It's not often these days Han mourns for what he's lost. He's too busy being grateful. Every time Luke pulls through another surgery, makes it through a too-long hyperspace jump, walks further or stays out of bed longer without setting off the monitor on his wrist that's supposed to keep track of his heart rate and brain activity, Han's reminded too forcibly of everything he has to spend much time dwelling on what he doesn't.
He has Luke. He has Lando, too, and Leia and Chewie. He has a home, now, too—their home, that Lando found and the Alliance paid for. That makes it more theirs, though, not less—a gift, from everyone who loves them. And today, they'll finally make it their own.
"We are coming out of hyperspace soon," LC-42B reminds Han. And then, without being asked, she adds, "All of Luke's vital signs are within acceptable limits."
"Good," Han says, trying to sound casual, but his palms are sweaty and he can't stop pacing the tiny room. The last long-haul jump they were on was a rough one, and while Luke's stronger now, and medically cleared for this flight, he's glad Elcee had the memory for the bare-bones monitoting software, and whatever programming she's always had that lets her remember the things Han constantly needs to hear.
"Han," Luke brushes his fingers against Han's wrist, and Han stops pacing. Luke's voice sounds strong, now. Normal. Bored, and he's been complaining the whole flight about being confined to the med bay. "You're making me nervous." Luke laughs, but Han can tell he's being at least a little serious.
"Sorry, kid." He's getting pretty good at figuring out just where to put his hands to ruffle Luke's shaggy hair. "I just want to make sure you're all right, you know." He doesn't talk about that last, too-close jump, or the fact that it took weeks for the droids to okay Luke for this one. They both know all too well, by now, how fragile their time together is.
"Excuse me?" Elcee breaks in. She really is too smart, Han thinks sometimes, for a droid. Actually asking for permission to interrupt conversations, remembering not to call them idiotic things like "Master." Someone ought to get her to give Threepio lessons.
"We are about to come out of hyperspace."
"Yeah, okay." Han sits on the edge of the bunk, and hooks his fingers through Luke's. "You ready to go home, kid?"
The ship jolts a little as they fall out of hyperspace, and Luke clenches his hand tighter around Han's. The monitor starts to beep—slow and steady, not wailing like it did right before the last seizure, but it still doesn't sound like anyone's version of fine.
"Elcee?" Han's voice rises, a little more panicked than he wanted to admit he was feeling. "Elcee! What's happening? What's wrong?"
"Han," Luke whispers. "I'm fine. I'm fine." But his breathing's too heavy, too strong.
Han closes his eyes. It's better, sometimes, not trying to see. He focuses all of himself on Luke's hand, on the warmth of the connection between them. "Hang in there, Luke," he whispers. "We're going home now. You and me."
And then it stops. The beeping stops, and fades to the silence of normal .
"Luke?" Han whispers, even though he can feel his hand moving, can hear his deep breaths in the silent air. And maybe he’s just imagining it, but he swears he can feel something there , in the Force. A calmness. Like something’s been healed.
"We're here," Luke says, and Elcee confirms it.
"We have completed the jump," she says. "All that is left now is to land."
Han's been here once before, on a cloudy day at the end of Chirano's spring. It's summer now, and he sees the world in swaths of greens and blues so bright he has to squint against the sun.
"Careful," Luke says from behind him. "I know you can't see it that well, but the sun can still hurt your eyes."
"Yeah. Thanks." Han looks down, away, to where Lando and Threepio—according to Elcee—are waiting for them at the end of the landing ramp. "Hey, Lando!" he calls out, and Lando waves—again, according to Elcee—in reply.
"Han! Luke! You made it!" And Lando's running up the ramp, tackling Han in an embrace that he knows is coming, but that still almost knocks him off his feet. "You're looking good," he says, obviously lying but sincere enough in his desire to please. "How're you doing?"
"We're okay," Han says. "We're here, anyway, and more or less one piece."
Lando claps him on the back. "That's good," he said. "That's the most important thing, isn't it? How are you doing, Luke?”
