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Chapter Text

June 19th, 1992

185 Days.

Han Solo drummed his fingers across the battered steering wheel in time to the pounding rain outside. It had been a wet spring, turning into a wet summer. He’d already had to replace the windshield wipers of the Falcon a month ago, and they’d just started squeaking across the glass again.

He grimaced, staring through the downpour at the wooden sign in front of him, the water sliding off the glass making the words, ’Now leaving Millennium, Georgia. Come on Back!’ look distorted and melting.

It looked like how he felt, worn down, aged. The rain always made his bad knee ache, so he’d been aching for the last two months. He felt much older than his years, but too young to already feel this stuck.

The sign was already in need of replacement before the unseasonable rain began, but now the faded paint was peeling and the wood was splitting across the grain, growing something green and fuzzy on the cartoon cow that waved goodbye.

Millennium. Han had scoffed when he first heard the name of the small town. Once he moved in, he swore it gained its name because nothing had changed around here in a millennium. Everywhere in town looked like it had been the same since the end of the Second World War.

And really, he thought, probably since the end of the Civil War. The people had hardly changed since then, too.

The radio was fuzzy, popping in and out due to the weather. Han shut it off in frustration.

He understood why, but was still annoyed when Chewie got like this, up in arms and practically shoving him out the door of the Pop-n-Shop, threatening to lock it behind him in that low, growling voice of his.

Han had been messing with the faulty produce sprinklers, again, convinced he’d actually found a fix for them this time. He’d swiped Chewie’s keys off the hook by their shared front door, letting himself into the store before the sun had come up. When Chewie got there around seven, he’d spied Han with a huff. By the time two in the afternoon had rolled around, and Han was still on his back underneath the stand, whacking away at the pipes and cursing every other breath, his friend nearly grabbed him by his ear and aimed for the exit.

At least Chewie had disguised his kicking out of Han with a task. Millennium was in the middle of no where, so if anything speciality was needed, it was either a two hour haul to Macon or an hour and a half to Savannah. Chewie had arbitrarily decided they needed a dozen more Cambro food storage containers in a variety of sizes. It just so happened that the closest store that sold them were, of course, in Macon.

Where the drive would force Han to take a break.

He’d been threatened not to come back until after the dinner rush — take his time, go get lunch, sit in the sun — since it was clear Millennium wasn’t going to get any. Han thought it was all pointless, but wasn’t going to say no to a good, long drive.

Chewie was pushy, sure, but well meaning. He was a large man, even by Han’s standards, towering over him by at least four inches when he extended to his full height. He had long black hair that, when worn down, reached past his chest, though it was usually pulled up in some amalgamation of a knot on the back of his head. He had a thick, meticulously shaped beard to match. His tan skin highlighted the patchwork of scars and swirling black ink of tattoos that decorated him.

Han knew what the townsfolk said about him, about ’men like him’, assuming his character based off of nothing more than a glance, and the fact he looked different than them — but they couldn’t be further away from the truth.

His friend was kindhearted, perhaps too so, and better than every single other person who called Millennium their home. That much he’d learned for a fact since being here.

Han was only in this god-forsaken blip of a town because of Chewie, he was still working out whether it was a blessing or a curse. It was supposed to be a temporary stop, a month or two max to get back on his feet. Chewie bought everything second hand from a used restaurant supply shop that was up towards Macon, and was one of the reasons he’d offered Han the job in the first place. Half of the equipment in the Pop-n-Shop was either broken or barely functioning when he rolled into town, wanton and desperate after barely making it out of New York. He spent his first month here on his back or ten feet up a ladder, bringing everything back to at least working condition from the flat top grill, to the AC units on the roof, and even re-doing the flooring for the diner-section of the establishment.

Chewie never asked him to do any of these things, per say. His agreement of staying in his spare room was one made from love, and maybe a bit of feeling like he had to, and not contingent on Han’s ability to keep the Pop-n-Shop functioning. That was all his own, considering Chewie didn’t let him pay a dime in rent, grumbling about transactional friendships and that Han didn’t owe him anything. He liked to disagree, but it was an argument he rarely won. So, instead of sneaking cash into the register, Han would swipe the keys off the hook by Chewie’s front door and spend the early hours of the morning replacing dish-washer heating coils and rewiring the faulty fluorescent lights. His silent gratitude to his friend echoing in every door that squeaked a little less when you opened it and every burner that got hot twice as fast as it used to.

There wasn’t a fix Han made that Chewie didn’t want to inspect, and not because he didn’t trust him. He was curious as to how it worked, how Han thought through the issue. Sometimes when nothing Han was trying worked, Chewie was able to look at it and identify the problem in minutes. Hell, Chewie had been nearly as gruff with him to try and get him to leave New York, for years. But it was never a command. It was never a reminding of place. Never an institution of hierarchy.

He wasn’t supposed to be a permanent fixture in Chewie’s spare room, nor be on a first name basis with half the town’s youth who his friend employed in that shop of his. Yet, here he was.

Said youths, some kids a few years younger than him who went by stupid nicknames like Wedge and Biggs (begrudgingly reminding Han of callsigns and when he’d gone by his own stupid nickname), had snickered when Chewie tossed Han out in the rain, grumbling low about not spendin’ his whole life in this damn shop.

Said youths, some kids a few years younger than him who went by stupid nicknames like Wedge and Biggs (begrudgingly reminding Han of callsigns and when he’d gone by his own stupid nickname), had snickered when Chewie tossed Han out in the rain, grumbling low about not spendin’ his whole life in this damn shop.

Rich, coming from him, who hadn’t scheduled himself a day off in weeks.

“Whatever you say, pal,” had been his muttered response as he stepped into the rain, trudging over to his only real possession, his ‘79 Ford Bronco, parked around back.

The thing was a piece of shit — got horrendous mileage, the transmission is nearly shot, and everything on the inside is an amalgamation of parts he’d managed to find for cheap. But it was his piece of shit.

As much as Han whined, he would take any excuse to take the Falcon out for a bit. Sometimes, he felt the only time he could think was when he was speeding down the 341 to i-75 — windows always down, radio always blasting. It was the closest he’d come to finding peace in a long, long time.

This drive had been nice, better than nice, if he ignored the way the gear shift started shaking in his hands when he got up past 70 miles per hour. It had felt like a desperately needed breath of fresh air, getting out of town for the afternoon. He had taken his friend’s advice and stopped for lunch at a barbeque stand halfway to Macon. It was fine — nothing compared to Chewie’s, though he only dragged the smoker out once a month during the summer. The entire town came when Chewie was serving barbeque, making it a whole spectacle — picnic tables, red and white checked tablecloths, styrofoam plates, fruit punch in giant coolers, sliced watermelon, screaming kids with water guns, the whole gambit.

The trip inside the restaurant depot took a total of maybe ten minutes, Han walking out with nearly a hundred dollars worth of plastic food storage containers, tossing them unceremoniously in the back of the Bronco. He did make one other stop, the hardware store, seeing if wandering the aisles would give him any inspiration for what might be making the sprinklers act up. After a half hour of nothing, he gave up, purchasing a couple smaller items that he needed for other repairs, since he was almost never out here, and finally left Macon.

Han made it back to rainy, miserable Millennium before six, flying down the highways with the speed the Falcon afforded him, mysterious gear shift shaking seeming to have resolved itself for now. Though, now, it meant he was here. Parked on the other side of this stupid sign, trying to waste time until seven so he wouldn’t get a tongue-lashing from Chewbacca.

Han wouldn’t find any further distractions in town. There was nothing to do in Millennium besides hang around the Pop-n-Shop. That was what anyone under the age of twenty-five in town did, often occupying the small counter and handful of booths Chewie had shoved in the corner of his shop until closing time, and sometimes after. Usually pestering Han with questions or getting in the way of his work, if not causing the problems he was trying to fix themselves.

Millennium wasn’t even big enough for Chewie to have opened his own diner, as was his wish when he returned to his home town after deployment. Hell, the town wasn’t even big enough to support a god-damn Waffle House. Which, according to Biggs, was practically a sin in the state of Georgia, and potentially why Millennium wasn’t included on most state maps. Instead, Chewie had to buy the old grocery store and make it work, much to the annoyance and downright refusal of some who lived in town.

Still, their insistence at pushing him out had yet to work, and over five years the Pop-n-Shop’s small sandwich counter, turned full service meal counter, was arguably more popular than the store itself. Chewie had been working behind the grill permanently for a few years now.

Han could go see a movie, he mused. Except, by the time anything made it to bedraggled Cineplex in Millennium, it was already out on VHS. He’d have to drive to the next town over to rent one of those, too. They didn’t even have a bar here, though he blamed that more on the bible-thumpers than the town’s ability to keep it afloat. Half of Chewie’s sales had to come from the small beer and wine cooler in the store, where men and women alike came to get their fix away from the prying, judgemental eyes of their spouses.

This place could have easily been the inspiration for Footloose.

To get a bottle of liquor was at least a half hour's drive, and that’s without country traffic. The first time he’d gotten stuck behind a tractor on some backroad made him want to tear his hair out. Maybe he should have made a stop on his way back — the kids Chewie had hired always seemed to find his hidden stash.

The rain continued to pound against the roof of his beloved car, creating a white-noise of rhythmic thuds while Han contemplated what to do with his ‘time off’. He checked the clock on the Falcon’s dash.

It had been a whopping ten minutes of staring at this stupid sign.

He could leave Millennium for the night, he supposed. Drive to Savannah, grab a drink or play some cards with Lando at his new hotel and bar, ‘Cloud City’. Which, to Han, sounded more like a smoke shop than a new, premier destination on Bay Street. He still hadn’t been, though Lando phoned the Pop-n-Shop nearly weekly to invite him and Chewie.

Good luck gettin’ the furball away from his shop. Han had always thought, glimbly, though a larger part of him respected the hell out of Chewie for his dedication to his work, even if he didn’t understand it.

Idly, he wished Clary’s, his favorite lunch spot in Savannah, was still open this time of night — maybe the waitress he’d been flirting with there would be around, an easy way to ensure he kept away from the shop. But, the shop was closed for dinner, and he never even asked the girl for her number, she was really just something fun for him to do while he wasted time in Savannah, which he did feel fleetingly guilty about.

Besides the fact he’d already driven nearly four hours today, he didn’t want to push his luck further. He was massively overdue for new tires, the tread nearly bald, and had already had a few moments of hydroplaning getting back into town. He didn’t feel like trying to pull his precious Bronco from a ditch today, getting soaked to the bone while doing so.

Trying to ignore the ever-present feeling of being trapped in this town, he put the car in reverse and swerved back onto the road, leaving the rotting sign in the rearview mirror. There was never anyone on the roads in Millennium when the weather was like this, which was somehow becoming the new normal.

He’d never seen a town more flustered by weather than this one. Every day there were folks preaching about it being a sign of the end times, that it was God starting a second flood, or that it was the work of the devil, or some other divine force that was destined to doom them all. He tried not to pay them much attention, but their preaching grated his nerves and set his temper on fire.

He’d dealt with the religiously zealot before, in far closer quarters than he’d ever wanted to. He wasn’t keen to repeat that experience.

It was perhaps his least favorite thing about Millenium, topping a long list he kept updated in his head. The ruined asphalt streets that rumbled the already straining frame of his car was a close second. People’s inability to stay out of each other’s business rounded the corner for an easy third.

He’d chalked it up to a small town thing, where there was nothing better to do than stir the pot. Millennium’s population was a couple hundred, small enough where everyone knew everyone, which always set him on edge. Han had never lived this far south before, nor in a place without a population of at least several hundred thousand. He had grown up purely above the Mason Dixon line, meaning it only ever got hot a handful of weeks a year. For the six months and change he’d lived here, it was nearly constant. He hadn’t sweat this much since his time in the Persian Gulf, which he made a concerted effort not to think about.

Of course, most of that had stopped in April, when the rain began.

Distracted by his frustrations, silently cursing Chewie under his breath, Han almost didn’t notice the old, yellow VW Beetle hurdling around a corner, angling briefly on two wheels as it cut right in front of him. He slammed on the breaks, hearing them squeal and feeling his car lurch to a sudden stop, somehow not skidding on the slippery road. His teeth clenched uncomfortably hard, hands gripping the steering wheel as breath sawed in and out of his chest, watching the yellow bug regain control and speed away.

Idiot. The other car hadn’t bothered to slow down or stop, flying down the street with a series of bumps and the whine of an engine that rasped in his ears and set his brain spinning. Well, when someone drove it like that, he could understand why the poor thing sounded in such bad health.

Pushing his ire down, Han turned his grumbled curses from his friend to the Beetle’s driver, loosening his grip on the wheel and limping the Falcon back up to speed, turning the same corner the other driver had.

It was likely one of the little old ladies who sat on their porches every day, no matter the weather or temperature, judgmental eyes following anyone and everyone who happened to be outside. They were the nosiest of all. Han went out of his way to give them a forced smile and sarcastic wave when he walked past, which only caused their noses to scrunch as they forced a similarly friendly greeting, southern manner culture overriding their obvious distaste for an outsider in their po-dunk town.

Han turned another corner, already on the other side of Millennium, to see that the yellow Beetle had pulled into one of the four parking spots outside the Pop-n-Shop. He scowled. As much as he hated the gossiping older generation of town, several of them adored Chewie. Of course, not the same ones who distrusted him for his tattoos, or the vastly more racist reasons, but there were a select few that sought out the quiet man specifically. He saw them trailing behind Chewie in the shop, having him push their carts around and fill it with groceries while talking his ear off about who-did-and-said-what or who-stole-who’s-recipes or something equally as banal. Han didn’t know how his friend did it, let alone with a smile on his face, escorting these women around his store like they didn’t threaten to boycott it when he’d taken over the building lease.

Then again, he’d always known Chewie had been the better one of them two.

He’d planned on returning back to the small house where Chewie had been letting him stay, but then he saw a mop of blond hair leap from the driver’s seat, the shape of a young, slim man as opposed to the hunched older woman he’d expected. His frame came fully into view, and Han hazily thought there was something familiar about him.

An unfortunate reality of staying in Millennium, you came to know most people who also lived there. It was something he avoided admitting for as long as possible, as it would make his half a year of being there seem too real. Han had stopped seeing new faces pop into the store. He felt like he could put a name, or at least a story or remembered snarky comment, to every person he saw when walking down the block lined with Victorian-style houses. It was a habit at this point in his life for him to remember a face, but the sobering reality that this was all there was to Millennium made him wish he didn’t.

This kid? Han had clocked where the vague familiarity had come from. The blond started showing up at Chewie’s a couple months back. Han didn’t make it a habit to remember all the regulars, but he thought he was maybe friends with the guys who worked there. He was pretty sure he saw them all hanging out back after shift at least once, passing cigarettes between them. The car, however, was new. Not new, the thing nearly rattling apart with just the hum of the engine — but new to him. Han would have remembered such an old hunk of junk. They were his favorite.

He had half a mind to go in there and rip the kid a new one for nearing crashing into the Falcon.

The other half was more curious about the ride.

Before he could talk himself out of it, or think too hard about Chewie’s brusk reaction when he saw him in the shop again, Han whipped into one of the empty parking spots, glaring suspiciously at the yellow car. The thing had to be at least thirty years old, if not older, and it sure looked its age. The paint was faded and chipped, and Han saw the entire bumper was nearly rusted out. It was missing two hubcaps and he could smell the oil leaking from the engine when he opened his car door.

Which, the wind tried to rip it out of his hands. He leapt out into the rain, shutting the errant door with a grunt, and shoving into the store. The whoosh of the recently repaired air conditioning chilled the raindrops on his skin. He was shaking the water from his hair when one of the kids, Wes, called his name.

Wes, Wedge, and Biggs crowded around the register, giant, dumb smiles on their faces, eyes trained on him.

Great, it was the whole little gang of them, which they had an even dumber nickname for. The Rogues. Something about some highschool teacher dubbing them that when a prank had gone awry, as theirs usually did. Han thought the entire thing was dumb. They were just missing their fourth member, Hobbie. He was sure he was crawling around here somewhere, they were always together, even when one of them wasn’t working.

The blond was standing on the other side of the register, propped up against the counter. He casually leaned his weight on his elbows and had clearly just been laughing at something. His white t-shirt transparent around the shoulders from the rain, his jeans also half-way soaked. He turned his wide, blue eyes on Han as the door rattled closed behind him in the wind.

“That’s him.” Wes whispered to the blond.

“You’re Han?” He asked, eyes flicking up and down as if to take him in. Han felt himself stiffen, warily glaring at the guys behind the register. He didn’t care much about what people said about him, but knowing the four of them had been discussing him before he walked in, his defenses raised like hackles. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Who’s askin’?”

“Luke?” Wedge asked, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, don’t worry. He’s harmless.” He stuck his thumb at the kid, talking through his teeth. “Crazy Old Kenobi’s nephew.” He continued with a grin, earning him a smack on the back of the head from Biggs. “What? That’s what everybody calls him!” Wedge complained, rubbing the sore spot. Luke didn’t seem phased, merely giving the other guy an amused but exasperated look.

“His name is Ben.”

Crazy Old Kenobi. Han had heard of him before, it was hard not to, around here. He tried to recall what he actually knew about Ben Kenobi, who lived isolated on the other half of town. It wasn’t much, he’d never seen the man. The talk was that no one had seen him in years. He was the town shut in, the whispered about hermit, Millennium’s own Boo Radley. He’d even heard the large, bedraggled house he lived in referred to as The Haunted Mansion.

Of course it was, in this backwards-ass town.

This kid couldn’t possibly be related to that specter. Even here, Han could irritatingly feel something like goodness radiating off of him, a naive nobility that pulled his shoulders back to stand taller than he really was. His face was unlined and spotted with freckles, something child-like about it, something that reminded Han of the sun. He couldn’t have been much older than twenty, probably the same age as the other guys. Too young to have had too much shit beat him down yet — he’d learn.

He wanted to dislike him on principle, no one got through life with that kind of disposition.

Still, the way the kid looked at him, he couldn’t quite muster the scowl.

“He’s —” Biggs started to explain, but the kid cut him off.

“I’m Luke.” He paused. “Skywalker.” He said the name as if Han should know what it meant. The kid shuffled forward, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor as he stood up properly.

