Chapter Text
June 27th, 1992
177 Days.
By the time Han parked behind six other cars on the street across from the Pop-n-Shop, the dinner rush was in full swing. All four parking spots out front were filled, and the unofficial ones in the back. Through the windows he couldn’t even see a free seat at the bar, let alone his favorite booth in the corner.
He grit his teeth, wondering if it would be better to run in and grab a loaf of bread and some ham to take back to Chewie’s instead of trying to wade through that mess.
His rumbling stomach answered that question quickly, he ripped the key out of the ignition with a sigh. Han stepped out into the humid June night, no rain, but the air was thick enough to feel like he was breathing soup. It felt like when he breathed under a blanket for too long, hot and like he could never catch his breath. Hell, he’d rather have the rain than this.
The bells on the door chimed when Han walked inside. Loud laughter and the clattering of kitchen utensils greeted him, as well as a half-hearted wave from Hobbie as he balanced a bus bin towering with dirty plates. Han gave him a nod, stepping through the small crowd and sneaking behind the counter, following Hobbie through the door into the back. He dumped the bus bin into the soapy sink, immediately retreating back out into the chaos to collect more.
Han just tried to collect his breath, shaking hair still wet from the shower out of his eyes. He didn’t have more than a moment to himself before the door swung open again. Chewie strode through, black apron dusty with flour and splattered with some kind of sauce, spying Han with a gentle smile. He tilted his head to the side, brows raising as if to say, ‘hiding?’
Han waved his friend off, flipping a bucket upside down and depositing himself on it.
“Long day.”
Chewie nodded, moving around him to grab the empty plastic container he must have come back there for, easily plucking it off a shelf that even Han would have had to get on his toes to reach. Chewie gestured towards the door, as if inviting him back out. He shook his head, much happier to sit perched on a bucket in the relative quiet of the kitchen than fighting for table space or getting roped into some hairbrained scheme of the Rogue’s out there. Half the town was seated in those dingy vinyl booths.
Chewie merely nodded, heading back out into the fray himself.
Han was just about to take the battered copy of Don Quixote from his back pocket when the kitchen door swung open again. Chewie held an overloaded plate and a glass of water, which he handed to Han with a knowing look.
He smiled up at his friend, gratefully taking both, setting the cup on the ground while he balanced the plate on his knees.
“What, no ketchup?”
Chewie merely rolled his eyes at him before disappearing back out the swinging door into the rush, Hobbie replacing him with another towering stack of dirty dishes. He gave Han a nod, but moved to disappear into the dishpit, the clatter of silverware and the hum of the sanitizer turning on was to be the accompaniment to Han’s dinner.
The plate was massive, like Chewie’s always were. He took the meat and two concept in southern dining seriously, but every night it was just a little bit different. A huge piece of cube steak took up a majority of the plate, its rich brown gravy covered the roasted potatoes. A small bowl of butter beans completed the meal with a yeast roll to seal the deal.
He’d scarfed down nearly half of it before the door swung open again, this time catching him with an extra large chunk of steak in his mouth.
A woman blinked at him, having stopped in the doorway upon seeing someone else inside. Or maybe it was the fact he was eating on top of an overturned bucket that made her pause. He knew her — somewhat. At least knew she hung around with the Rogues here on occasion. Her brown skin was slightly damp with the rain that must have picked up outside, black hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. The rain must have started fast, considering the wet patches on the shoulders of her green button down tucked into jeans. Dark eyes narrowed, hand still on the door. Han fought to swallow the piece of meat, holding up a finger as if to ask her to wait.
She didn’t have to, luckily, as Wes pulled the door out of her hands, pushing both himself and the girl fully into the back.
“It’s nothin’ special back here, just the sinks ‘nd —” Wes blinked, seeing Han sitting on his bucket with his half finished plate. He waved his fork at the Rogue, finally choking down that traitorous bite, glancing wearily at the girl. Wes continued, grinning. “This is our local drifter, Han. He hangs out here like a raccoon in a dumpster. Just as hard to get rid of, too.”
“I provide labor in exchange for my loitering.” Han protested, now pointing the fork at Wes. “Who’s she?” The fork turned to the girl, whose expression had changed to mild amusement.
“Shara Bey.” She responded before Wes, arms crossing.
“New manager, apparently.” Wes chimed in anyway, elbowing the girl in a way only friends could. “Chewie hired her yesterday.”
Han didn’t mean for his brows to raise like they did, or to have quite such a skeptical look on his face. It wasn’t like he was consulted on the business end of things, but surely Chewie would have mentioned it if he was looking to hire a manager. Then again, Han had been away all week and hadn’t been able to help around like he normally did. Guilt slid down his throat, suddenly turning his appetite off.
