Her face fell with bitter resignation when he didn't answer her silent plea. Feeling like a real bastard, Han avoided her eyes, though he felt his resolve to stay out of it start to crumble.

"Alright," she said quietly. Holding onto the rock wall for stability, the woman stood up shakily, straightened her tunic, and tucked her hair out of her face and behind her ears in an achingly familiar gesture. Shoulders stiff with pride, she turned and took four limping steps before her foot hit a patch of gravel and she tripped, sprawling forward onto the ground on her hands and knees with a bitten-back cry.

Unable to stop from rushing forward, Han put his arm around the woman's waist and lifted her back onto her feet, helping to dust her off and not commenting on her ragged breathing or the trembling hands that made her drop the canteen right after she'd picked it up again. He just picked it up silently and slung the strap over his shoulder. "Alright, sister, come on. I'll patch you up and give you a ride on my speeder," he grumbled, guiding her into the cave.

"Thank you, you're very kind," she said with quiet dignity, making him feel guiltier.

"I'm really not," he warned her.

Helping her climb into the passenger seat of the speeder, he handed back the canteen and went to the trunk to grab the medkit he'd seen in there earlier. Under the medkit, he found a map tablet. Grabbing them both, he rounded the speeder and slid into the driver's seat. "Here," he said, handing her the medkit. "There's not much in there," he wrinkled his nose and shrugged, "but I'm sure they can heal you up better in town anyway. We can't risk hanging around here in case the Sand People realize I tricked them and come back. There's too many to fight off by myself."

Swallowing a gasp, the woman paled. "No, that would be bad," she said, fingers going white on the canteen as her eyes darted around the surrounding cliffs, searching for signs of her captors returning.

"Yeah, I don't want that either. Give me a second and we'll take off." After making sure the tablet couldn't be tracked after being turned on, Han searched for the closest spaceport. He grimaced at the answer displayed on the screen. "Mos Eisley's the closest." Han had too many bad memories of that place, but at least it was in the opposite direction from the town where he'd stolen the speeder. "I'll drop you off at the gates."

Swallowing down several pills, the woman took one more gulp of water before screwing on the cap decisively and placing it down between her feet on the floor of the speeder. "My home's not too far past that," she said with a hopeful look in his direction. "On the Great Chott salt flat in the Jundland Wastes."

"Then you shouldn't have too much trouble getting there from the town gates," Han said repressively as he turned on the speeder and backed it out of the cave. "I can't waste the fuel on a detour when my tank is already low and I don't have the credits for a refuel. Unless you're hiding money I don't know about, you can go with me to town and call for a ride there or you can hop out in the Jundland Wastes and go the rest of the way on foot. No skin off my nose, whichever you pick." As the route became less twisty and narrow, Han increased his speed, hoping the sound of the wind would discourage conversation.

No such luck.

Lips pressing tight in response to his words, she took a deep breath—he knew that expression and it made him want to duck his head and wince—and thanked him for the ride to town. "I'm Shmi Lars. My husband and I are moisture farmers."

Looking down at the medkit in her lap, she pulled out a roll of bandages, picking loose a strip and winding it around the bloody gouges circling her left wrist. "We were out working on the edges of the homestead when the Sand People attacked—not one of the local tribes we have treaties with. My husband was hurt but still alive when they took me." Corners of her mouth drooping, she tore off another bandage and started wrapping her opposite wrist. "Owen, my stepson, should've noticed something wrong when we didn't come back. I just hope Cliegg was found before it was too late…." Breath catching in her throat, her voice trailed off. She looked down, her unbound hair swinging forward to hide her face from view as she started packing up the medkit with trembling fingers.

Shifting in his seat, Han adjusted a dial on the dash, feeling sympathetic despite himself. "If he's half as tough as you, I'm sure he'll be fine," he said awkwardly.

A surprised and shyly pleased smile lit Shmi's face, revealing a quiet beauty despite the cuts and bruises. That look punched Han in the chest all over again with that feeling of familiarity. He was getting tired of it, like an itch he just couldn't scratch. Clearing his throat, he looked away and focused on the path up ahead. "I'm Han Solo."

"Nice to meet you, Han Solo," she said. Latching the medkit, she traded it with her canteen and took a drink. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You can ask," he drawled, "but I probably won't answer." Turning out of the rocky canyon and down the slope leading out into the desert, Han added, "Well, not unless you want to talk about travel, spaceships, or trading. I'm a pilot, sometimes merchant / sometimes smuggler, and a pretty decent mechanic. I like talking about ships."

"It just so happens that I'm a more than decent mechanic myself, though I've more experience with small vehicles than large spacecraft," Shmi said with a quiet confidence that made him want to believe her and gave him hope for an entertaining debate. He felt his mood lifting.

"But first I wanted to ask," she hesitated for a moment, "who's Leia?"

"Nobody," he snapped, good mood evaporating.

Stomach lurching, Han's shoulders hunched up to his ears. "Well, not nobody," he said gruffly. "She's obviously somebody. An important somebody. Very important—a princess and a general, the love of my life and too good for me, smart and honorable, with the temper of a Rancor, the drive of a reactor core, and a heart stronger and brighter than a million stars. She—"

Cutting himself off, Han took a shaky breath. He was rambling. Mouth dry, he swallowed to wet his throat and tried again, keeping it simple. "Leia's…Leia's my wife."

"Did you lose her?" Shmi asked gently.

Clamping down hard on the overwhelming surge of emotion brought on by her question, Han bit back the howl trapped in his chest and tightened his grip on the steering yoke until it creaked beneath his hands. "New topic," he said curtly. "Favorite brand of wrench."

After a beat of silence, Shmi followed the shift. "Do I have to pick just one? I think it rather depends on the job at hand. For a speeder like this, I'd say…." The conversation kept to impersonal topics after that, which suited Han just fine.