“You know ‘em?” Han glanced briefly at Wedge, the one Han came to respect the most out of the four, also having been born ‘up north’, as the people around here called it, though he moved to Millennium sometime when he was a kid.

“Summer camp.” Bigg said, affectionately.

“I spent some summers here with Ben, growing up.” Luke explained, as if Han asked. “Moved back almost two months ago.”

“Not that any of us have ever actually seen the inside of Kenobi House, mind you.” Wes complained to Han. “Consider yourself lucky.”

“Lucky?” He questioned.

“We’re looking to hire someone to help with some building projects at my uncle’s place.” Luke clarified. “Wedge said you help people around town?”

Han’s hackles lowered, briefly. It was true, he’d begrudgingly become known around town as the guy who could fix it. He was handy, had a knack for machines and could do most construction-related work. And once you did a job for one person around here, suddenly half the town had your number. He’d fix shoddily-done fuse boxes or tune up transmissions, even going as far to rebuild a shed for one of Chewie’s regulars. If it involved mechanics or good, honest physical labor, Han had likely done it before, and done it well.

The cash was decent, it beat all the free work he did around the Pop-n-Shop, but some of the people around here were a bit too pushy. These were the kind of people that unironically said things like, God Bless America, or Bless your heart, which Han had always thought was an exaggerated set of statements no one actually made.
He couldn’t count how many pamphlets full of bible verses he’d gotten with the handfuls of cash, people handing him business cards of their preferred pastor, as well as insistent invitations to their specific church (Millennium had four in less than two square miles). The fact that he didn’t attend one seemed to grate on this town’s own nerves, some more than others. He didn’t make a habit of picking up their calls a second time.

“He said that?” Han repeated with a tone of disbelief, he glared at his supposed ally, who only looked at him sheepishly. Wedge knew Han had rough edges, but hadn’t seen them beyond a biting remark or a cool glare. Still, the way Han squared his shoulders and stared at Luke, Wedge suddenly felt like he’d led his friend into the lion’s den.

Looking between Luke and Han, they couldn’t have been more opposite. Wedge had come to know Han as gruff, cocky but worn-down, perpetually annoyed with everything around him, but suave when he wanted to be. His grin seemed to be wielded as a weapon more than with earnest meaning — which is what Luke was made of. Earnest smiles, earnest words, earnest friendship. He was the physical embodiment of what it meant to hope, to hold onto something because you knew it was right, not easy.

Wedge really started to wonder if he’d made a mistake.

Luke nodded seriously, ignorant to his friend’s newfound concern.

“We can pay.” He added in a hopeful tone.

“Yeah, I sure hope you can.” Han’s eyes narrowed. “What pay? What kind of work are we talkin’?”

Luke paused, as if he didn’t expect to be questioned, but then racked his brain for the list, counting off on his fingers while he went. “Outdoor electrical work, front porch needs to be redone. Concrete, maybe. Some landscaping. There’s a space out back Ben wants to fix up.” He looked at him with an eager expression. “We can pay $20 an hour.”

Wes whistled and Bigg’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. That was more than any of them made.

“Shit, I’ll do it if you won’t.” Wes said.

Han’s eyebrows had shot into his hairline too, to be fair. Twenty bucks an hour was unheard of in Millennium. He usually got paid by the job, fifty bucks here, a hundred bucks there, nothing he could really count on. Hell, even Chewie only paid the Rogues a dollar or two above minimum wage, but none of them were complaining. That was considered generous around here.

A full gas tank and bank account flashed across his mind, lightening his mood. He was only in Millennium in the first place to try and save up, give himself a cushion to pay off some of those debts he’d left in New York and get the Falcon up to par before he took off again. His monthly “shifts” in Savannah, for the same men he’d run from in New York, weren’t paid. Every dollar he would have made there hardly ticked down the amount he owed. Some consistent work, maybe a month or two, at twenty an hour was about as good of a gig as he could get, and maybe enough to get him out of here.

Money was money, and it made the world go ‘round.

Or, at least it made Han’s.

Besides, this kid seemed better than most he dealt with around here, especially if the Rogues vouched for him. His uncle on the other hand, and that house that scared the local kids? It made him hesitate for a moment.

Only a moment, because his gut was screaming at him to do it, to take the job. He wasn’t in the habit of ignoring that instinctive pull, not when it had saved his life more times than he could count. Even if it meant agreeing to go work on a potentially haunted job site, he didn’t believe those stories anyways, he told himself.

“I’ll come see the place, talk to your uncle.” He said, surprisingly diplomatic, eying the Rogues. Wedge had busied himself wiping down an already spotless counter. “Then we’ll talk.”

Luke’s face brightened, a smile spreading across his features. God this kid really was naive. “Great! We can go now!”

“Now?”

“Sure.” He paused, sensing Han’s hesitance. “Unless, is it not a good time?”

As if on cue, a loud banging echoed out from the kitchen off to to their right, followed by a string of curses in another language. Han could hear the muffled gripes of Chewie correcting someone and cleaning up whatever had just fallen.

There was Hobbie.

Wes and Biggs behind the register gave Han a knowing look, eyebrows raised as if to remind Han it was indeed still not seven.

“Fine, fine.” He grumbled, eying the door to the kitchen warily. “But we’re taking the Falcon, that Beetle of yours looks like she’s about to keel over.”

Luke’s eyebrows scrunched together. Wedge looked to be holding in laughter.

“The Falcon?” Luke asked.

“You haven’t seen the Falcon, yet?” Wes questioned his friend, eyes darting outside where Han had parked it.

“You seen that red ‘n white Bronco?” Biggs asked him, pointing outside. “That’s the one we’ve been tellin’ you about.”

Luke’s brows shot up. “You own that Bronco?”

Han felt himself preen under the appreciation of the Falcon. There had been a drunk night or two in those sticky booths, Han roped into a conversation with the Rogues where he inevitably started bragging about the car, mostly what he’d done to it. He’d taken some of the guys out for a spin later that week, wiping the snide remarks about Han’s tendency to name his machines and the sorry state of its aesthetic right off their faces when they saw just how fast an adaptive suspension and turbo upgrades could make the boxy vehicle. Since then, they’d all been begging Han for a turn at the wheel, which he always staunchly denied.

“It’s a piece of junk.” Luke said with half a smile, looking back to the Rogues.

“A piece of shit.” Wes corrected with a sarcastic pat on the shoulder. “But the fastest piece of shit we’ve ever seen.”

Han frowned. As cobbled together as she was, she was certainly better than any of the cheap-ass beater cars these guys drove.

“Let’s go before I change my mind.” Han said quickly, turning away and aiming for the exit before Chewie could find him back inside or Wes could get another quip in. He heard Luke jogging to catch up, beating him to the door and holding it open, that innocent smile still on his face. Luke waved back to the guys, who were busy listening to Chewie rant something unintelligible to Hobbie in the kitchen.

Han smirked, stepping through the open door.

He was easily able to translate his friend’s words, grunts, and growls of frustration, even years after their extended time together. Only when frustrated did Chewie use his native language around the shop. Han never learned how to speak it, but had gotten to the point where he fully understood him before they’d both been discharged from their service.

Chewie’s family emigrated to Millennium when he was nine. His mother had family a few towns over, but couldn’t afford to live there, so this was as close as they could get. It was a difficult transition, though his friend never forgot where he came from, and speaks in his first language as much as possible.

When it was just the two of them it was what Chewie tended to speak — having no one else around to share that part of himself with. It had taken Han a couple of months to brush up on his skills, but he was soon understanding his friend again without hardly a blink. He’d found it interesting in a beautiful way, he’d constantly pestered Chewie about it when they’d first met, nearly eight years ago now.

Probably why he’d bothered to teach Han, swapping notes across bunks, Chewie telling him stories while the hum of planes and the yells of sergeants tried to drown them out. Those moments were some of his only fond ones from his time in service.

Chewie’s family wasn’t the only non-white family in Millennium, but not being American sealed the deal, the town hated them on principle.

Backwards assholes.

Han had honestly been surprised to hear that Chewie had moved back here when he was released from duty, especially since his parents had already passed, and considering the way the townsfolk had always treated them. Han supposed the call of home was always too alluring.

If you had one.

The sound faded as Luke stepped into the roar of the wind with him, the door slamming closed against its onslaught.

“It’s really blowing out here.” Han noted, eyes to the sky as the windchimes Chewie hung outside nervously danced and tapped out an eerie melody in time with the whispering wind.

Luke ignored his comment, looking slightly uncomfortable.

“You’ll love Ben.” He said confidently, gaze turning. Han forced down the urge to roll his eyes by ducking into the weather, aiming for the car. He never bothered to lock it, not around here, merely pulling on the door handle and sliding into the driver’s seat without responding. Luke looked wide-eyed at the Falcon before following suit, letting himself into the other side.

Frankly, Han decided while he wiped the rain off his face, didn’t give a shit if he loved or hated Ben. For twenty bucks an hour, he’d work for the devil himself.

Chapter Text

June 19th, 1992

185 Days.

The Falcon roared to life underneath his fingers, a feeling Han never tired of. Luke seemed appreciative, mouth hung open slightly as the engine woke up, its rumble like a cat stretching after a long nap. Han was mostly grateful it cranked and didn’t give him hell in the rain, again.

Luke went to pull the seatbelt over him, but struggled to get it actually clicked into the buckle. He tried several times, before Han snatched it out of his hand with a grumble. He slammed the buckle in, knowing the trick, hearing the click of success before he even let it go.

Without warning, Han gunned the engine and ripped out of the Pop-n-Shop parking lot and onto the road, one of the few that snaked through town. He gunned it maybe a bit more than necessary, easing off the gas when he felt the back end want to fishtail and something sputtered and popped under the hood. Still, the kid’s jaw was hung open, a boyish sense of wonder on his face. It faded as Han rolled down the street at a normal speed, ignoring the single red light they’d run through, no one else was at the intersection.

Luke fidgeted in the seat next to him, trying to keep his hands off the peeling, mismatched interior of the car. He’d met men like Han before, suspicious, stubborn, cocky. Biggs had told him all about the town’s newcomer when he walked into the Pop-n-Shop that day, making him out to be some mythic creature that roamed around at night, secretly fixing broken streetlights and whining while he did so. In the light of the dimming evening, clouded by the onslaught of rain, Luke could tell it was bravado. Even the nervous drumming of his fingers on the steering wheel gave him away, not to mention the several times he’d glanced at Luke out of the corner of his eye already.

Luke didn’t have to tell Han where to go, everyone knew where the Haunted Mansion was. All the way at the edge of town down a dead-end road, the actual house shielded from view by a massive grove of magnolia trees, now tangled with all other kinds of brush and greenery as the property fell into disrepair.

Which, to be fair, it had been for years. He’d frankly been surprised when his uncle had asked him to go into town and see if he could find someone who was willing to work on it. No one besides family had been on the property in over twenty years.

Han flipped the radio on, never having been comfortable in abject silence. Only crackling static greeted them, a somber reminder of the shit-ass weather outside.

“Hey, kid.” Han’s voice stirred Luke, who had been watching the rain fall out the window. “Pick a tape.” He nodded towards the glovebox in front of him, which Luke looked at with a small grin. He flipped the handle, which was actually just a piece of rope tied to the latching mechanism, the real handle having crumbled off in his hands a year ago. The bin fell revealing an abject mess of papers, old cassette tapes, a flask, and a case that Han knew contained an old, Smith and Wesson hand-gun.

Luke dug through the tapes, pulling ones up to the light to try and read the names off of the faded labels. He tossed AC/DC’s Back in Black back in, followed by Journey’s Escape and Rush’s Moving Pictures. Finally, he settled on Guns N’ Roses Appetite for Destruction, gingerly handing the tape to Han, who shoved it unceremoniously into the player, hearing the first chords of Welcome to the Jungle spit through the crackling speakers.

It wasn’t what he would have picked, but Luke was bopping his head appreciatively.

“When did you move to town?” Luke asked, cutting through the music.

Han raised a brow.

“That obvious I’m not from ‘round here?”

Luke chuckled.

“Easy to tell who’s from Millennium and who isn’t. You don’t have an accent, and if you were from around here, you wouldn’t have music like this.” He explained, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Whatever you say.” Han murmured, feeling uncomfortable with the way Luke’s eyes seemed to see straight through him.

“Why’d you come?”

“What is this, an interrogation?”

“Oh! No, not at all.” Luke backpedaled, holding his palms up in innocence. “You just — don’t see a lot of people moving in here, folks are usually trying to get out.” He looked out into the rain. “My Aunt Beru used to say Millennium was south of somewhere and north of nowhere.”

Han scoffed.

“Yeah, I can see why.” The rain seemed to be letting up, slightly, he flicked the wiper speed down. He glanced at the kid from the corner of his eye, who had conceded to his whims and was running his hands over the old, falling-apart interior. His eyes brightened with an almost child-like awe, lips pulled in an unintentional smile.

“What?” Han asked briskly, looking for signs of judgement. Judgement of the Falcon in turn felt like judgement of him, and the deal was going to be way off if the kid had something nasty to say about his ride —

“It’s cool.” He responded, looking at Han earnestly. “I mean, a little pieced together. I dunno what junk heap you got this thing out of.” He picked at the bench seat, the leather so faded it was hard to tell what color it once was, besides, there was more duct tape holding it together than cow hide. Han frowned. “But it’s kinda got charm, and that engine sounds fast.”

“Swapped the 351M for a Coyote engine.” Han said with a knowing smirk, satisfied when Luke’s mouth fell open a bit. “She may not be the prettiest, but she’s quick.” He patted the side of the sterling wheel affectionately. Luke grinned, seemingly appreciative of either the turbo engine or of the way Han had cobbled the ride together.

The kid really did have an appreciation for cars, or at least a growing one. Han’s curiosity got the better of him. “So, why’d you come back?”

Luke’s smile dropped, nearly cartoon-like in the way his face fell.

“It’s complicated.” He said with a sigh and a shrug. He knew he should lie, like every other time. But strangely, he felt compelled not to, to keep as much of the truth in his words as he could. Han turned down the dead-end road, not pushing. Luke continued anyway. “My sister, Wes tell you about the ‘People’s Princess?’ yet?” Luke asked, saying the nickname fondly, though Han picked up on the slight annoyance in his tone. He shook his head, of all the gossip he’d heard, that wasn’t a name that rang a bell. “It’s what some of the guys called her, when we were kids. She had to move here a little bit ago, there was this thing with her parents. It made the most sense that I go, too. Plus, Ben’s getting older, not a bad idea to have some eyes on him.”

Han’s brow furrowed.

“Her parents?” The whole ‘People’s Princess’ thing caught his attention, too, but it wasn’t the most abnormal part of that sentence.

Luke gave him a knowing look.

“Like I said, complicated.”

Han hummed in agreement, feeling a weird sense of apprehension as he turned down the infamous driveway lined with overgrown magnolias. He’d never done anything but drive by it, and that still gave him the creeps. A large, wrought iron gate blocked the way maybe a quarter mile from the road. Han eased the car into park and stared at the whirls and swirls of iron.

It was a piece of old-school craftsmanship, not the kind of thing you usually saw around anymore. Luke hopped out, unphased by the rain as he approached the gate, motioning for Han to do the same. He continued to stare. The iron locked together in an intricate pattern, so overlapped and winding, it took him a moment to realize it was depicting the phases of the moon. A full moon was in the center, creating a large, gaping hole with which Luke was using to wrench the two halves apart. The full moon split in half, leaving just enough space for someone to walk through.

With a grimace, he killed the engine, pocketing the keys and ducking out into the rain. He jogged up to the gate, slipping through the gap and expecting to have to hurry up to the house, but curiously, Luke just sauntered forward at an easy pace, hands dug in his pockets, seemingly content to ignore the… rain.

The rain, which had stopped. At least on this side of the fence. Han turned and still saw droplets bouncing off the frame of the Falcon, but somehow Kenobi’s property was right on the edge of the storm. It wasn’t quite sunny on this side of the gate, it was inching into nighttime anyway. But, the air was brighter. Cleaner. Not nearly as humid.

He must have had a confused look on his face, staring up at the sky. Luke called ahead for him, Han shook off his disbelief and started walking down the path after him. After just a few paces, the large, looming, greek-revival style home came into view.

If you could call it a home. Han called it condemned.

It was clear to see that the house had been beautiful, once. Probably the crown jewel of Millennium. It towered at least three stories, large white pillars framing the front in the way of those old southern estates. It was massive, a monolith compared to the rest of the smaller, squat houses in town. In its prime, it might have been called a mansion. However, the towering structure looked like it was sagging, the heavy layer of some sort of vining plant with tiny white blossoms had taken over half of the front facade, and seemed to be trying to pull the house back into the dirt. The paint was peeling… everywhere. And the wrap-around, covered front porch looked rotten through and through. He didn’t trust those bent and warped steps for a minute.

It looked straight out of the pages of books like Gone with the Wind, if it had been left to decay for fifty years or so.

Maybe this was the reason for his apprehension. This wasn’t a difficult job, it was damn impossible. By the looks of it, the whole thing needed to be ripped down to the studs. He was sure the foundation was faulty, narrowing his eyes to try and tell if it was truly listed to the side, or the overgrown brush on it only appeared to make it so. Either way, it was a much bigger job than one person was capable of, and would surely take longer than a few months.

He grit his teeth, about to open his mouth to tell the kid the deal was off when he saw him hurdle up those rotten and creaking stairs with a grimace. A dingy looking white cat lounged on the porch’s broken railing, yawning in a patch of fading sunlight. It blinked its unnaturally blue eyes at Luke before stretching and hopping down, weaving around the kid’s legs. He turned and gave Han a smile as he wrenched open an oversized, squeaking screen door.

“I’m gonna go get Ben! Feel free to walk around, there might be some tools out back.” He called out, then swiftly opened the heavy oak front door and he and the cat disappeared inside.

Han spun in place, rubbing the stubble that had appeared on his jaw. To look like he’d even bothered to consider it, he started to stroll around the house.