“Good, someone to keep you idiots in line.” He stuck a forkful of potatoes in his mouth just so he wouldn’t have to continue the conversation. Wes did what he always did when he couldn’t come up with a witty response, simply sticking his middle finger up at him as he corralled Shara back out front, continuing their tour.
Hobbie’s head popped out from the pit, his apron already soaked and sudsy.
“If she’s here, then who’s runnin’ hell?”
A couple hours later, after Han had spent at least half that time getting pruney fingers and covered in soap at the sink, helping Hobbie mow through all the dinner dishes, the Rogues finally left the shop. It typically went like this, Chewie letting the guys (and now Shara, apparently) off early while he and Han finished the last of the closing chores. Han didn't mind, especially since he hadn’t closed with him all week. Plus he got to mess with the old radio he’d jerry-rigged into the store’s announcement system while Chewie went to the back to count the register. He’d managed to get one station to sound halfway decent tonight, though still full of static.
There was something peaceful about being in the shop with just Chewie. Han could see the years of work his friend had poured into the space. Even though the materials were dingy or second hand, everything was clean, everything was patched, and everything was level damn near to a T. It was impressive, the way Chewie could spot a skewed sign or a speck of grease on the floor, no imperfection ever lasting more than a moment while he was around.
What Han was most struck by was the casual way he went about it. When something went wrong with the Falcon, Han was swearing and yelling and banging on shit until it somehow fixed itself again, his classic method. Chewie never got frazzled beyond some brief grunts of frustration. He never expected anyone else to be scrubbing the floor on hands and knees, or chipping the tiniest bit of ice build up off the freezers.
Han attempted to find problems before Chewie did, but it was like the guy had a second set of eyes, perfectly trained to zero in on any potential mess. Half the shit Han caught him doing was something he wouldn’t even think about labeling as a problem, like hard water stains or a barely perceivable crack in the tile floor. Multiple times Han had gone back to the store at some ungodly hour at night, when he realized Chewie still wasn’t home, and found him up a ladder or squished under some kind of machine, addressing an issue that surely could have waited for morning, or the next month, for that matter.
It was commendable how much time and energy Chewie put into this place, taking the parts he had and making it work. Han felt similarly about the Falcon… but that was different. When he’d won it off Lando in that fateful game of cards, the Falcon was far too shiny and clean for his liking. It was the kind of car kids would break into, assuming there was something worth selling hidden away in the glove compartment or stashed under a seat. In the couple years he’d had the vehicle, Han spent his time roughing it up, making sure there were enough scratches and dent marks that he could relax in it, kick up his feet and feel at home.
The store was a mess when Chewie got it, it was frankly a miracle it looked the way it did, and a testament to his friend’s determination and skill.
Han finished up before Chewie did, like every time, stashing the broom in its usual cubbyhole, rummaging around in there until his fingers closed over the smooth glass neck he was looking for. He took it into the shop and dropped himself on one of the spinning barstools. He'd stashed the bottle there months ago, hidden inside a box meant for mop cleaner to keep the Rogue's grubby hands off it. He nervously drummed his fingers on the bar top, debating if it would be better to wait until they were both home for this conversation.
Han seemed to decide once he'd reached over the counter for glasses, pouring two fingers worth of the amber liquid in each of them. Chewie had seemed testy talking about Ben, defending Ben. He didn't know the relationship there, but it seemed to be more than just dropping off some groceries every week.
Chewie's slouched, lumbering frame pushed the swinging door, keys spinning in his hands. He glanced at Han in surprise, seeing the glasses set out. A brow raised, and Han watched it extend to his hairline when he read the label on the bottle.
"If I'm gonna be complainin' I need real liquor to do it." Han briefly explained, motioning for Chewie to sit with his glass. He pocketed his keys, moving around to sit next to Han, his large frame looking almost silly in the bar stool, feet dangling (though, not as much as Han's).
Chewie sniffed at the liquid appreciatively before bringing it to his lips, taking a swallow and smacking in satisfaction.
"You up for hearin' me bitch?" Han asked over the lip of his own glass, trying to gauge Chewie's mood. It could be hard to tell, sometimes, with the overtly friendly exterior his friend was forced to maintain here. He saw how it wore him down, coming home some nights and going straight to bed without a word. Tonight didn't seem to be one of those nights, as Chewie had a half-smile decorating his features, gesturing for Han to continue.
And so, he did. He told him about his first week of work on Kenobi's property, and some of the weirdness that surrounded it. He complained about the rotting porch and the seemingly indestructible vining plant that covered half the house. He told him about Luke, and meeting Leia in the rain the week before. He even recounted the strange encounter with Ben he’d had earlier that day.