Up close, it was just as bad if not worse. He could easily identify termite damage, as well as the cloying scent of more rotten wood. The grass was long, brushing up against his shins as he walked. All of the windows on the first floor looked to be completely obscured by the wreath of whatever that vining plant was, he spied a couple up on the second and third floor that were a bit more clear, though the frames looked bent with age. A large magnolia branch was pushing awfully close to one, the perfume from its blooms clouding Han’s senses.

He stomped over to the back of the house, which had tons of old junk piled up against the siding. Rotted tires, what looked like an ancient, rusted out washing machine, yard debris, random pieces of wood and warped sheets of aluminum. It covered the back side, vines wrapped and interwoven between all the trash. He grimaced, seeing an old truck tucked around the corner, similarly abandoned and reclaimed by the earth around it. He couldn’t even tell the make.

Something told him this was the mess he’d find whatever tools Luke referenced in. He pulled up on a flimsy piece of sheet metal and heard the cascade of five other things falling down. He abandoned the hunt, whatever was out here was probably rusted halfway to hell and unusable anyway.

The house backed up to the woods, which were so at odds with the grove of magnolia trees out front. Those he could tell at some point had been planted orderly, in a series of straight lines. Back here, this was just nature. He spied a crumbling rock wall maybe a hundred feet or so into the tree line. A path opened up to his right, taking him around to the other side of the house, where a collection of meticulously clean bowls were set out in a row. They were filled with some kind of dry kibble he suspected was cat food and clean water.

It was far too much for one cat, there had to be at least four bowls of food out there. He’d overheard some residents complaining about the feral cat colony that roamed this part of town, but he’d only ever seen one or two slinking around the streets at night. They must have stuck around here, if someone was feeding them. Definitely if someone was letting them inside.

He was sure there were raccoons and deer and all other types who showed up to the buffet, too. There was no telling what was nesting in that mess behind him. Yet another reason to leave it alone.

The path branched off into a more sparse section of the woods, as opposed to wrapping back around to the front of the house. He followed it, absent mindedly, finding that the crumbling rock wall he saw earlier stretched over here, too. The path went straight through a section that had almost completely fallen away, leaving a ‘v’ shaped opening. He jumped through the wall in one smooth, graceful motion, his boots squelching as they landed on the soggy ground on the other side.

Soggy, because there was a pond that had been obscured by the wall. It was big, bordering on what could be considered a small lake, if it wasn’t so murky. You could hardly tell there was water there, the way the brush had crept in, turning the pond brown and sludgy. There was something on the other side, but it was so heavily covered in plant material, he couldn’t begin to tell what it was.

It smelled like a swamp. It might as well have been a swamp at that point, he wouldn’t be surprised if he heard the slap of a gator’s tail as it slid into the water, or found a snake wriggling across the path.

He remembered one of the first warnings he’d read about the lowcountry. If there was a body of water, and if that water felt wet, gators were bound to be in it. He didn’t know if Millennium quite counted, they were pretty inland, but the marshes, swamps, and rivers weren’t too far off.

Another reason to turn this job down.

Vaguely, he heard the slam of the screen door, and Luke calling his name from the front porch.

He shuffled back over the rock wall, meandering back up to the other side of the house, content to be outside in a place that wasn’t raining or hotter than the devil’s ass crack. It was surprisingly temperate, a light wind jostling his hair as he rounded the corner, nearly stumbling into Luke, who’d come down the path looking for him.

“The old man?” Han questioned, seeing that Luke was alone. The kid shook his head, looking a bit disappointed.

“Not up for visitors right now, I’m afraid. He told me to show you around.”

Han bit the inside of his cheek. Great. This whole thing was sounding less and less promising by the minute. Plus he was going to have to break the news to Mr. Puppy-Dog-Eyes, a crumbling old man might have been easier.

“Look, kid —”

“Oh!” Luke exclaimed, reaching into his back pocket. He dug out a wad of cash, pushing it into Han’s hands. “An advance, from Ben. In case you need to get new tools or something for the job, now that you’ve seen it.” He looked at him eagerly, rocking back on his heels. The kid was definitely not as guileless as he looked, he’d quickly determined the way to Han’s heart.

Han’s eyebrows raised skeptically, not caring about being rude and counting the cash in front of him. Two-hundred bucks, for just showing up to the job site. The reasons for abandoning this suddenly felt harder to reach with cash in hand. He racked his brain for anything to say, but Luke beat him to it.

“I know, it looks like a lot.” Luke started to explain. “It is a lot, I mean, the property is. The inside is all fixed up, I swear it.” Han seriously doubted that, if this is how far Kenobi had let the outside go. “It looks worse than it is, it really just needs a facelift, nothing structural.”

He would have laughed if he didn’t think it would crush the kid’s spirit. This whole place looked like it was going to topple over in the next hurricane season, which was only a handful of months away. He blew out a frustrated breath, bringing a hand up to run through his hair as he warred with whether or not to take the job.

“What do you think?” Luke asked, with that awful, unintentionally manipulative, sincere look of his. Han sighed, throwing one more look back at the monstrous, dilapidated structure.

“Look, I’ll do what I can for a couple months.” He started, resting his hands on his hips as he faced him. “Mostly cosmetic, but I can start to make it look habitable again. Start—” He clarified, with a point at the house. “It’s a massive job. Hell, even just redoing the porch will take a month, at least.” His eyes narrowed, hand dropping. “I’ll do it. For $25 an hour.”

“Twenty-five?” Luke complained, letting a hint of a childish whine infiltrate his tone. “That’s practically robbery.”

Han shrugged, surveying the property. Luke seemed conflicted, briefly, before glancing back at the house and rolling his eyes.

“Fine, $25 an hour. Can you start tomorrow?”

“Next week, I’ll start Monday.” He kept his smile at bay, thinking about what a thousand bucks a week could do for him, for his plans. He might be able to get out of this shit-hole town sooner than expected, if he could keep this up.

Besides, he needed the time tomorrow and this weekend to finish up on a couple promised repairs at Chewie’s, if he wasn’t going to be there during the day anymore.

“Monday.” Luke said with a tight nod of his head, his gaze casting back to the front gate. “Mind if I hitch a ride back with you to the Pop-n-Shop? Don’t want to leave the Beetle there.”

Han snorted, but inclined his head towards the direction of the Bronco, shoving his hands in his pockets while he walked.

“Kid, that Beetle looks about fifty miles from dumping your ass on the side of the road.”

Luke had the nerve to look briefly offended before pressing his lips together.

“It’s Ben’s. ‘67. Didn’t even run when I moved back in. I’ve been working on it, a little.” He looked sheepish, but Han’s interest was piqued. Not quite 30 years old, then. It looked like Kenobi took about as much care with his cars as he did the outside of his house.

“You like cars?”

It was Luke’s turn to shrug.

“Something to do, I like to solve problems.”

Han briefly thought the kid should try crosswords if that was the case, but wasn’t about to discourage him from the work. He itched to look under the hood, but wasn’t going to insist until Luke asked him. Which he was fairly sure he would, if his instincts about the thing falling apart were right.

They walked up to the gate, Luke once again holding it open for Han, who immediately felt the raindrops hit his skin once they passed through. He looked up at the sky and confirmed the heavy cloud cover. The Falcon had rivulets of water cascading off her frame.

They both ducked into the car, Han shaking the water from his hair once in the cab. He held his question until he pulled out of the long driveway, bumping back down the road on the way to Chewie’s.

“What’s up with the weather at your place?”

“The weather?” Luke looked momentarily confused before some realization dawned across his face. “Oh, yeah, right.” Han looked out of the corner of his eye and saw Luke appearing uncomfortable again, hands wrung together in this lap. “I dunno, always been like that. We’re in a valley, I guess. Weather just kinda… passes right over us.”

Han hummed to indicate he heard, but had no response. It seemed weird, but he was no meteorologist, what did he know? Certainly nothing about weather patterns beyond what was safe or unsafe to fly in. He never paid much attention to anything else.

Han was surprised to feel a well of questions bubbling up. He never usually cared about clients, about anything other than the job. At the end of the day he already had two-hundred bucks in his back pocket, that should have alleviated all of his concerns.

Still, something was itching at him, demanding he get the full picture before he showed up the next week.

“What’s up with the ‘People’s Princess’ thing?” He found himself asking, though there were probably a million other, more poignant things he could have asked, the comment from earlier still tugged at something in his head.

“Leia?” Luke questioned, as if Han knew the name. It did something funny to his insides, hearing it. He’d never known someone called Leia before. “Oh, that’s just what everyone called her. Her parents were like, some sort of famous politicians. I dunno, I didn’t really get it. It was a joke, sometimes Ben still calls her that.”

The were and still didn’t go over his head, but he didn’t pry. That whole situation seemed more complicated than he felt like dealing with.

He made a rule, right then, for the job. Stay out of this family’s drama. He’d only met one of them so far and didn’t need to meet the rest, they could keep their complications far from him. He could swallow back his curiosity, he’d done it for years.

He wasn’t going to ask anymore questions, lest he learn something he didn’t want to.

They rode the rest of the ride in companionful silence. Luke dug through his tapes again, replacing Guns ‘N Roses with one of Han’s favorites, ‘Country and Western Classics’ by Johnny Cash. Funnily enough, the first song to come on was ‘One Piece at a Time’, which Biggs said had to have been written about the Falcon, much to Han’s internal annoyance.

Still, it was catchy. They both drummed their fingers along to it and only one more before he pulled back into the same parking spot at Chewie’s. Damn town was about three square miles, it took no time at all to drive from one end to the other. Luke gave a heartfelt thanks before he jumped out, hopping directly into the Beetle instead of heading back inside. Han watched him start the sputtering engine and then pull off, going back the same direction they’d just come from.

Han debated, for a fleeting moment, whether to go to the house or try his luck inside the store again. His stomach rumbled, answering his quandary. Besides, it was technically past seven now, and he should bring the Cambros in.

Swinging the door open to the Pop-n-Shop, balancing multiple boxes in his hands, Han glanced to see Wes and Biggs still lounging around behind the register. The register for the store and the counter were the same, connecting the two halves of the business, both of which seemed empty of many customers. Wedge was likely somewhere in the aisles pretending to restock, more likely sneaking outside for a smoke break.

Han dumped himself in one of the mounted bar stools and spread the boxes out over the counter, the two other diners having tucked snuggly away in the booths. Wes and Biggs eyed him warily, both pretending to work.

“Alright, out with it.” Han grumbled, tossing his keys up on the counter. “What’s the deal with ‘Crazy Old Kenobi’?” He used his fingers to imitate the quotations around the name, leaning back to kick his feet up on the adjacent stool.

“What’ve you heard?” Biggs asked, an eyebrow raised. Han shrugged.

“Local boogeyman. Town shut in, hermit.” Han counted the nicknames off on his fingers.

“Our very own Boo Radley.” Wes added, lamenting the same connection he’d had thought about earlier.

“What’s his deal?”

“I dunno what his deal is.” Wes continued, leaning back against the edge of the prep counter, twirling a sanitizing rag in his hand. “There were all sorts of rumors, growin’ up. Said that he killed his entire family in that house, and that’s why he won’t leave. Got the bodies laid up in there or somethin’.”

“That’s not true.” Biggs argued. “My ma swears she’s seen him at the library. What kinda murderer goes to the public library?”

“Your ma also thinks the Book of Revelation is gonna come true tomorrow.” Wes fired back, earning himself a scowl from the other man. “Anyone who says they know anything is full a’ shit. We were all dared to ride bikes down his driveway as kids. The real brave ones went past the gate and knocked on the door.” Wes thumped his chest as if to indicate he was one of those kids, Han gave him a disbelieving look. “No one ever came out, don’t know of anyone to go in, ‘sides Luke ‘n Leia.”

That name again.

Biggs snatched the towel out of Wes’s hand, throwing it over his shoulder.

“Yeah and Luke won’t tell us shit.” Wes complained, glaring at his friend. He turned his attention to Han, a mischievous smile appearing on his face. “So, did you see it? See him?”

Han shook his head, disinterested. His fingers played with the glass cup full of sugar and ketchup packets, spinning it in place on the vinyl counter.

“Nah, the kid and I just walked the perimeter. It’s a dump.” He pushed the glass cup back into its spot, glancing up at the two Rogues, who looked expectant, waiting for him to say more. “It’s a dump.” He repeated, drawing his arms back across his chest. That didn’t seem to satisfy them. “Family seems nuts.”

“Luke’s alright.” Biggs said, affection clear in his tone. Wes merely rolled his eyes. “His sister, too. But I haven’t really seen her since they moved back.”

The People’s Princess. Han frowned. He was about to open his mouth to question further, damn his previous thoughts about it, but someone beat him to it.

“She’s around,” snapped a voice from a booth by the window, a young woman looking up from her Coke and book, lips set in a frown.

“Relax, Greer. You know what I mean.” Biggs responded with barely a glance up. Han had seen the girl before, one of the kids that hung around here all the time. Her brown, curly hair was pulled back in one short ponytail, tanned skin contrasting against the light purple, slightly ripped tank top. Her glass condensated on the table, leaving rings of water that threatened the spine of her book.

“I’m sure I don’t. You know what happened to her.”

Biggs looked up from his work, fixing the girl with a stare.

“I’m not attacking her, I’m just sayin’ she’s not around.”

“You shouldn’t talk about her.” She responded defiantly. Chewie exited the kitchen at the right moment, the large man dropped the serving dishes onto the prep counter with a loud clatter, stunning the two youths out of their spur. This prompted Wes to jump at Biggs, swiping the towel back from his shoulder and twirling it in the air.

Han tucked that information away in the back of his head, ’you know what happened to her.’ He idly wondered if it had anything to do with what Luke mentioned earlier that day.

“What do you know about Crazy Old Kenobi, Chewie?” Wes asked to diffuse the tension.

“His name is Ben.” Chewie said gruffly, his voice sounding as raw and scratchy as usual. It was from an injury in the field, a memory he nor Han liked to remember. Chewie looked up and saw his friend occupying his normal bar stool with lowered brows. He offered a sarcastic wave in response, gesturing to the boxes of plasticware he’d procured. Chewie turned away with a huff. “I used to deliver groceries to him weekly, he’s a good man.”

Wes and Bigg’s eyebrows shot into their hairlines. Hobbie came out from the back, apron soaked in soapy water and fingers pruney, giving Chewie a wild look. Even the girl, who’d returned to reading, let the spine of her book slam onto the vinyl table, eyes wide.

“Did you say you’ve seen Crazy Old Kenobi?” Hobbie asked, attempting to wipe his hands on the only dry patch of his apron.

“I didn’t say that.” Chewie corrected, unstacking the clean dishes so he could parcel them out behind the line.

“But you talk to him.” Wes pried.

“We made an agreement years ago.” Chewie attempted to clear his throat, the sound as painful as it must have felt. “I leave groceries at the gate, he sends me a check in the mail.” He held up his hand to the Rogues, who looked to be brimming with more questions, effectively shelving the topic.

Chewie’s attention turned to Han, eyes narrowed at his friend.

“He better be a good guy.” Han grumbled before Chewie could throw him out again. He was hoping to grab dinner here instead of trying to poke around in the fridge at the house, if there was any left. Tonight was Thursday, so it was fried catfish, something he’d never tried before moving here, but had learned he loved. He could smell the oil in the air, the way the place always smelled on Thursdays. It made his stomach rumble again. “Gonna be workin’ at his place, gettin’ the Haunted Mansion fixed up.”

Chewie scowled at the name for the property, but otherwise didn’t react to Han’s news.

“He could use the help.” Biggs muttered.

“It ain’t help.” Han clarified, pointing his finger at Biggs and then pressing it into the counter. “I don’t do this for charity. The second the money stops, I stop.”

“You’re an angel Han, really.” Wes piped up, cringing away from the look Chewie gave him.

Han smirked, trying to peer into the back kitchen or hear oil popping, his stomach rumbling.

“Got any catfish left?”

Chapter Text

June 21st, 1992

183 Days.

It was coming down.

The rain pounded so hard onto the Falcon’s roof, Han couldn’t even hear the static from the busted radio. It was coming down sideways, pelting the side of the car in a staccato rhythm.

The drive to Savannah had been pleasant, comparatively. Blue skies, open road, a bit warm for the windows to be down, but he did it anyway, relishing in the feeling of dry air. Which was funny, for Savannah. The notoriously humid city actually provided a bit of respite from the constant sogginess he’d been feeling in Millennium. Even if the work was bland, awful, helping ensure smuggled boxes that came in from the port made it into the correct unmarked cars, schlepping whatever the hell it was out to the rest of the country. He tried not to think too much about it — if it kept the debt dogs from sniffing him out, it was good enough, as amoral as he was.

Plus, he could actually pick up a handful of stations there, the radio functioning beautifully once it was out of town limits.

Typical.

He could tell he was getting closer towards Millennium when the handpainted, peeling signs started popping up on the side of the road, preceding the arrival of those pull-off produce shacks that always seemed to be closed. He was particularly fond of the ones that said “PECHES” and “PEE-CANS” in stark red hand lettering. It started to get mistier the closer he got.

It seemed the perpetual rain was attached to Millennium like a dog on a leash, hanging over the town with relentless precision. The river, really a creek when he’d moved in, that snaked behind all the churches and library in town had risen several feet since the start of this onslaught. The townsfolk were even more anxious than usual, saying the churches in the river’s path of destruction was a sign. A sign of those end times they were always yammering on about.

A sign of lunacy, maybe.

He double checked that the headlights were on, with the way the clouds had darkened and the rain coming down, he could hardly see five feet in front of him. Rocketing down Route 9, he only saw the other side of the sign he’d cursed at a few days prior when he came right up on it. Instead of ‘Now Leaving Millennium’, this side was even more sinister, welcoming him to this sopping-wet swamp.

Welcome to Millennium, Georgia. Home of the World’s Best Buttermilk Pie!

Surely that had to be a lie, but Han wasn’t about to complain. The only good thing about moving this far south was the food, Chewie’s specifically. He’d tried a whole menagerie of things he’d never eaten before: grits, tomato sandwiches, fried okra, boiled peanuts, country ham, collard greens, baked mac-and-cheese, he could go on.

Now, he didn’t know about buttermilk pie — he’d made the mistake of mixing up buttermilk and whole milk one afternoon after a particularly hot and harrowing repair on the roof, and chugged a full glass of the former, nearly retching once the taste registered. He’d avoided it since. Now, Chewie’s peach pie was something else, probably the closest he’d ever had to a religious experience. If someone put up a church of butter and fruit, maybe he’d consider joining.

Lightning sliced through the dark sky ahead of him. Subconsciously, he found himself counting, using an old trick from his days in the skies to try and determine how far away the storm was.

One, two, th —

Thunder crashed. Two miles away. Hopefully far enough he’d made it back to Chewie’s house without an issue.

Han pulled up to one of the three traffic lights in town, watching them sway in the growing wind. The rain continued to jackhammer down. The light turned green and he lurched the Bronco into drive.

Another bolt of lightning, threatening to split the sky in two.

One, tw—

Thunder shook the frame of the car. One mile away. The storm was getting closer, or really, he was getting closer to it. The wind had picked up, making the windshield rattle like it was going to pop out any second. Lightning flared again and thunder boomed before he even began his count.

It was actually starting to feel like he wasn’t chasing the storm, but the storm was chasing him.

The Falcon rumbled over the hardly-paved road, setting his teeth on edge. The static from the radio got louder, and with an annoyed grumble, Han shut it off. Not one for silence, he looked down briefly to smash the play button for the cassette Luke had shoved in there days ago. By the time Johnny Cash’s voice started to rise above the sound of the rain, he looked up.

Someone was standing in the road, directly in his path of travel. All he saw before he could react were wide brown eyes illuminated by a bolt of lightning and the gleam of his headlights.

With his heart in this throat, he pulled on the wheel with two hands as hard as he could. His body slammed into the side of the door as the Bronco fishtailed away, bracing himself for an impact that never came. The Bronco twisted, swerving across both lanes before it came to a screeching stop maybe ten feet away, on the wrong side of the road. He blinked his eyes open, releasing his white knuckle grip on the steering wheel.

He allowed himself three breaths, the hazy image of those brown eyes stuck in his head — gluing him to the spot.

Before he could string his thoughts together, a loud thud, thud, thud knocked on his window. He turned to see those same brown eyes, now narrowed with anger, pounding with a small fist on his car. He’d never admit the relief that flooded his system alongside his annoyance, knowing he wasn’t going to be responsible for turning someone into a pancake on Route 9.

He ripped the keys from the engine and cracked the door open, which made the girl, he realized, stumble back a few steps. As he stepped out, the rain immediately began to soak through his clothes, feeling colder than usual.

“You almost killed me!” The girl yelled at him above the torrent of the weather. He blinked, looking down at her.

It was almost hard to take her seriously, if it weren’t for the anger radiating off her small frame. She was short, maybe just broaching five feet, and wore a shapeless purple dress dotted with small, sodden orange flowers. Her long brown hair was pulled back into a falling braid, dripping water, pieces of hair plastered to her face. She was beautiful, something in the back of his head noted, even with angry blotches of red on her cheeks and droplets clinging to her eyelashes.

But standing in the rain like that? Beautiful wasn’t the first thing his instinct landed on. She almost didn’t look human, more like a natural phenomenon. One his gut told him to respect, even if she was berating him for something that wasn’t his fault.

“What are you doin’ standin’ in the middle of the road?” He argued back, as soon as he unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth, slamming the door to the Bronco shut so the interior didn’t get soaked. Adrenaline fueled his words, feeling very much like he was walking into a hurricane.

“I was asking for help, genius.” She gestured to something in the road, which he realized was an old, light blue bike. It looked nice, except the frame and front wheel were bent at an unnatural angle, rendering the thing pretty, but useless. She turned away from him. “Just forget it.”

“Well, usually people wave someone down as opposed to standin’ in the middle of the road!” Han countered. He noticed the pale streams of red that were running down her leg when she turned, and followed it up to see the road-rash wound wrapping around her left knee, blood mixing with the rainwater. It was turning the top of her white sock a pale pink.

She scoffed without turning to look at him, flipping the wet braid away and stalking back over to her ruined bike, attempting to stand it up on the roadway.

“I don’t need your help, anyways. Can’t believe I almost got taken out by a pieced together Ford.” She said the make of his vehicle like it was a curse, she might as well have spit on the Falcon. His lips pulled back over his teeth before he caught himself, pushing his temper down as much as he could. She was hurt, or bleeding at least, and the storm was hammering down on both of them.

“You’re not going far on that thing.” Han pointed at the mangled frame, the fact that she couldn’t even get the bike to stand up properly with its bent wheel.

“I’ll walk.” She seethed, attempting to roll the bike, which screeched across the asphalt. She made a frustrated noise, tossing the bike to the ground and kicking it for good measure. Han bit back the smirk he’d been surprised to feel growing.

He was soaked through, his t-shirt sticking uncomfortably to his chest as he attempted to wipe the water and amusement off of his face.

“You’re gonna drown. Would you just get in the car?” He half-yelled over the howling wind that had picked up. He didn’t know where the invitation had come from, but he couldn’t just leave her out here. Lightning cracked above them, briefly washing the road in an intense light. Her eyes flashed in it — holding his gaze. Han shivered, something he hadn’t done since he moved to Millennium. He could only imagine how she felt, how long she’d been in this rain in the first place.

“You call that thing a car?” She barked out a laugh. “No thanks.” She replied curtly. “I’ll just wait for the next nice guy who comes and tries to run me over.”

“There ain’t gonna be a next nice guy.” Han found himself arguing, despite the clench in his jaw and the twitch developing behind his eye. He didn’t quite know why, on any other day, he wouldn’t care if some townie brat wanted to walk home in the rain. No skin off his back.

But today? When the clouds were this black, and the lightning was so close? Not to mention the wound, and the fact no one in Millennium came driving when the weather was like this. That stupid feeling in his gut was pulling on him again, keeping him rooted to the spot and getting pummeled by raindrops until they were both out of there. Thunder rumbled, as if to remind them.

“Look, could you keep insultin’ me in the car?” He asked, gesturing dramatically over to the Bronco.

The girl looked conflicted, staring between the broken bike and the soggy man, anger warring with frigidity. She racked her brain for any good excuse to tell him off, any valid reason not to take the ride being offered. With yet another growl of frustration, she bent down and picked up the bike. He groaned, expecting her to try and take off on the damn thing again.

Instead, she caught him off guard by shoving the bike in his hands, stomping over to the Bronco in a pair of drenched, squeaking canvas shoes. She ripped the passenger side open and pulled herself inside with crossed arms before he could wipe the dumbfounded look off his face, slamming the door.

These damn small-town kids. They drove him crazy.

Han limped the bike to the back of the Falcon, opening the back and shoving it in amongst his various bags of tools, clothes, and half finished projects he stored back there. The rain pounded on his back and did start to soak the interior as he maneuvered the twisted frame inside.

He managed to shut the back hatch against the wind, which wasn’t relenting, half-way jogging to get to the driver’s door, hauling himself into the bench seat with a squeak of hardly-there wet leather. The door closed, and the car plunged into just the low tones of Johnny Cash’s voice. He mashed the button, and the car launched into silence.

Out of the torrent of rain, he could see her better. He saw the pale skin, but also the pink and smattering of tiny freckles decorating her cheeks. Both herself and her bag were dripping a puddle of water onto the duct tape laden across the seat. Her arms were crossed and she was tersely staring out the windshield into the storm. He didn’t miss the slight shake to her shoulders, nor the fact her lips were closer to blue than red.

Without a word, he coaxed the car back to life, switching the temperature to as warm as he could get it, angling the vents so they blew towards her, and away from him. Even though he’d just been soaked and wind-blown, his skin felt hot — on fire, really. Since the car had been running not five minutes before, the engine was still warm. He saw her release a breath as soon as the heated air started to blow her direction, sending the escaped pieces of hair twisting around her face.

He reached into the back, grabbing his old flight jacket he had never gotten a chance to wear in the awful heat of summer, slinging it unceremoniously into the girl’s lap.

She wrinkled her nose, turning her head to gaze at him in a way that made him feel impossibly small. She wielded those eyes like they were a weapon, designed to cut into him with every glance. Still, she shoved her arms through the sleeves, backwards, burying her nose into the warm collar.

She reached to pull the seatbelt across her, but just like Luke, Han ended up having to be the one to shove the buckle in after several furious attempts, ignoring the drip of water from her hair landing on his hands.

“Turn around and go right at the light.” Her voice was muffled against the old, matted fleece lining when she finally leaned back against the seat, crossing her arms.

He bristled at the tone, and at the implication of the command. Han hadn’t taken orders from anyone since he left New York, hell, really since he left the Navy.

“Listen, let’s get one thing straight.” He turned the car around, but stopped it before continuing, using the moment to stare at her, his pointer finger pressed against his own chest. “I don’t take orders from snot-nosed town kids. I only take ‘em from one person, me.”

“Well it’s a wonder you haven’t killed anyone yet.”

He huffed breath through his nose, pressing on the clutch to switch gears.

“No good karma is worth this.” His jaw set, a thousand more brimming remarks coming to the surface but he didn’t allow them to pass his tongue. He launched the Falcon into drive, catching the car before it could slip on the soaked roads. She turned to continue her glare at him.

“You’ll manage.” Her tone was short, clipped, now facing the window, as if looking at him was taxing. He clenched his jaw. Rain barreled onto the roof of the Bronco as they hurtled into town, lighting still flashing across the sky, albeit, slower.

“Where are we goin’?”

“Just go right at the light.” She whipped her head towards him, sending droplets of water flying. “Can you not follow directions?”

Something in his blood jumped at her crassness, even with how annoyed he was. She was quick-tongued and prickly, clearly not buffaloed by him. He couldn’t help the smirk that crossed his face, glancing at the girl out of the corner of his eye, annoyance ebbing into something else. As big of a game as she talked, she looked miserable, like a wet dog.

A small, angry wet dog.

To be fair, he wasn’t sure he looked much better. He wiped his face again, flicking the water away that was dripping from his own hair. He came to a brief stop at the light, doing a cursory check to ensure no one was coming, and turned right.

Leia used the moment of silence to study the man sitting to her left. She’d never seen him before, and a new face in this town was rare. Her eyes narrowed, cataloging the calloused hands and oil-stained jeans. The lilt to his mouth when he caught her staring, the nervous tapping of his fingers on the steering wheel.

Not to mention the state of the vehicle they were in. Torn ceiling lining, peeling leather, mismatched parts, missing parts, the thing looked like it ran on thoughts and prayers — when it ran.

“Not many people live up this way.” He found himself saying, filling the tense silence.

“Is there going to be more of this fascinating conversation? Because I’d prefer to go outside and drown.”

He cracked a smile, risking another glance at her before settling it back on the road.

“You’re a real charmer.”

“Runs in the family.” She said crudely, something layered hidden in that comment. She brought her hands up to the vents, letting the warm air dry them off. He noticed then the smudges of ink that decorated both hands, the rain having washed anything legible away. “Turn left.”

He looked up in time to see the fork, begrudgingly following her directions. They bounced along the uneven road for a moment, the girl’s hair steadily dripping water onto the seat. He wondered vaguely about the wound on her leg, but decided it was best not to ask. He didn’t want his head bitten off.

She shifted uncomfortably, gripping her sopping-wet bag with two hands. A book was sticking out of it, the cover darkened with rain, but he would recognize it anywhere, it was the same edition he had as a kid.

“Dickens?”

“What?” Her response was quick, annoyed, braid flipping as she wrenched her head towards him, again. He wiped the flicks of water from it off his cheek.

“Charles Dickens — Oliver Twist.” He nodded to the book, which the girl saw, quickly shoving it back into the bag. “You like it?”

“I’ve read it a million times.”

His lips twitched up, digging up a memory that had been stuck on a shelf and collecting dust for years. Small hands clutching at a ripped up, stolen library book, reading by flashlight under a too-thin blanket. The story had seemed fitting, at the time.

“It is because I think so much of warm and sensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded.” He quoted, surprised he could even dredge up the line.

Her callous demeanor dropped, for a moment. She blinked, whether in disbelief or to keep water out of her eyes, and looked at him in surprise. With the abrasiveness momentarily off her features, Han found the word beautiful circling in his head again, along with surreal. He pointedly looked away — he was not planning on being the creep hitting on the girl he’d offered a ride to.

“I always preferred the Artful Dodger.”

His brows raised in a moment of surprise, a genuine smile tugging from his lips before he could reign it in.

“Me too.” One of his eyebrows lowered, expression still lively. “He’s got the worst ending, though.”

She opened her mouth like she was going to say something, and a strange feeling of anticipation bloomed in his chest.

It deflated when she closed her mouth, turning back to face the windshield. He couldn’t help but be a little disappointed.

“Turn right at the dead end.”

He did as he was told, for once, letting the topic of the book drop. It wasn’t for a beat or two until he realized what road they were on, one he’d just taken for the first time just two days ago. A weird, static feeling filled his chest, like clicking puzzle pieces together in a game he didn’t realize he was playing.

“Wait, wait, wait.” He pulled up to the familiar gravel driveway, lined with those carefully planted Magnolias. “You’re Crazy Old Kenobi’s niece? Luke’s sister? The ‘People’s Princess’?” He said the last moniker with a laugh, picturing a crown balanced atop her soggy, wet head. She scowled at him, lip curling over her teeth.

She’d always hated that nickname. Wes had made it up specifically because she hated that nickname. Luke had pulled the two of them apart in many childhood brawls because of that stupid title.

“It’s Leia.”

Leia. He remembered Luke saying that, as well as one of the Rogues. Something about the name made the air feel charged, electric, like the lightning had followed them into the car. It was the same feeling he had when Luke had first said it — though now the electricity was sitting in his passenger seat instead of buzzing around in his head.

“Alright, Your Highness.” He responded, amusement in his tone. Something about saying her name felt too close, too intimate. It was a bonus, too, that she looked annoyed, face flushing red and screwed up in frustration. It was cute, in a way that reminded him he shouldn’t think about that.

Han brought the truck up to the gate, shifting it into park. He turned to say something else to her, but as soon as the wheels stopped rolling, she ripped his jacket off, opened the door and jumped out into the rain. He raised his voice before she could slam the door.

“Don’t you wanna know who saved your sorry ass?”

“No, not particularly.” She did indeed slam the door shut on his smile, slinging her bag over one shoulder and stomping around to the back of the Bronco. He got out and made it around in time to watch her multiple attempts to yank out the bike from where he’d wedged it in. He put his hands on the frame, easily tugging it loose and lifting it to the ground. She glared at him, snatching the bike out of his grip.

“Thank you.” Her words were clipped, eyes looking at the bike instead of at him, half rolling it and half dragging it through the gravel as she approached the gate.

“You’re welcome, Princess!” He called out, watching as it looked like the gate opened for her. Both her hands were still on the bike, but one of the wrought iron sides pulled open a Leia-sized gap for her to slip into, pushing the bike in front of her.

She didn’t even turn, merely lifting a hand to stick her middle finger in his direction once the gate clattered closed behind her, released by the invisible servants.

Han blinked, shaking the water from his hair. He’d now officially met two of the three residents of Kenobi House so far, and only liked one and a half of ‘em. All he had left to meet was Crazy Old Kenobi, the final clue in this weird, twisted riddle of a family.

This job might end up being more trouble than it was worth. And a thousand bucks a week was worth a lot of trouble.

Chapter Text

June 23rd, 1992

181 Days.

“There’s no way it can be that bad.” Han muttered into his cup of, now lukewarm, coffee. Chewie slid the pot over to him without a word, turning his back to continue to prep the counter for breakfast.

“It’s that bad.” Wedge replied, a piece of bacon sticking out of his mouth while he sloppily assembled breakfast biscuits. “I mean, I’ve never seen ‘em up in arms like this. They’re talkin’ about doin’ a march.”

“A march?” Han asked incredulously, topping off his cup and taking a scalding sip. “A bunch of old white ladies want to march against — what? The weather? God?”

Wedge shook his head, cutting open another biscuit and slapping down a sausage patty, a fried egg, and a limp piece of American cheese.

“I dunno, but it’s ruinin’ hydrangea season.” Wedge topped it with the other half of the biscuit, rolling the entire thing in a sheet of parchment paper and scribbling SEC on the top.

“Oh no, not hydrangea season.” Han cried, adopting as much of a southern twang as he could manage, and waving his cup in the air.

Something flew through the air towards him, but he ducked in time. A burnt biscuit, that was more useful as a hockey puck at this point, clattered to the floor behind him, leaving a trail of crumbs in its wake.

“My ma grows those damn things to win a ribbon at the county fair every year. Do you even know how long I’ve been hearin’ her complain about these damn hydrangeas?” Wes shouted from the other side of the counter, depositing a tray of burnt biscuits into the garbage.
Chewie gave him a look, but Wes just sheepishly shrugged.

“Maybe it’s a sign to move out.” Han said, using his fork to scrape the last bit of his eggs onto a piece of butter-soggy toast.

“Maybe it’s a sign to move out.” Wes mocked in a pitched-up voice, turning back into the kitchen to, hopefully, get an un-burnt tray. Han hid his smile by shoving the eggs and toast in his mouth, stepping down from the bar stool and bringing his plate into the back. He quickly washed his plate and silver, then left them in the drying rack, brushing the crumbs off his shirt.

“Hey, Solo.” Biggs came around the corner as Han pushed out of the kitchen, holding a plastic bin full of fresh produce to stock. “Isn’t today your first day at the Haunted Mansion?”

“Supposed t’ be.” Han was reminded, suddenly, he didn’t have unlimited time to laze around the kitchen in the morning anymore, and checked the clock.

8:43am. He should start heading that way.

“Tell us when you meet Crazy Old Kenobi.” Wedge piped up, slapping another hastily made breakfast sandwich onto the stack. Wes pushed back out of the kitchen with a fresh tray, depositing them next to his friend. Wedge waggled his brows at him. “Wes and I have a bet goin’.”

“A bet?” Han questioned, but the two guys merely looked at each other and smiled. “What kinda bet?”

“Wes over here isn’t convinced Kenobi is a real person.”

“That is not what I said!” Wes crossed his arms, his elbow knocking into the tray and making the entire thing wobble. “I said he used to be a person. He was a bedtime story when my folks were comin’ up, no way that guy is still alive.”