Chewie listened to his friend ramble on and on about Kenobi House. He’d never been past the gate, personally, but everyone in town knew the rumors. Not that he believed them. Han continued to talk, face getting more and more animated the further the story went along. Chewie idly wondered if this job was actually doing some good for him, forcing him out into the sun, getting him out of the shop, working on something with his hands. Chewie had never seen him as happy as when he was in the guts of their A-6 jet, or similarly whacking away at the Falcon in his driveway.
At least it got him out of the shop, and hopefully out of the mopey, stubborn mood he’d been in since relocating to Millennium.
Chewie seemed amused enough during his regaling of the past week’s events, up until he got to the part about meeting Ben, when Han’s face lost the humor.
Han tipped the glass up, finishing the last of his drink before he continued.
"Then the kid said —" he paused, leveling Chewie with a stoic look. "He said some shit about what went down in the gulf." He gauged his friend's reaction, looking to see whether or not he'd told Luke anything. Chewie's brows furrowed, placing his own nearly empty glass down on the table. Han spun his in his hands. "Did you tell people about that?"
Chewie shook his head no immediately, which made Han take a silent breath of relief. One thing about his friend, he was honest to a fault. Loyal, to a fault, too, which meant when he said something, Han believed him. He'd proven that over and over again by this point.
"Well, somehow he knew about it, and brought it up." The alcohol sat like a rock in his stomach, remembering the discomfort of the conversation, the word hero being thrown in his face. A joke, either himself or the word choice. Probably both. "I don't know if this gig is worth all the crazy shit." Han said, staring at the bottle and debating another pour.
"They're good people." Chewie said, finally, uttering his first words in hours. He cleared his throat. "I've known Ben since my family moved here. For thirty years now." Sometimes Han forgot how much older his friend was, that he'd joined the Navy as a secondary career. "The way this town treats that family..." He trailed off, tipping the glass and finishing the rest of his drink, clunking his empty cup next to Han's. "It's shameful."
Han didn't disagree, but found the immediate defense of Kenobi prickling. It would be much easier if Chewie just said he was a bad guy, and that Han should quit. Making him redeeming only made leaving that kinda money on the table that much harder.
"Ben and Luke, sure. They seem alright. But the girl —"
"Leia has been through a lot.” Chewie snapped, leaving Han wide-eyed. He rarely interrupted him like that. “Go easy on her."
"Easy on her?" Han asked incredulously. "She's the one startin' all this shit!"
"Then let her." Chewie said staunchly, fixing Han with a look that bordered on a glare. "Don't antagonize her."
"What, so you're takin' her side?"
"There's no sides." Chewie said gruffly, lifting a hand to scratch at his beard, one of his nervous tells. "She's... not how she normally is right now."
Han scoffed. "So what? She's usually only bitchy on weekends —"
"Her parents died, Han." Chewie interrupted him again, which was rare enough on its own, let alone twice and with the scolding tone.
Dots connected. What Greer had said to Biggs. What Luke had told him when they’d first met. Still, he couldn’t help but think, there it was again, her parents. Not hers and Luke's, but hers.
Han swallowed, shame mixing with the liquor in his gut. Chewie sighed, turning so he could rest his elbows on the bar top, holding his head in his hands. "It was a couple months ago, sometime in March."
"Here?" Han would have remembered something like that, no one went to the hospital around here without everyone else knowing.
Chewie shook his head.
"In Atlanta, the house caught on fire. Lightning strike. Everyone inside was asleep, for some reason the alarms didn’t go off. Malfunction. Leia wasn't home, but came back to..." He didn't have to continue, Han could picture the brutal scene fine enough without the details. He suddenly regretted his rather callous response to the girl’s quips, but also knew she got under his skin in just the right way that he likely wouldn’t be able to stop.
Still, ‘towny brat’ no longer seemed like an appropriate way to categorize her.
“I think you should keep working there.” Chewie said into the tense silence, moving to step off the stool. He collected their glasses, pulling his keys back out. “They’re good people, they need the help. Just —” he stared at his friend in an almost pained way, lips pressed together. Han looked away, feeling once again like he was under a microscope, even when it was just Chewie. “Move with compassion, with them, kid.”
He hated that nickname, the same one he’d been using for Luke — but Chewie had been calling him that for too long now to stop.
“Hey, I can be compassionate —”
Chewie’s brows raised, and Han let his sentence die out with a muttered ’fine’. It seemed to be all Chewie needed before he stepped behind the counter, swiping Han’s bottle by the neck to deposit back in its hiding place, dumping the glasses in the sink.
Compassionate.
He could be compassionate. Sometimes. On occasion. When the world wasn’t hell-bent on pissing him off.
Han let out a breath, hopping off the stool himself before they both braved the returned rain and trekked over to the Falcon.
He was going to have to learn to bite his tongue, and bite it quick.