“So what, you think Luke and Leia are stayin’ in that big house all by themselves?” Biggs raised his voice and asked from the other side of the store, stacking up ears of corn into the produce stand. Han still hadn’t fixed the sprinklers, but he’d at least isolated the issue. It would require another hardware store run, and of course they were closed on Sundays, like most places down here. He’d have to get to it this Saturday, which meant another week without them functioning. “Who do you think eats all the groceries Chewie delivered when they weren’t there?”

Wes shrugged, sticking a massive whisk into the even bigger pot of grits on the stovetop.

“Probably all the deer and shit that like to live out there, no one’s there scarin’ them off!”

“And they magically take the trash away with them, too?”

“Shit, all I’m sayin’ is —”

Han ignored the rest of the argument as he drained the last of his coffee, depositing it in the fresh dish bin. He swiped a biscuit off Wedge’s tray, also ignoring the noise of protest from the other man. Han stuck it in his mouth with a grin, digging around in his pocket for one of the wrinkled twenty dollar bills Luke had given him on Saturday. He swallowed the bite of the dry, buttery thing, then spoke in a low tone. “My money is on alive, but barely. Gone within the year.”

Wedge gave him both a look of surprise and condemnation.

“That’s cold, Solo.”

Han shrugged, taking another bite of the crumbling biscuit, eying Chewie’s turned back to see if he heard. He was sensitive about things like that, predicting death. Like it was an omen, a tempting of fate. Han had seen enough death to know it didn’t operate like that, but wasn’t going to correct his friend — he’d seen just as much. Chewie didn’t turn, so he either didn’t care or didn’t hear. Good enough for Han.

“Not that I’ll be around to see it.”

“You’ve been sayin’ that for months!” Biggs yelled from his position still stocking the produce stand, now having moved on to fruits. Han lifted his palms in innocence, heading towards the front door with a grin.

Before he could get far, though, there was a gruff clearing of a throat from Chewie, who looked pointedly at the counter. A brown paper bag had appeared, the top folded and stapled carefully. Han beamed at his friend, stepping forward to snatch the bag before one of the Rogues could steal it, tucking it protectively in his arms to shield it from the rain. He held the door open, winking at Wedge.

“Send my winnings to the forwarding address.”

When Han arrived at Kenobi’s property, he wasn’t sure where to park.

Usually it was never an issue, go down the driveway and park in an unobtrusive way to the home owners, or just park on the street. Here, the street was nearly a half mile away from the house, and there was a giant, heavy, wrought iron gate blocking the driveway.

He could open it, sure, and drive down, but something about that felt wrong, felt rude.

Shit, he never cared about being rude before moving to this dump, which besides being non-white, non-christian, or non-republican, was about the worst thing you could be in Millennium. Rude. Anyone who was worried if someone around them was being rude didn’t have any real problems to focus on.

Still, Han pulled to the side in front of the gate, turning the engine off and stepping out into the light drizzle. It was practically dry, compared to the last several weeks. Not enough to feel any drops but enough to leave your skin feeling damp and to cool the air down.

He grabbed his tool bag out of the back, slinging it over his shoulder and trudging up to the gate. It was heavier than both Luke or his sister made it look, it barely swung open when he pressed all his weight on it to pass through. An electric pulse drew over his skin, almost like he was stepping across a barrier. He supposed, in a way, he was, since once again there was no rain on the other side of the gate. It was just soft green grass and towering trees around the worn dirt path that snaked its way up to the house.

There was a nice breeze, but without the rain cooling his skin, Han regretted his choice of his usual work jeans. A couple hours under the sun would have him dripping.

He walked up to the house, looking weathered and worn down in the morning light. He dropped his bag by the porch, wondering if anyone planned on coming out before he was supposed to start… somewhere in this big mess. He half wondered if the sister or Ben would be the one to greet him.

Hell, he didn’t half wonder about the sister — Leia, he reminded himself. It felt damn near like hoping. The girl had been in his head the rest of the weekend, all wet brown hair and cutting eyes. Words sharper than her teeth with an attitude to match. It would at least keep things interesting, if she was around, though he wondered if interesting was really what he wanted.

The same white cat he’d seen the first time materialized from somewhere underneath the porch. It stretched its long legs out, blinking those weird, unnaturally blue eyes at him. It sat, tail swishing in the grass, staring at Han.

“You the foreman or somethin’?” He found himself asking the cat, who promptly turned and jumped up onto the porch, disappearing into the swaths of greenery.

Instead of standing there looking like a dumbass, talking to cats, he’d arbitrarily decided to walk the perimeter of the house again to see if there was an obvious place to start. He scowled at the crawling vines covering nearly half of the front porch and up the facade when he passed, their small white blooms perfuming the air. They were going to be a bitch to get rid of, which would be the first step in redoing the porch.

The old yellow Beetle Luke had been driving was parked on the side of the house under the shade of a particularly large magnolia tree, the one who had several branches threatening a third floor window. Han approached it, hands dug deeply in his pockets to keep from investigating further than necessary. The thing was covered in rust, paint peeling off in chunks. The interior had probably looked nice at one point, but was now dingy and scratched up. The leather of the seats was ripped and patched in several places, covered in stains probably decades old.

Clothes littered the backseat that could only be Luke’s. Blue jeans, wide-striped collared shirts, a brown corduroy jacket, several single dirty white socks, even a pair of beat-up Chuck Taylors that were missing laces.

His fingers twitched in his pocket, begging him to lift the hood and see what the kid had cooking under there. It took an immense act of self-control to continue his walk around, leaving the old bug under the shade of the magnolia.

As he continued his walk, he noticed, for the first time, how much life seemed to emanate around Kenobi’s property. Trees also towered high above any of the others in town, dwarfing even the house. Dandelions and clover blooms dotted the grass in brilliant patches of yellow and white. Insects buzzed, but not the typical cloud of mosquitos that would have descended on him by now. These were ladybugs, grasshoppers, bees, even a dragonfly. Once he started looking for them, he saw them everywhere, climbing up tall blades of grass or lazily hovering above a flower.

Not only insects, but he saw plenty of signs of animal activity, too. Birds were loudly singing their songs above him, seemingly thrilled to have found a dry haven. He heard squirrels scuttering about, too, and even saw what could have been coyote tracks in a spot of mud, unless Kenobi had a dog he didn’t know about.

Everything must have been flocking here because of the weird weather anomaly, seeking out the dry earth and warm air. It would explain the supposed cats, he thought, passing their feeding station and seeing it had once again been cleaned and refilled.

He’d nearly completed his loop, gaze snagging back on the crumbling rock wall and the pond he knew lay beyond it. Something about those woods felt different, like they were made of a different kind of tree he couldn’t identify. Maybe it was darker, more shaded.

The screen door slammed, the hinges squeaking with the effort of being slung open and then carelessly tossed closed again. At least that was an easy fix, something he could get done before the day was out. He heard his name called in a voice that was distinctly male and young, distinctly Luke. He cast one more look at the strange part of the woods, then moved to lumber back to the front of the property. As he rounded the corner, he realized what about that place felt so different.

There were no insects. No evidence of animals in that muck-eaten place. It was still.

Han worked up an uncomfortable sweat hardly an hour into the day. By the morning’s end, he was damn near miserable and almost looking forward to getting back in the rain. Whatever wind had been blowing through the valley had stopped, leaving the sun beating down mercilessly on his bare back, his shirt having been sweat through and shed ages ago.

He’d managed to rip down most of the vining, flowering plant that had covered the rotten front porch, the project he and Luke agreed was the most urgent. The vines sat in a pile on the ground, Han having thrown them over the side with every bushel he’d wrangled free. Plenty of it still climbed the siding of the house, almost looking like it was intentional, mimicking the same style as crawling ivy. The boards he revealed were worse than the ones he’d already seen, so rotted through they splintered away at the slightest touch.

The entire thing was a broken ankle waiting to happen.

He thought he’d seen a curious head of dark brown hair watching him through one of the upper floor windows, at some point. Though it was hard to tell with just how old and dirty those panes of glass were. He’d smirked, offering a sarcastic wave just to see the shadow of the figure move out of his line of sight.

Figures.

After the extremely manual job of taking care of the vines, he’d taken a short lunch break back at his truck, after spending a good few minutes letting the rain cool his hot skin. The paper bag Chewie had made for him contained one slightly soggy chicken salad sandwich, a green apple, and some sort of cinnamon pastry he’d inhaled before he could interrogate what exactly it was.

He grabbed the notebook he kept shoved beneath all the tapes in the glovebox, an old, battered fountain pen attached, and returned back through the gate.

The rest of the afternoon was spent getting on and off a sun-warmed rock at the front of the property, measuring and sketching out a new design. He wanted to build as much as possible before the teardown, or at least a set of temporary stairs, so the front door wouldn’t be floating five feet above the ground until he finished. That wasn’t only a broken ankle, but a lawsuit.

He kept it simple, keeping most aspects of the original porch design, but adding a few things. A railing for the stairs, first of all. The thing must have been built long before anyone gave a shit about code enforcement. He also sketched in columns every couple of feet. He could screen it in, if they wanted, get rid of that creaking screen door all together.

Well, no longer creaking. He was a bit surprised he still hadn’t been invited inside, that famous southern hospitality and all, but he didn’t question it too much. It was clear that Ben Kenobi was a private person, if he was a person at all. He didn’t know if he even wanted to go in, the place was likely a dump, if the outside was any indication. The front porch was as close as he got, but that heavy front door remained firmly closed. There was a large brass door knocker in the shape of a magnolia blossom decorating the front, matching a rather ornate and old looking doorknob. Which, strangely, didn’t look to have a lock. Han supposed all the way out here you may not need one, but still, it seemed a rather obvious design flaw.

All the hinges needed was a bit of WD-40 and some attention. He got the secondary door swinging easily and quietly in just a couple minutes of work.

As five o’clock rolled around and Han was packing up his tool bag to leave, Luke came stumbling back out, the only sound to announce his arrival was the slam of the screen door back in the frame. Luke looked back at it curiously, a small smile on his face, then spotted Han and jogged down the decrepit porch steps to his vigil on the rock.

“Here, Ben said to give you this.”

Luke held out another stack of crinkled, old twenty-dollar bills. Han bet if he counted it, it would add up to $200. So far he still had the $180 the kid had given him last week, only having spent the first of it that morning adding to Wedge’s bet. Something in the back of his mind reminded him he should feel guilty for betting on Kenobi’s demise with Kenobi’s money. He couldn’t muster the wherewithal to care.

Han took the money and slid it in his damp back pocket without counting it, thinking the kid wouldn’t short him… at least on purpose. Half of him wondered where Ben got the cash. It wasn’t like he worked, and his place was a wreck.

He eyed Luke, looking for any noticeable sign of wealth. He was clean, hair a bit overgrown, it was falling into his eyes. He was wearing a pair of lightwash jeans with noticeable wear around the hem and a pair of dingy white sneakers, different from the last pair he’d seen. He wore a white and black ringer t-shirt with a big ‘WHEATIES’ logo in the center, emphasizing his youthful appearance. No jewelry, nothing flashy, but nothing that indicated he wanted for much, either.

“Say, this Ben character ever gonna show face?” Han mused, distracting himself by throwing his notebook inside the canvas duffel before drawing the zipper closed.

“He doesn’t meet new company very often.” Luke admitted, kicking a pebble away with those dirty white sneakers. “But you’ll see him, he walks the property every now and then.”

Han hummed a response, trying and failing to imagine a face for this elusive Ben.

“Hey, can I hitch a ride to the Pop-n-Shop with you?” Luke asked, blue eyes blazing in the afternoon sun. “If that’s where you’re going.”

It was where he was going, the kid had annoyingly picked up. Han glanced towards the side of the house where the Beetle was parked.

“Beetle not runnin’?”

Luke shook his head dejectedly, blonde hair fanning around his face like some sort of golden halo. The kid really did have something sunny about him. Maybe it was the light complexion and hair, or the fact that Han couldn’t picture anything heinous coming out of his mouth. The good seemed to radiate off of him, threatening to purify the corruption Han wrapped around himself like a security blanket. He took a step back, disguising the move by bending down to grab the duffel, slinging it onto his shoulder.

“It won’t roll over. Think it might be a faulty starter.” Luke looked back where the Beetle was parked, like he could see through the house into the small shaded alcove.

“I can look at it tomorrow if you want.” Han dug his keys out of his pocket, turning towards the gate, hoping the kid would take the hint and follow along.

“Really?” The surprise in his voice caught Han off guard, surely the kid could tell he was itching to look under the hood. He heard the scuttle of gravel as Luke caught up with him, matching his long stride step-for-step. “That would be great, is it okay if I watch? I’m trying to learn how to fix it and —”

Han waved him off.

“Whatever, kid. I’m not promising any miracles. Especially if it is the starter, you’ll have to go to the next town over to get the part.”

Luke’s face morphed into seriousness, nodding his head enthusiastically.

“Right.”

Han occupied the far booth, tucked into a corner behind the door. Half a plate of country fried steak was still in front of him, smothered in more than its fair share of white gravy. It oozed into the side of stewed green beans and the generous portion of whipped potatoes. He was already stuffed, but still drug half the dinner roll across the bottom of the plate, soaking up the gravy and a bit of potato and popping it in his mouth.

The portions were ridiculous when Chewie was serving, no one, except for maybe the man himself, could finish a plate this big.

Though, his full stomach could have been the product of eating dessert first. The peach cobbler that Chewie had also served was already gone — it was rapidly becoming Han’s favorite thing on the menu. He’d never had a real peach before coming to Millennium, and wasn’t convinced he’d actually like the damn things. They’d gotten canned peaches in the mess hall while he served, but they were always slimy and artificial tasting. He’d always traded them for something else, anything else.

His first mouthful of a fat, juicy, real peach at the start of the season changed all of that in an instant. Now Chewie always saved him a few when they came into the store. They were almost always gone within the day.

It was late, Han had decided to drop the kid off at the store so he could run to Chewie’s house and take a shower. He didn’t figure it was fair to be a degenerate taking up booth space and stinking up half the place.

He was just about to cry mercy on dinner when a bottle slid smoothly over the table top to him.
Luke stood with a small smile, a plate of his own, and a second bottle, settling in the seat across from Han with an easy grace.

“Figured I owed you one.” Luke tipped his own bottle up, the cap already having been twisted off.

“You’re old enough to buy these?” Han didn’t mean for it to come out as accusatory as it did, nevertheless Luke merely grinned.

“I’m twenty-one, twenty-two at the end of December.”

Han scoffed, kids and their counting. He wondered if he should let him know it was all downhill after his next birthday, no more big milestones to count up to, just mounting disappointment.

“You’re practically ancient, careful you don’t turn to dust.”

Luke’s smile didn’t dim, cutting into his steak with agile precision, shoving a big bite in his mouth before he continued to talk.

“How old are you, anyways?” He asked around chunks of beefsteak.

“Old enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“Twenty-seven.” He answered flatly.

Luke whistled, actually whistled like Han was about to keel over before his very eyes. He scowled.

“I guess it ain’t that old.” Luke shrugged, fork and knife working to split the steak into small, even pieces. “Most people around here who actually managed to make it out of this town are gone by eighteen. After that, you’re pretty much stuck.”

“Stuck seems to be the general consensus around here.” Han muttered, deciding to ignore the jab and smear more gravy over the half remaining dinner roll.

“It’s not so bad, after a while.” Luke mused in between bites, seeming to pack away more than his lean frame should be able to fit. “It’s got charm, if you look for it.”

“I sure haven’t found any.”

“Were you looking?”

Luke’s smile was playful, cheeks bulging with food. He tipped up his bottle to wash it down, which reminded Han of his own. He spun the cool glass around and read the Budweiser logo stretching across. He twisted the top off and took a swig anyways, free beer was free beer.

“So, you ran into my sister?” Han could tell Luke had tried to ask casually, but the way he glanced up at the end gave it away. He shrugged, picking at the bottle label.

“Guess so, she the one who likes to ride bikes through hurricanes?”

“Hurricane season isn’t for another two months.” Luke reminded him, amusement in his tone.

“She say something about it?”

Luke shook his head, shoveling yet another bite in, the plate halfway finished.

“No, but I saw the bike. She said some asshole hit it with his car.” The corners of Luke’s mouth twitched up.

That little bastard, he totally knew. He was just playing with him.

“Hey, I didn’t hit the bike.” Han pushed his index finger into the table, as if to emphasize the point. “It was already broken when I almost hit it.”

“Almost hit her.”

“She was holding the damn thing in the middle of the road!”

Luke laughed, eyes sparkling. He was opening his mouth to continue when another plate clattered onto their table, followed quickly by a body dropping itself into the seat next to Luke, who promptly moved over to make room. Wes grinned at them, swiping Luke’s bottle and tipping it up before the blond could argue, snatching it back away after Wes had stolen several gulps.

“Met the Princess?” Wes asked with a waggle of his brows, wiping the suds off his mouth. “Whadda you think?”

“Wonderful girl.” Han replied sarcastically. “I’m either beginnin’ to like her, or I’m gonna kill her.”

Wes grinned, Luke had a small smile on his face, looking mildly exasperated at Han.

“So, Han.” Wes picked up his silverware. “How’d your first day at the Haunted Mansion go?”

Luke’s face contorted when he playfully glared at his friend, who didn’t react, cutting into his own dinner and shoving it in his mouth by the forkfulls.

Han eyed Luke before he answered, trying to gauge the kid’s reaction to talking about his uncle.

“Fine,” he decided was the easiest thing to say, pushing his plate towards the center of the table so he wouldn’t be tempted to take another bite. He already felt like he was going to pop.

“Fine?” Wes repeated, eyebrows in his hairline. “I’ve been trying to get over there for years, you see it, and come back and say it’s fine?” He was talking around mouthfuls of dinner, eating with nearly the same ferocity of Luke.

“Lay off.” Came another voice, and another plate landing on the table. Biggs sat himself next to Han, forcing him over to the far side of the booth with a grumble. The Rogues always managed to sniff him out like dogs after he’d done something mildly interesting. The time he’d gone to fix the Reverand’s water heater he’d been cornered for nearly an hour afterwards, asking if he’d seen his supposed mistress or where he’d been rumored to have been hiding church funds. They were like vultures for small town gossip, worse than those front-porch ladies on their creaking rocking chairs.

“What? I’m jus’ tryin’ to see what goes on up there since Luke won’t say anything.” Wes complained, but his gaze was back behind the counter, smiling at Wedge who was still working. He stuck his middle finger up at his friends between taking orders.

“It’s just an old house on an older piece of property. Nothin’ special.” Han muttered, tipping Luke’s offering back up so he could eye the kid from around the bottle. He didn’t look uncomfortable, per say. He was probably used to the relentless teasing about Kenobi by this point. Though his smile had disappeared and he was shoving potatoes around on his plate. For the kid, that was practically moping.

Someone else approached, dragging a chair up to the table and dropping their body in it.

Greer, chewing on the straw of another Coke, setting her plate down amongst the others. What was he, catnip to everyone under the age of twenty-five? He really needed to start taking plates home to eat.

“That’s so lame.” Wes continued, oblivious to Luke’s change in demeanor and to the newest table member.

“You’re fuckin’ lame, Wes.” Biggs continued, pointing his fork at his friend, who looked undoubtedly offended.

“I’m lame? For what, askin’ questions?” Wes and Biggs continued to argue back and forth.

“You’re both lame.” Greer piped up, fixing both with an impatient look. “How ‘bout that?”

Luke looked up at Han from underneath his lashes, freckles dancing under the overhead lighting. He felt sorry for the kid, he realized. He was living inside some old wives tale, a rumor that has cemented itself as folklore. The Luke he’d gotten to know in the last week was talkative and acted a bit younger than his age, but he was kind. Social. Friendly. Nothing like the hermit he was made to answer for.

In an effort to cheer him up, something Han was not used to doing, he offered him a small smile, glancing as if to say ’can you believe them?’ Luke begrudgingly smiled back, letting his fork drop against his plate.

“I should head back.” He declared, grabbing his plate and looking at Wes, waiting for him to move. Greer scooted her chair out of the way, allowing Wes to slide out of the seat, which he did with a frown, swallowing a bite before he protested.

“Aw come on Luke I’m jus’ pullin’ your leg. You just got here!”

“I’ve been here for two hours.” Luke corrected, pulling himself out of the booth and taking a few strides to scrape the few remaining bites in the trash, dumping his plate in the dish bin.

“Exactly!”

Luke wiped his hands off with a napkin, dropping that in the trash, too. He walked back by the table to finish off the last sip from his beer, ignoring Wes and leveling Han with a steady look.

“See you tomorrow?”

Han merely tipped his own bottle in agreement, which seemed to be enough for Luke, who waved goodbye to his friends and yelled one to Chewie. He disappeared out the front door before Han could remember he’d given him a ride, but when he looked outside to track him, he was gone.

Chapter Text

June 27th, 1992

177 Days.

Han ripped down what was hopefully the last swatch of crawling vines off the front porch. The shit grew insanely fast. He swore he was ripping down a section he’d already taken care of, twice. His massive pile on the ground was near towering at this point, hauling it all into the woods was going to take a minimum of five trips, and that was if he could patch the blown tire on the wheelbarrow.

Everything about this job required ten additional steps just to finish one.

At least it was a quiet jobsite. Luke had figured out what time he typically took lunch, and started joining him outside. Han had elected not to eat in the Falcon when he first saw the kid carrying a sandwich wrapped in paper towels and an entire bag of baby carrots. Telling him no felt like kicking a puppy, or something else as small and unnaturally well-liked. He could stand to be social for an hour on break. Besides, the kid wasn’t that bad, certainly held a better conversation than most of the guys at Chewie’s.

They’d made a makeshift sort of table from the wide rock he’d sketched on his first day there, spreading out whatever Luke made in the house and whatever Chewie threw in Han’s paper bag in the morning. They had a silent agreement of swapsies, once it hit the rock, it was fair game.

Except for Chewie’s pastry. That they dutifully split each time, right down the middle.

Luke’s collection of food was always some strange sort of amalgamation. Sometimes it was a hastily put together sandwich, other times he brought out a fully home-cooked meal on nice china. He’d yet to meet Kenobi, but maybe all those groceries Chewie dropped off had taught the old man how to cook.

Han had spent yesterday’s lunch break looking at Luke’s car, which the white cat lounged on the roof of and watched them the entire time with a swishing tail. The problem was indeed a bad starter, he knew as soon as he tried to crank it. He’d offered to take the kid into the city this weekend, when he had to go to get the art for the sprinkler anyway. It would take Han only ten minutes to get it back up and running when he had it.

Other than their lunches and Luke’s goodbye, cash in hand and often accompanied by an ask for a ride, no one else came out of the house. He kept looking to the large front door, expecting to see one of those famous ghosts striding out.

Unless the ghost was a talkative blond with slightly annoying taste in pop music — or the semi-feral white cat, he was sorely disappointed.

That was, except for Friday afternoon, when he’d finally finished ripping down the last of those stupid, incessant vines, he thought he heard the back door close.

Luke always used the front door, it seemed. At least, Han had started anticipating his arrival upon hearing the slam of the screen door. When he didn’t hear his name being called, always the second indicator of Luke, his curiosity started to pique. He attempted to shove it down, chiding himself for being interested in the first place.

If it was Ben or the sister, why would he have any reason to run up on them? He was working.

Supposedly.

Han threw the last bunch of annoying vines he’d collected over the side, joining the already teetering pile. His shirt stuck to his back with sweat, even under the covered porch. He forced himself to take the rotten steps slowly, digging through his bag for the water bottle and guzzling down half. The sun beat heavily down on him, hair damp with sweat sticking to his forehead.

He thought briefly of walking to the other side of the gate, cooling down in the misty drizzle, but working the rest of the shift in wet jeans would be miserable. Besides, the way to the gate was in the opposite direction of the back door, and whoever had walked out of it.

He’d go walk to the pond, only because it was cooler in that section of the woods. For that reason only, not because he might be able to see who came out the back door. Whoever it was, they’d probably gone off wherever they were going anyways. He likely wouldn’t see them.

Probably.

He shoved the crinkled water bottle in his back pocket, lazing down the dirt path around to the side of the house. The white cat was at the feeding station, staring at him with large eyes and his tipped ear. Han sunk into a squat, holding his fingers out and coo-ing to the cat in a way he’d deny to his grave if someone had caught him. The cat merely stared, licking its lips before returning to his meal.

Fine, he could take a hint.

As he continued his short walk, he peeked around to the back. The door was firmly closed, and no one was around. It was used every so often, apparently. A walkway had been cleared amongst the junk that was piled up there.

He turned down the small path to the pond, hopping over the crumbling wall with ease. When he landed, a fleetingly familiar pair of great big brown eyes froze him in place. For the second time.

Those big brown eyes were attached to pressed lips, then eyebrows drawn together in irritation.

Leia was sitting by the bank of the pond, a large picnic blanket spread out beneath her, a battered journal open on one of her knees. She was wearing a pair of denim shorts and a loose, light, striped t-shirt. A bandage was wrapped around the back of one of her legs, the road rash from the weekend before, if he had to guess. Her hair was pulled back in two tight braids against her scalp, emphasizing the sharpness of her already razor-edged features.

She had ink smeared on her hand again, whirls and swirls of it, something written.

Han shut his mouth, realizing it had still been hanging open in surprise. Her head tilted, slightly, silently questioning his arrival. Wind rustled the pages in her notebook, the fluttering of paper snapped him out of his stupor.

“Hey.”

Great first line.

“Hey.” She repeated, tone clipped, eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”

“I uh —” He pointed a thumb back in the direction of the house. “I work here.”

“I gathered that.” She fingered the notebook, still eying him like a specimen under a microscope. He suddenly wished he wasn’t in a sweat-soaked shirt or covered in streaks of dirt. He became keenly aware of the sauce stains from lunch around his collar. “I mean here.” She gestured to the pond, which seemed a little less overgrown than it had before, he could at least tell where the water started now.

“It’s cooler over here.” He shrugged, arms crossed across his chest to attempt to disguise his surprise, or the way his heart was beating a bit faster than normal. It was just because he didn’t expect to see her, that was all.

He felt the mask slip into place, his weight sinking onto one foot, shoulders pulled back and the casual, lopsided smile found its home on his lips. “Relax, I ain’t down here for you, Sweetheart. I know my place, my liege.” He did an exaggerated half bow of his head, smile growing. Her cheeks reddened, and his smirk grew with satisfaction that his words had affected her. She huffed, angrily snapping her notebook closed to turn her head away from him.

“Then why are you still here?”

“Maybe I just like seein’ how I make you blush.”

“You certainly don’t.” She shoved the notebook into her bag, sliding old sneakers back on.

“Oh, come on Your Highness, don’t leave on my account.” It may have sounded almost like an apology, but the grin on his face proved it was anything but.

“Some oaf of a man is blocking my sun.” She seethed, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Oh what, are you workin’ on your tan?” His sarcastic tone propelled her to her feet, but before she could bend down to grab the blanket, another pair of hands snatched it nearly out from under her. He began to fold it corner over corner as he continued, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “Or are you photosynthesizing?”

Leia cocked a hip, a similar move to his, tapping her foot against the pine-needle strewn ground. She grabbed the blanket as soon as Han finished folding in a neat square.

“Are you always like this?”

“Charming?”

“Annoying.”

He shrugged.

“Same thing.”

“Look.” She pressed the blanket into her chest, arms crossed tightly around herself. “Just because you work for Ben does not mean that I —”

“Leia?” A voice called from the front of the house, right before the screen door clattered closed. A wavering, lower, unfamiliar voice to Han. Not Luke. Leia’s brows drooped, mouth closing from whatever insult she was about to throw his way. She glared at Han, taking a deep breath.

“Coming!” Her voice carried across the small clearing and must have made it to the house. She turned and stomped around him. Han looked around briefly, curiosity overcoming his desire to stay in the cool part of the woods. He stupidly turned to follow, the thought of finally laying eyes on the infamous Ben Kenobi winning over.

When at the old rock wall, she planted a foot in the center of the broken gap, trying to hoist herself until she was half-standing on it, but the wall was loose. Rocks spun under her feet and she stumbled back to the ground. Han walked over, bending a knee and bracing his interlocked hands on it, offering her a boost up.

With a scowl, she kicked his hands away, tucking the blanket over her bag, she again braced her hands on the top of the wall, this time successfully pulling herself up, over, and through the gap.

Han easily cleared it, per usual, landing on the ground with a smirk to erase the embarrassment of being so clearly rebuffed. However, Leia had trudged ahead and started the trek around to the front of the house, hellbent on ignoring him. He brushed the fragments of rock off his hands, managing to catch up with her with just a few large strides, hands dug deep in the pockets of his jeans.

“Do I need to prepare a salt circle or somethin’ to meet this guy?” He asked her with amusement, hoping to see those lips quirk up.

Instead, she merely scowled at him, flipping her head away so fast a braid nearly smacked him across the face.

She’s got spirit.

The porch came into view, but the sun was cresting in such a way to hide it in the glare. He put his hand up to block the light, seeing a robed figure standing in front of the door. Taller than Luke, barely, with a shock of white hair. Even from here, Han could read the intensity in the man’s expression.

So this was the infamous Ben Kenobi. He looked nothing like Robert Duvall.

Leia stopped a few feet away from the bottom of the porch with a huff, continuing to ignore Han as he moved to stand next to her.

“Oh,” Ben said, his thin lips turning in a small, clearly forced smile. His blue eyes dazzled, must have been where Luke got them from. “You must be Mr. Solo.” His voice was soft, not the deep, guttural thing he’d expected, more like Chewie’s. Ben Kenobi’s voice instead reminded him of the sound of leaves in the wind, or the ring of a bell. Otherworldly. Serene.

Han nodded stiffly, inclining his head to the man.

“In the flesh.”

This seemed to amuse him. His gaze turned to Leia, whose impatience had melted in front of her uncle, a careful, neutral mask in its place.

“Leia, invite your friend in for tea.” Ben said temperantly, even though it was technically a command.

“Say you can’t.” Leia muttered under her breath to Han.

“I’d like that.” He answered loud enough for Ben to hear up on the porch, striding past Leia’s tiny, increasingly angry frame. Accomplishment propelled him forward, the anticipation of seeing inside the dilapidated mansion overcoming whatever nervousness he had around Ben. He took the stairs two at a time, still not trusting them, especially under his weight.

Ben’s full figure in front of him, Han found it hard to believe he was the man of the rumors.

He was tall, but still several inches shorter than Han, wearing an expensive brown smoking jacket. Beneath it were tailored pants and a crisp white shirt, seeming at such odds with the bedraggled state of his house. He even wore impeccably clean Oxfords, the brown leather shining in the afternoon light. The only things that betrayed his age was the neatly combed head of white hair and the meticulously trimmed beard, and, of course, the elegant black cane with a crystal handle.

He was practically the picture of an old southern gentleman, if Han had to guess what they looked like. He’d read about them, Colonel Sherburn, Rhett Butler, Atticus Finch, Quincey Morris. They’d seemed like such caricatures in those settings, ludicrous stereotypes of the south. But here one was, live and in front of him.

Ben seemed to notice Han’s analysis, hands resting casually atop the crystal on his cane. He heard Leia stomp up the steps behind them, the wind in the valley picking up and providing a sweet relief from the heat. Ben reached to pull open the screen door, and the heavy oak front door opened inwards, as if pulled by invisible hands. Must have been automatic or something, but that kind of technology felt so out of place here.

The old man walked inside, leaning heavily on the cane, which tapped, tapped, tapped across the… marble floor?

Leia pushed inside past his shocked face, her shoulder connecting with his elbow, some sort of static electricity shocking him, following at the heels of her uncle. Nevertheless, he followed her in, jaw dropping once he cleared the entryway.

Luke had been right about them fixing up the inside, that was for sure.

The floor was indeed a gleaming white marble, stretching across the entire open-concept first story. The walls were a crisp, clean white, accentuating the tall ceilings and the immense amount of natural light that seemed impossible with the few, dusty windows he’d seen outside. Elegant furniture made of rich, expensive fabrics occupied a small seating area by the large, ornate fireplace that was as tall as he was and as wide as the massive grand piano next to it. On the other side of the space was a dining table that could easily fit twenty, made up like they were expecting company. Large paintings hung on the walls amongst the crown molding, the old-timey kind of portraits people used to commission before cameras were invented. Some of them looked that old, too.

The colors were all rich, dark jewel tones, or bright, clean earth tones, casting the inside in shadow and elegance. It looked like the lobby of the fancy downtown hotels he’d peer inside of in New York, places that he’d never dreamed of being able to afford. It was brighter than it should be. A crystal chandelier did hang above his head, swaying gently as the wind followed them indoors. The crystals made tiny tinkling sounds as they clacked together, the only other sounds being the closing of the heavy door behind him and the tapping of Ben’s cane.

A massive floating staircase occupied the center, and when Han craned his neck, he saw it went up to the second and third floor.

The thing was an engineering marvel, there was no way it should support itself like that, let alone the weight of another person. He took a tentative step towards it, his brain whirring with possibilities for what made it so strong. As he did, he heard thundering, and saw Luke stomping down the steps, stopping with wide eyes when he saw Han.

“Ben invited him in.” Leia interjected coldly, standing on the other side of the staircase with her arms crossed. Luke blinked, looking between his sister and Han.

“Oh, cool.” Han watched his throat bob as he swallowed, apparently uncomfortable with having him inside. He tried not to let that get to him. Luke trudged down the rest of the stairs, giving his supposed friend a strained smile. “Welcome in.”

Han nodded, attempting to keep the cool, unbothered facade in place. The awe curdled into something sour in his stomach. His curiosity had been quickly replaced with bitter resentment, seeing Luke’s reaction. He was always uncomfortable around displays of wealth, as rare as it was for him to be found amongst it. He felt dirty, standing there in his sweat-stained shirt and dirt-caked jeans, his boots probably leaving a trail as he walked across the polished floor. He kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, lest he knock over one of the white and blue vases that decorated the top of greek-style pedestals — that were probably worth more than he’d ever see in a lifetime.

No wonder they could afford to pay him what they did. Look at this place.

“Please, come sit.” Ben was already seating himself on the plush, purple velvet upholstered arm-chair by the fireplace — which suddenly had a fire rumbling in it. He was sure it wasn’t there when he first walked in, he would have noticed it. And remembered how ridiculous it was to have a fire crackling in your hearth in June in the south.

Had to be one of those gas fireplaces that could be turned on with a flick of a switch, he just missed Ben hitting it.

Luke took the other armchair which left Leia sitting on the overstuffed couch. He awkwardly shuffled behind them and occupied the far side of the couch from Ben, sitting on the very edge of the cushion, lest he stain it.

Still, Ben had a pleasant smile on his wrinkled face, and Luke wasn’t so bad. The Princess, however, was still staring daggers at him, which he pretended to ignore. That he could do without.

“Beautiful piano.” Han said into the tense silence, gesturing towards the magnificent work of craftsmanship. It gleamed in the light, the clear centerpiece of the first floor. Ben beamed.

“Do you play?” He asked excitedly, leaning forward.

“No.” Han replied simply with a click of his tongue on the roof of his mouth. Luke tried to hide a smile.

“Leia,” Ben asked, turning to his niece, whose brows were still furrowed together. “Would you play something for us?”

“No.” She said as simply as Han had, eyes flicking to the instrument.

“Why not?” Luke asked, an attempt at a smile to try and keep the conversation light. “You play beautifully.”

“Because we’re not in a Jane Austen novel.” She snapped, leveling her glower at her brother.

Han couldn’t help the upward quirk of his lip, trying to hide it behind a hand.

“How about making us some tea?” Ben mused, gesturing behind him.

“Again, wrong century.”

“I’ll do it.” Luke volunteered, seemingly happy to have an excuse to get out of the uncomfortable conversation. He glanced at Han wearily before disappearing down the hallway Ben had gestured to.

“Well, no one will mind if I tickle the ivories?” Ben asked with a mischievous lilt to his smile. He was already standing and walking towards the large instrument without looking for a response, folding himself onto the bench seat with surprising grace. His fingers danced across the keys before finally pressing down, a light and lilty tune floated around the room. “So, Han. You’re a military man?”

Han startled, slightly. He managed to catch himself before too much surprise showed on his face, swallowing down the inherent discomfort that happened whenever anyone brought up his service.

“Uh, yes —” He stopped himself before he said sir. He hadn’t called anyone sir since he’d been discharged, and made a point of it. Something about Ben brought out the urge, but he stamped it down. His arms crossed defensively over his chest. “I was in the Navy a few years.”

“A sea-man?” Ben asked, amused. Han shook his head.

“Naval aviator.”

“Ah.” Ben continued the song, stretching his fingers across the entire range, playing with surprising speed for an old man. “So you prefer the skies.”

Han shrugged. “You could say that.” His eyes narrowed, watching the other man as he continued to play, oblivious to Han’s suspicion. “How did you know?”

“I believe the saying is, it takes one to know one.” His fingers moved more rapidly across the keys than Han would have thought him capable. “I was training for the army, once.” The older man admitted, gaze focused on his hands. Leia’s head picked up, cocking slightly to the side like she had before. Han remembered large birds of prey, and how they did the same thing. It seemed fitting.

“I didn’t know that.”

Ben nodded, though didn’t look up. “Oh it was nothing, I wasn’t able to enlist afterall.” His eyes turned to Leia. He stopped himself, fingers hovering above the keys momentarily before resuming their song. “A close friend of mine, who I was trying to enlist with, was able to, for many years. You develop an eye for those kind of men.” Ben continued, oblivious to the way Leia’s face had hardened.

He tried to catch Han’s eye again, seemingly to keep probing, but he kept his gaze firmly on the floor. If he’d bothered to look up, he would have seen the small frown on Ben’s features.

Ben cleared his throat, as if to say something, but looked up from the piano and paused. Han glanced up to see Ben’s gaze had latched onto something across the room. The music stopped, his mouth hung slightly open in surprise, eyes trailing after some kind of movement. Han looked over his shoulder, but there was nothing there besides the overly decorative moldings and an absurdly large indoor palm. He heard another clearing of a throat, then the music started up once again. “He went off to serve for a few years before returning home to Kenobi House.” He lifted his head to track that invisible thing across the room, eyes almost misty. “But all of that was a long time ago.”

Leia still stared at her uncle, and Han started to wonder when the hell Luke was going to reappear so he could get out of this house. It was about three different kinds of crazy and he didn’t even have the bandwidth for one. His leg started to bounce anxiously against the polished marble floor, wondering how rude he could get away with being and still keep the job.

Suddenly, Leia’s piercing gaze turned back to him, eyes narrowed like he was her next prey. He could feel it more than he saw it, the intensity sending a shiver down his spine. One that he wasn’t sure was entirely unwelcome.

“What did you do for the Navy?” It felt more like an accusation than a question. His brows lifted.

“Mostly scrubbed toilets with toothbrushes.”

“He’s being modest.” Luke had reappeared on silent feet, startling both Han and Leia, though Ben only looked up with a small, still-forced smile, still playing. Luke held a silver tray in his hands, hell, looking around here it was probably real silver. On it were three glasses of iced tea dripping condensation onto the lacey paper and one delicate cream and blue teacup on a matching saucer. He also balanced a teapot and a small container for cream, hurrying in to set the tray on the glass table in the middle of the sitting area.

Luke passed two glasses to Han and Leia, which Han begrudgingly took, and then set about making Ben his tea, pouring the hot water over the pre-prepared tea bag. Han took a sip of the liquid to be polite, but its acrid sweetness slid down his throat like motor oil.

Sweet tea.

Of all the things he’d learned to enjoy down here, this was not one of them. He’d seen the literal pounds of sugar Biggs dumped into their giant tea containers at the Pop-n-Shop. He wasn’t a heath nut by any stretch of the mile, but damn if it wasn’t always so sweet it made his teeth hurt. Luke’s was apparently no exception.

“Modest?” Leia asked with a quirk of her brow, balancing her own glass on a crossed knee. She gave Han a perfunctory glance, like one someone might give an ant crawling across their shoe. “Not a trait I would have associated with you.”

“I’m full of surprises.” His false grin was easy, maybe the easiest thing about this entire screwed up conversation. With Luke here, he could make his exit, leave them to… whatever the hell it was they did in this house. Leave Leia to her haughty looks and sharp words.

“He saved Chewie’s life, you know.” Luke continued, dumping milk and sugar into the teacup casually. Han’s glass nearly slipped out of his hands, his head whipping towards the younger man, eyes already narrowed. Heart thumping, he set the glass down heavily on the table.

“A hero, too?” Leia added, not quite in a sarcastic tone, her face still cold and emotionless as she took a sip from her glass, but disapproving nonetheless. Han groaned internally, hating that word. Hating the whole conversation at this point. He bit the inside of his cheek, keeping the retorts he wanted to use at bay in front of Ben.

“You’re makin’ it sound a lot more heroic than it was, kid.” He finally mumbled, wiping the condensation from his hand onto the knee of his jeans.

“Then what was it?” Leia questioned, her eyes narrow and calculating. It really did feel like an interrogation, Leia was holding the lamp up to his face while beads of sweat dripped down his back.

Han bristled, feeling his shoulders square and spine straighten.

“Leia.” Luke warned in a low tone, finally having picked up on his discomfort. Her eyes flicked to her brother, mouth open about to respond, but a crash of sound interrupted her.

All three sets of eyes turned to Ben, who’d slammed his fingers down on the keys, creating a brash, keening sound that filled the room. Han fought the urge to clamp his hands over his ears, Ben’s fingers still pressing down. The sound was louder than it should have been, like the entire piano had somehow been plugged into an amp. The chandelier shook, dainty crystals threatening to rain down on them.

“Uncle Ben?” Luke abandoned the tray and his sister, crossing over to his uncle in a few hurried steps. Ben’s eyes kept flickering back and forth between something in the middle of the room — Han turned, again, and still saw nothing except for the absurdly expensive furnishings. A creeping, eerie feeling started to spread, his gut screaming to get out.

By this point, Leia had also gotten up, throwing Han one last glare before she approached Ben and Luke. Her brother had his hands on their uncle, guiding his fingers away from the keys. Ben was muttering something Han couldn’t hear, but the siblings were flashing each other knowing looks.

It was time for him to make his exit.

He stood, resisting the urge to run for the door. Both Luke and Leia stared at him, Luke with eyes pleading for understanding, and Leia with anger, suspecting his judgement.

“I’m gonna —” he started, pointing a thumb back at the front door.

“You should leave.” Leia said pointedly. Luke looked like he wanted to interrupt, but Ben tried to rise to his feet, stumbling with the bench. He suddenly looked his age, skin thin and pale, weighed down by his years. Han was starting to understand how those rumors had started, he did not look well.

Something in his gut turned sour, again, remembering the bet he’d participated in at the beginning of the week.

“Yeah,” was all he replied, turning on heel and walking out the front door without looking back.

It slammed behind him, much more forcefully than it should have when he swung it closed. He looked back, briefly, staring at the bronze magnolia bloom knocker, which rattled with the sudden movement.

Three kinds of crazy didn’t remotely cover whatever the hell just happened in there.

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.

Chapter Text

July 3rd, 1992

171 Days.

It was the Thursday before a holiday weekend, and Han was laying down on the sun-warmed, now-dubbed lunch rock, catching his breath. He knew when he eventually got up the gumption to peel himself off, there’d be a perfect Han-shaped sweat mark, but at the moment he didn’t care.

Temps were in the high nineties at this point in the summer, and he didn’t think he was ever going to take winter for granted again. Even supposedly cold showers were lukewarm, the ground hot enough to keep the pipes warm. The ice maker at the Pop-n-Shop was also hardly keeping up — he’d been on his back under that damn machine for two hours last night trying to see what could be done about it.

It was the first summer he’d spent in the south, and it was starting to kick his ass.

Han was even wearing shorts today, willing to brave the potential nicks and ticks to have some relief. He owned a single pair he'd bought at a thrift store out of town a week ago in desperation. An old style, shorter than he'd usually gone for. At a certain point in the summer, a man didn't care.

At least it had stopped raining, finally. As July rolled in, so did the neverending sun, beating mercilessly down on the entire town. It also seemed to bring Kenobi’s property to further life, somehow. He was constantly swatting at curious insects and shooing feral cats off his makeshift workbench he’d set up near where Luke liked to park the Beetle. The birds squawked all day long and he’d even seen several families of deer hopping over the old stone wall.

Not to mention the plants.

The vines. Those insufferable, incessant, unbearable vines. He was weighing the consequences of a flame thrower at this point.

Every day he ripped them off the skeleton structure the porch had become. And every single day they’d grown almost all the way back, wrapping around the wooden beams with a vice grip he shredded his fingertips trying to get under. His hands seemed perpetually sticky these days, squashing the small white blossoms when he wrested them off, constantly wiping the sap onto his work jeans. It was ridiculous, he’d never seen anything like it.

Some of the smaller trees planted throughout the magnolia groves were blooming, too. Bright pink, small, fragrant blooms. Summer was in full swing, and he was suffering for it.

At least, that’s what it felt like, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath on the rock, staring daggers at the frame he’d managed to get built over the last two weeks. The bones of the structure weren’t so bad. At least, they’d mostly been covered by other boards to keep the rain and rot away. It took three days just to rip all the unusable planks out; he had a few gnarly splinters thanks to that effort.

He estimated another two weeks to get it fully finished. He and Luke had already cut all the boards, making an afternoon of it after Han drove them out to the lumberyard two towns over. The kid was a little clumsy with a saw, but not afraid of the work. If anything, he seemed to be eager for it. He’d joined Han outside three times this week.

He couldn’t say he blamed him, he would have taken any excuse to get out of that house. And it did make things go by faster; Luke was a quick learner.

Han was mentally calculating how much effort it would take to start laying the boards, and if he should even bother starting it that afternoon. It depended on whether Kenobi planned on giving him tomorrow off, as it was easily a two-day operation to get it all measured, cut, and screwed in. He secretly hoped for it, Chewie was throwing his annual barbeque and the Rogues had gone across the border to South Carolina for fireworks — it was destined to go wrong, he just wanted to be sure he was there to witness it.

Han hadn’t seen the old man again since their strange encounter the week before.

He squinted at the front door, thinking of Crazy Old Kenobi. The temporary stairs he'd built were sturdy, but narrow. It made him nervous to think about Ben stumbling down them in one of his... fits, whatever kind of episodes he had. Luke didn't elaborate on what happened last Friday, Han didn't ask, he didn’t want to know.

The sun continued to beat down on his face. The labor of the last few days had caught up to him, his body feeling heavy and limp. The heat was making him tired, slow. He was working at half the speed he normally did.

His eyes must have closed, because they snapped open when he heard the slam of the screen door, seeing small, dainty feet stomp down those temporary steps.

Small, dainty, bare feet attached to long, smooth, equally bare legs. His gaze traveled upwards, naked skin stopping with dark green bathing suit bottoms, the matching top half-obscured by a baggy, half-open, white button-down shirt.

His throat dried, and he wasn't sure it was due to the heat.

Han continued to look up, unsurprised to catch sharp eyes pinning him to the spot, her mouth twitched from a frown to something that arguably looked satisfied. Leia crossed her arms over her chest, pulling a bag with a towel sticking out of it up on her shoulder.

"Close your mouth, you'll catch flies," she said, skipping off the last step and turning to walk down the path towards the pond.

Han shut his mouth, which had indeed fallen open without his permission. He groaned, half at being called out, and half at the prospect of actually sitting up. He did so anyway, the muscles in his abdomen and shoulders protesting the effort. He turned and looked down. There was indeed a Han-shaped sweat imprint on the rock. He'd have to tell Luke to bring one of those fancy tablecloths from inside out for their lunches next week, or remember to hose it off. His gaze turned, trailing Leia down the path, where she managed to climb across the old, crumbling wall, and disappeared over it.

He didn't put two and two together until far too late, blaming the heat for the slow connection. Han scrambled to his feet, lightheaded with the sudden change, moving to shove back into his old boots. His bad knee twinged with the movement, already sore from overuse.

"Hey, Princess!"

She was too far to hear him now or she was choosing not to answer. With a grumble he quickly stumbled down the path, boots unlaced. He'd swum in some questionable water before, but nothing as murky and swampy as that pond. It was bordering on disgusting, if she was actually planning on swimming in there, she had to be insane.

Not to mention whatever creatures called those brown shallows home.

He sped down, clearing the rock wall with a step and jump, and landed just in time to see a splash. He spied her bag by the bank, towel stretched under the shade of a low-hanging tree. Her white shirt was hung on a branch. No Leia.

"Ah shit."

By the time he'd stomped over to the edge, already preparing to sink knee deep into the muck, she surfaced. Leia swept the water away from her brow and smoothed the small hairs that had escaped the tight braid. She spied him, frozen in place not five feet from the water’s edge, staring astonishedly at her.

"Are you crazy? You're swimmin' in that thing?"

Her brow raised, Han could see her treading water.... He could see her treading water.

Han blinked, not quite sure he believed his eyes. The mucky pond had seemingly transformed overnight. The brush had all crawled back, leaving a grassy bank that had clear, green-tinged water lapping over it. It smelled like freshly tilled earth and magnolia blossoms. Not swamp and rot.

Even the trees, which had always felt looming and stoic, seemed to have stretched their branches, allowing for pockets of sunshine to create golden patches on the surface. He could now identify a great big weeping willow, trailing its green streamers down, sunlight making them glisten in the wind. Lily pads stretched out to the left, dinner plates on top of the water. Tall cattails swayed in the breeze behind them, creating a picture perfect scene.

It looked like something he’d read about in a book, some tucked away, secret garden.

Leia’s dark hair fanned out around her in the water, only contained by the braid, her face shining as the sun lit it up like a gemstone. The whole view probably rated pretty highly on the list of the most incredible things he’d ever seen.

"Wh—" he couldn't even formulate the word, mouth once again loosely hung open as he surveyed the new surroundings. Cicadas buzzed and the crickets sounded far earlier than they should, the clearing filling with the sounds of an insect orchestra.

Small dots darted around by the shallow bank, and bigger, slower moving shapes wavered through the water. A few swam around Leia's legs, which were still kicking idly as she stared at him with an amused expression.

He shut his mouth, lest it attract any of the dragonflies that were buzzing around.

"Saying something?" she asked, a playful lilt to her voice he'd yet to hear from her.

"You gotta hell of a landscaper."

Han could have sworn she smiled before she leaned onto her back, floating smoothly on top of the water. She looked ethereal, pale skin glimmering in the flashes of sunlight, small hairs floating around her head like a halo. The swatches of green she wore made her look even more nymph-like, the ties holding it to her body matched the vines from the lily pads swaying gently under the water.

No, not a nymph. Not Ophelia. She looked like a siren.

She looked like the paintings of Hamlet’s Ophelia he’d snuck into museums to see. Luminous, willowy, damn near dreamlike, tucked away under the shade of the trees. The key difference being that sense of life that surrounded her, reminding him of other parts of the property.

He was suddenly grateful most of her was obscured by the water; he still had that distinct feeling of a dry throat.

Water splashed as she momentarily disappeared from the surface, but he could see her execute an elegant flip, kicking her way back to the bank. She surfaced for breath a few feet away, toes stretching to touch the bottom. The water was a lot deeper than he'd thought.

"How did this — When did it change?"

Leia's brows raised in challenge, a barely perceivable lift to her chin.

"It's always been like this."

He gaped at her, gesturing around to the idyllic landscape, certainly not the same muddy, brackish alcove he'd been cooling off in for the last two weeks. He had the dirt stains on the floor mats of the Falcon to prove it.

"Look, Sweetheart. I may only be a lawn ornament to you, but I'm not that gullible." A breeze whistled through the trees, making the leaves dance and scatter onto the surface of the water. Leia casually picked one out of her braid, setting it gently to float in front of her.

Something had come over her, then. She gazed at the man across the water, standing on the bank like it had personally insulted him. Arms crossed and brows scrunched together. His hair was spiky in the back but parts of it were stuck to his forehead with sweat. His white-t-shirt was also thin and wet, clinging to his back and shoulders where she could see the tanned, developed muscle underneath.

He was arrogant, rude at times. Seemingly overconfident. But he might have been nice to look at, occasionally. When he didn’t open his mouth.

Leia hadn't approved of his presence here, and didn’t understand why Ben had been so adamant about hiring him. Her uncle had never cared what Kenobi House looked like to others before. He hardly even went outside. Why now? What was it about this man that Ben had insisted on it?

But, to his credit, that man was interesting.

And grating. Annoying… And unfortunately, compelling.

Rough around the edges, sure. But, intelligent, witty, seemingly used to thinking on his feet. Not to mention his irritatingly tireless work ethic. She felt like every time she'd glanced out her window, she saw him agonizing over a measurement, fighting with an electrical saw, even whacking away at Ben's old Beetle with Luke. The man seemed to be capable of everything.

Maybe that was why she found it so engrossing to see him so visibly shocked, wondering whether or not to believe his eyes. It was endearing, in a boyish sort of way.

It was a shame he was so insufferable.

"Are you just going to stand there looking stupid all day or are you going to get in?" The words left her lips before she had fully thought them through, watching the question hit him over the head, his wide eyes landing back on her.

Han didn't need to be asked twice. With a grin, trying to will the mental images of a gator far from his mind, he shucked off his shirt, kicking his feet out of his socks and boots. He lazily tossed the items near Leia's pile, shirt catching on the branch next to hers.

Han stepped back a few paces, eying the water with a half-grin. Leia hardly had enough time to hurriedly swim out of the way before he started to run, executing a near-perfect dive, his hands cutting a clean path through the blue-green tinted water, his body leaving a trail of tiny white bubbles.

He nearly lost the breath he was holding with the sudden rush of cool water, the perfect balm to his sticky, overheated skin. Immediately the tension and soreness of the day rolled off of him, like the water was sapping it away, leaving him already feeling fresh and renewed after just moments. Even his knee, which has been bothering him more-so than usual over the last week, felt better, like the water was massaging the aches and pains away. He let his body sink, relishing in not feeling overheated for the first time in weeks.

He turned, blinking his eyes open to see the blurry, lazy form of Leia’s legs kicking above him. The sun shone through in bold yellow beams, radiating around her. He couldn't help himself, or the laugh that literally bubbled out of his mouth, scattering a few curious fish. His shoulder hit the sandy bottom, which he then used to push off from, surfacing with a flourish and a gasp.

"God, you've been keepin' secrets, Princess?" He smiled at her, raking his hair back. She was a couple feet away, giving him a bemused look. "This feels amazing." He let out a pleased groan, kicking his legs until he was lounging on his back like she had earlier, feeling the warmth as he floated into a patch of that buttery sunshine. Frogs croaked nearby, accentuating the ambiance that had settled over the pond like a low-lying haze.

"Where did you even hear that name?" Leia asked, arms circling lazily to keep her head above water.

"What name?" He turned his head to glance at her.

"Princess." She repeated with obvious ire. He shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips.

"A gentleman never tells."

"Wes?"

He shrugged again, neither confirming her suspicion nor denying it, but he might as well have written Wes’ name on his forehead, the way he was smiling. Leia huffed, sending a dragonfly that had perched on her hair skittering off. Han watched it bop about the lily pads before taking off for the trees, disappearing amongst the greenery.

"Don't like it?" He asked, pushing his arms through the water so he floated in her direction. He saw the scrunch to her nose, brown eyes lidded in annoyance. It brought a smile to his face.

"It's so... haughty." She decided. Han snickered, the cool water having increased his mood ten-fold.

"I mean, if the shoe fits..."

A splash of water hit his face like she'd dumped a bucket over him, stuffing up his nose and into his mouth. He flailed, coming off his back, coughing and spitting, wiping the offending water out of his eyes with a grimace. By the time he'd pulled himself together, blinking the moisture away and flickering wandering leaves off his hands, he could see the long expanse of Leia's throat, her head thrown back in laughter.

The sound billowed across the clearing like church bells, strong and clear. His momentary annoyance stuttered and faulted, melting off of him and only leaving a growing sense of wonder — and a lingering taste of pond water in the back of his mouth.

Han sent his own wave of water towards her, though much less impressive, it still caught her off guard. She, too, sputtered and spit the water out, her laugh only momentarily interrupted.

“Unsportsmenlike, Your Highness.”

“Leia.”

“Gesundheight.”

She rolled her eyes, but the perpetual look of annoyance was no longer on her face. They both tread water, a few feet from each other, letting the sounds of the woods take over. Han had never minded the quiet, at least when it felt like this, rarely feeling a need to fill it with useless chatter. Luke on the other hand, once you got that kid going, he didn’t stop. A motormouth if he’d ever met one, right next to Wes.

Leia blinked at him, her face turning inquisitive. The sharpness to her eyes dulled, only slightly.

“So, Solo.” She paused, interrupting the silence while dragging her hand through the water, watching it stream through her fingers. He tried not to preen under her attention, or the fact she knew his name, or what it sounded like coming off her lips. “Why are you here?”

He raised a brow, amused at the repeated question from last time.

“Pretty sure someone asked me if I was gonna get in.”

“Not here.” She flicked her hand to the sky, drops of water flashing gold in the sunlight. “I mean Millennium. Kenobi House. Why are you here?” Though said with an air of informality, there was a clear underline of interrogation in her words. She was still trying to understand him.

Good luck, Han thought. He shrugged, glancing back at the bank where they’d stashed their clothes.

“Chewie’s an old friend.” That was all the explanation he bothered to provide, quick to turn his gaze back to her before she could question further. “What’re you doin’ here? You don’t seem…” He paused, making sure he chose the right words before he got himself in trouble. “‘Small-town’.” He put air quotes around the term, vocabulary failing him, as it usually did.

“I’m from Atlanta.” She answered defensively, her demeanor flashing to the cold mask he’d met many times before. It made sense, she had no accent, except for the way she said Atlanta, like there was no second ‘t’ — Atlanna. Even Luke had a perceivable twang to his words. Leia’s were always carefully neutral, from a city with too many influences to have one distinct accent — at least in the circles she ran in, if he had to guess. She waved her hand through the air. “This is temporary.”

“Temporary?” He chuckled. “You’re tellin’ me, sister.”

Leia’s brows pulled together, just a bit. She watched him continue to float on his back with his eyes shut against the sun, trying to imagine what would bring a man like him to a town like this.

“What, have Millennium’s charms not rubbed off on you?”

He scoffed with mock offense, matching her sharp-edged curious stare.

“Millennium better keep its charms the hell away from me — it’s already given me a perpetual headache and an extra ten pounds.”

She snorted, an indelicate, surprising sound, running a hand down the length of her braid.

“Chewie’s cooking will do that.”

Han had known that Chewie knew Leia, but it felt strange for her to confirm knowing him. Well enough to know his cooking and his tendency to overserve. He leveled her with a questioning look, attempting to ignore the way the sun shone on her face, big brown eyes blinking in the light.

“I’ve never seen you over there.” He pointedly looked away, ensuring his words wouldn’t flounder. Though, he didn’t entirely blame her for not hanging around the store. On weekends the Pop-n-Shop was the closest thing Millennium had to a bar; even he had to elbow through people to get a plate. “Your brother is always hangin’ around.”

“He likes that kinda scene,” she answered with an air of jealousy, dodging the question. He bit back the question of, and you don’t?

In keeping afloat, they’d naturally pulled closer, only a foot or two between their individual treading circles. He could see the water dripping off her chin, a rivulet that he followed to her hairline, the small baby hairs plastered to her face. From this close, he could see the deep set to her eyes, the delicate point to her nose. Color bloomed across her cheeks under his eye, reminding him of the first time they’d met by this water.

He turned his head to hide the smirk he knew was there.

As they tread, his hand accidentally brushed the back of hers, sending a bolt of electricity from his fingertips all the way to his toes, shuttering him out of his flirtatious manner. His breath hissed through his teeth before he could stop it, snatching his hand protectively to his chest.

“Damn — got electric eels in here or somethin’?”

Leia looked startled, having brought her own arm closer to her body, inspecting her knuckles for a mark. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, hand closing in a fist before she dropped it back in the water.

If she’d planned on answering, the thunderous rumble of running footsteps cut her off. Her gaze flicked over his shoulder, and he turned in time to catch Luke running down from the wall, ripping off his shirt and barely making the toss for it to land on the bank before he hurtled into the water with a whoop, curled into a ball, sinking deep underneath the surface with a splash.

Han rubbed the projected water out of his eyes. Luke resurfaced with a massive grin, flicking his hair away from his face. The trail of water from that flick seemed directly aimed for Leia, who scrunched her face in irritation, wiping the droplets off.

Luke was oblivious, already on his back and spitting the clear water into the air like a fountain. He laughed, turning to gaze at his sister.

“I missed this!” He exclaimed, kicking absentmindedly. “I was wonderin’ if you were gonna do it this year.”

Han’s gaze shot to Leia, who glared at her brother like he revealed a secret, carefully reconstructing her features so she appeared blasé, unconcerned. She merely offered a shrug in response, pointedly ignoring Han’s eye.

Luke flipped backwards, resurfacing between the feet of space Leia and Han had between them, startled apart at Luke’s entrance. He looked to Han, grinning wide.

“This is the best spot in all of Millennium in the summer.”

“Not a lot of stiff competition there.” Han muttered, though it was nearly impossible to feel cynical around Luke, especially floating here. “How’s the Beetle runnin’?”

“Right as rain since you put your hands on her.”

“Her?” Leia asked with a scoff. “What, does she have a name now?”

Luke merely gave an amused glance to his sister, slapping his hand against the surface to try and splash water into her face. Before it could land, a gust of wind blew through, sending Luke’s barrage too far to the left. Leia smirked at him, he merely stuck his tongue out at her.

“I’m taking suggestions,” Luke explained, turning his head to Han. “If I get it reliably running, Ben said it’s mine.”

“Congrats, you got a hunk-of-junk.”

“She’s a work in progress!” Luke protested. “At least I didn’t name my Bronco after a bird.”

“Hey,” Han warned, sticking a finger in Luke’s direction. “The Falcon’s off limits.”

For the second time that day, Han made Leia laugh, though this one fell more into the giggle category as she tried to hide it behind a hand.

“I’m sorry, you call that rectangle on wheels the Falcon?”

“What the hell is wrong with the Falcon?” Han whined, looking between both siblings, who merely glanced at each other before breaking into another fit of laughter. Han’s cheeks warmed, but he wasn’t embarrassed. It was nice to see them laugh together, it was nice to see her laugh. “Alright, alright you two.” He waved his hand at them. “Give it a rest.”

Their fit calmed, Han taking the moment to breathe in the fresh air. It was the best he’d felt all summer, no matter the teasing. Between the rain and the oppressive heat, he could see why Luke called it the best place in Millennium. He was weightless, and for the first time since moving here, the debts he left behind didn’t bear down on him quite as heavily. This town didn’t seem quite so horrendous if a place like this was here.

He didn’t feel stuck.

Han had swum out to the middle, the only spot where he couldn’t see the bottom, the clear water giving way to a general blue-green haze. On the other side of the pond, maybe another forty feet away, he spotted something distinctly man-made. Planks of wood shoved into the bank, the remains of an old ladder clung to it. He squinted, just barely making out posts sticking up out of the water, which looked blackened and singed around the edges.

“Hey —” He turned back to see Luke and Leia animatedly talking to each other in low voices, stopping as soon as his voice rang out in the clearing, both sets of eyes landing on him. He gestured with his head. “What’s that?”

Luke squinted, abandoning his sister as he swam towards Han. His brows scrunched together, head tilting just like his sister’s did until he saw what Han was pointing to, he waved it off.

“That’s always been there.”

“Looks like it could be the remains of an old dock,” Han observed, brain whirring.

“It would have to be seriously old,” Leia piped up, having silently swam up behind Luke, the edge of her floating braid tickling the back of Han’s arm. “No one’s lived on that side in decades.”

“Other people live over here?” Han questioned. As far as he was aware, only Kenobi lived on this side of town. Everything around them was just woods or old tree groves that were no longer maintained.

“Used to,” Leia corrected, squinting at the other side of the bank. “The rock wall is the property line, at least, it used to be.”

“So this isn’t even Kenobi’s property?” Neither Luke nor Leia confirmed, seeing the dock had somehow turned the mood. The siblings looked at one another for a moment before Luke turned away, paddling in the other direction.

“Beat you to the bank!” He yelled, kicking a torrent of water directly for Han’s face, who inhaled another mouthful before he could recover. By the time he’d spat it all out, Leia was already tearing off for the other side of the water, too.

No way he was going to let those two beat him. He was in the Navy, for Christ’s sake.

For a few more hours, they all swam together. It was the most fun Han had had in years, if he was being truly honest. They’d played games like they were kids at the community pool with an entire afternoon to kill — Luke’s idea, not that Han or Leia disagreed. They’d all swapped back and forth judging swimming races between the other two, which then turned into breath holding competitions. The twins held their own pretty well, but neither of them had more than a minute under water before they came up, gasping and sputtering for breath. That then eventually evolved into trying to dive down to the deepest part of the pond. At the center it had to be damn near thirty feet, if he were to guess.

Luke’s head resurfaced with a gasp, sucking down air, the annoyed glint to his face let Han know there would be no sand held in his grip. He didn’t make it.

“It’s way too far down to go,” he panted. “In a single breath.”

Leia nodded her head in confirmation, still recovering from her own attempt before him, cheeks pink with returned oxygen.

“Watch and learn, kids.”

Taking as much air as his lungs could, Han dove down into the water. Down, down, down he kicked, his surroundings turning darker and bluer the further he went. A couple fish swam out of his way as he made it past the longest roots of the lily pads. He plugged his nose, equalizing his ears for the first time. Free diving training started to kick in, hearing his old instructor’s commands ring through his head. The water turned colder, and he could finally make out the sandy bottom. He continued to kick, paddling with his arms while his lungs started their first complaint, chest tightening. He equalized again, the pressure building, and saw he was less than ten feet away.

His lungs burned, but he kicked harder. Five feet away. Old twigs, logs, and other decaying plant material littered the bottom. From here he could see the gentle bell curve to the bottom of the pond, where it got shallower towards each bank. Three feet. He pulled hard at the water, willing his body to sink faster. The pressure around his head grew, he equalized again, hearing his ears pop.

Finally, fingers brushed against the sand, and he almost lost his breath in relief. He grabbed a handful of it, but paused when his knuckles brushed against something hard. His body spasmed, the need for air now counteracting any latent curiosity. Using his other hand, he snatched the object and another fistful of sand before angling his body so his feet hit the bottom.

In one strong, fluid motion, he pushed off the sand. He rocketed towards the surface, the first ten feet easily cleared before he had to start kicking with the last of his energy. This wasn’t the deepest he’d gone in a single breath before, but it had been a hell of a long time since he’d done any kind of free diving. His body was struggling to remember what to do.

The surface was fifteen feet away. He could see the bottom of Leia and Luke’s feet, kicking gently to keep their heads above the surface. He pushed, his lungs spasming again. With his hands clutched into fists, they weren’t as effective to pull him up, up, up, but he used them anyway. Ten feet. Kick, kick, kick. Five feet. Black dots danced at the edge of his vision, he might have pushed it too far, gone too deep without properly preparing first.

Story of his life.

Han’s lungs contracted involuntarily, his breath spilling out in a cloud of bubbles as he fought his body’s instinct to inhale the water. Last kicks, last push, only two feet away… one foot…

Han surfaced with a gasp, sputter, and cough, nearly losing the sand he’d nearly drowned for. His lungs greedily sucked in air, his brain somehow remembering in the nose, out the mouth to get oxygen faster. By the time he blinked his eyes open, black spots regressing, he saw Luke and Leia’s concerned faces. Luke opened his mouth to say something, but Han cut him off with a tired grin. He let the sand spill through the bottom of his fist, hitting the water in wet plops that clouded the surface.

Concern faded to disbelief, Luke’s eyes bulging wider.

“No way you go to the bottom.” He exclaimed, looking to his sister for back up. Leia didn’t look nearly as impressed, eyes narrowed and mouth set. When she did glance to her brother, she merely shrugged. “That’s impossible!” Luke continued, though his mouth turned up into an astonished smile. “How did you do that?”

“Training.” Han responded, feeling the hardened object he’d collected bite into the side of his hand. He kept it enclosed in his fingers, but widened them enough so he could wash the rest of the sand away.

“Unbeliveable.” Luke muttered, still looking shocked.

“Did you forget the part where he was in the Navy?” Leia quipped from behind her brother, offering Han the closest thing to praise he’d heard yet from her. Her gaze met his, briefly. Han winked. Leia rolled her eyes.

“He said he flew planes!” Luke protested, gesturing Han’s way.

A shadow descending over the clearing, Luke’s eyes flicking upwards.

The sky had darkened, the afternoon sun having transitioned to evening shade. The pond took on a more somber trance without the strong golden rays filtering down from the trees. Han saw Leia shiver out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m cold, I’m going back,” she stated, turning to start to swim towards the bank without seeing if either would follow. He didn’t understand how the hell she was cold, it was still in the high eighties even with the sun gone. Both men looked at each other, Luke offering a sarcastic smile.

“She’s a sore loser.”

“I heard that!” she yelled from her breast stroke, pace never faltering. Han chuckled, thumbing the object in his hand.

“It’s true!” Luke called after his sister, hands cupped around his mouth to amplify his voice to the bank. Water splashed as Luke began his own swim back, but Han hesitated.

With all the sand washed off, he could clearly see the small metal oval in his hand. It was obviously man-made, too perfect in shape. It was maybe two inches tall and another inch wide. An engraving of a large live oak tree decorated one side, and when he flipped it, he saw the other was blank. A ring was attached to the top, like it could be strung onto something.

There was a tiny mechanical button on the side, cleverly hidden. He pressed it, surprised to feel it spring open with relative ease after being buried underneath the water for who-knows-how-long. The thing was shining, like it had come from a jeweler instead of the bottom of a pond. It opened into two halves, hinged on the side. A locket. Inside it read “P.A.N.” on one line and “A.S.” below it. Underneath it read ‘Amidala Hall’ and ‘1971’.

“Are you comin’?” Luke called out, halfway back. Han looked up from his investigation, quickly shoving the locket into his pocket. He waved back to Luke, checking to make sure his new discovery wouldn’t float out during the swim, he started to paddle back to shore. Something in his gut told him to keep it to himself, just for now. If Amidala Hall was this other property, maybe it was best not to mention it. He’d seen the way both of their faces had darkened, talking about what used to be.

Just for now, he’d hold onto it. The small object felt off, weird. The date read over 20 years ago, but it looked perfectly preserved, not a hint of corrosion or even of wear. It hung low in his pocket, heavier than it should have been.

He’d show Luke later, obviously he would. Just as soon as he checked it out a little more, maybe asked around.

He’d show the kid, eventually.

Han pulled himself out of the water. Only Leia was smart enough to bring a towel, which Luke was in the process of nagging her to share. As much as he would have liked to stay and listen to the siblings bicker, it was getting late — and it was the day before a holiday weekend. The shop was probably going to be insane; he should get over there if he wanted to be any help whatsoever.

“Sorry kids, gotta run before Chewie tears me a new one about settin’ up.”

“Oh!” Luke looked bright eyed at him. “Is he doin’ his barbeque again?”

“There better not be another reason he’s makin’ me drag that heavy-ass smoker out.” Luke grinned, Leia didn’t say anything, tossing the towel over her brother’s head before turning to slide her button down back on. Luke snatched the towel off, not deterred.

“See you there?” He asked.

“Depends on your uncle.” Han threw a look towards the house while he collected his shirt and boots. He pressed his fingers to his temple in a mock salute, waving goodbye as he trudged back up the hill and away from the twins. He tip-toed around the rocks, barefoot, clinging to the grass during the short walk back to the Falcon.

Once there, he dug around until he found a few old shop towels, laying them out on the seat before he slid in and pulled out of the driveway.

The locket, tucked away in his pocket, hung heavy like a stone. However, by the time he’d pulled up to Chewie’s, needing to shower off the pond water before going back to the shop, the small charm was long-forgotten.