People are always kind of hesitant around him whenever he uses the repulsorchair. Like it makes him more breakable, even though after that jump, he’s definitely better off not trying to walk the couple hundred meters to the complex. The awkwardness bothers Luke, a little—he’s never said so, but Han can tell by his voice. It’s bright, but forced: “I’m good. Better every day.” And then, in a tone that’s a little more warm: “It’s beautiful here.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Lando says. “I can’t wait for you both to see your apartment.” And something about the way he says it makes Han wonder if what he thought was awkwardness was really just concern.
Elcee and Threepio narrate their walk, Elcee counting the ducks in the lake and describing the ongoing construction on the school building, Threepio commenting on Artoo’s state of repair and explaining in detail the discomfort the rainy spring has caused his joints. “Master Lando says the summer should be much better,” he says, in a tone that still manages to sound pessimistic. “But with the oil baths still under construction, I have to admit I am not holding out much hope.”
“They’ll be ready in a couple of weeks,” Lando offers. “And we’re looking at about another month for the school. One wing of the children’s dormitory is already open, but we’ve been prioritizing the acquisition of staff.”
Han’s already met some of them. Medical staff and counseling staff, who Lando apparently thinks he should talk to. Cleaners and cooks, and maintenance staff for the droids. It’s going to be a little city, he thinks, with more than a twinge of regret, once the rest of its population gets here.
“We’ll find time for us,” Luke says, in response to the concerns Han hadn’t voiced aloud.
It’s a long walk to the residential buildings, and Luke doesn’t say much on the way. Han doesn’t want to push him, and it's not like he needs anyone to tell him what's around them, between Lando and Elcee and the sensory map Artoo drew up for him back at the hospital. He does want to know what Luke’s thinking, though. What he’s seeing, in the browns and blues and greens.
"We are approaching the building," Elcee says, and then, more for Luke's benefit than Han's, "Our apartment is the third from the left on the ground floor."
"It's big," Han says, not sure if it really looks that way from the outside. "Maybe too big for you and me."
He's not sure why he says it that way—like some kind of promise. His hands, and Luke's, will be full enough taking care of themselves and this Jedi school thing, and besides, they're never even talked about kids. But Luke wraps his hand around Han's—strong, like he's never letting go—and Han can hear the smile in his voice when he says, "That sounds perfect. It’ll give us room to grow.”
Lando shows them to the front door—their front door, it's theirs now, Han and Luke's—but turns down Han's half-hearted invitation to come inside.
"I'm sure the two of you have been looking forward to some time alone," he says. "We'll see enough of each other this week, before I ship out to Chandrila. There's food in the fridge, or you're welcome to come down to the cafeteria?"
Han's trying to think of a polite way to say no when Luke beats him to it. "Thanks, Lando, but I think we'll eat in. It's been awhile since we've had a real dinner for two."
“All right.” Lando laughs. “I’ll take the droids down to maintenance. You want them back tonight or in the morning?”
Han doesn’t like to admit how naked he feels without Elcee. But he’ll be home—the only home he’s ever had outside the Falcon —with the most important person in his world. Naked, he thinks, is kind of the point, in more ways than one.
“Morning’s good, right, Luke?”
And Han lets Elcee go.
“So,” Luke says, when Lando and the droids are gone and they're alone at the door of their apartment. “Is there a key?”
Han smiles. “It’s coded to us. Put your hand over the sensor. Either hand,” he adds. That’s a small thing, but it took Lando a little extra legwork, finding an identification system that worked with both biometrics and cybernetic identifiers, and with droids like Threepio who didn’t have scomp links.
“Okay,” Luke says. “Here goes nothing.”
But of course it isn’t nothing, because when the door opens, they’re home.
Han’s been here before, a couple of times, but it’s different now. Fuller, somehow. It’s partly just that Lando’s put in the furniture they talked about—all dark, against the light grey of the walls, to make it easier to see. It’s mostly that Luke’s with him, though. That somehow, they both made it through everything to finally be here, alone.
Luke leaves the repulsorchair at the door. Han almost asks if he's sure he's okay, but he bites his tongue. Yeah, he worries about the kid, but he has to trust Luke to know his own limits, has to believe he knows how to take care of himself as well as Han does.
"What are you thinking about?" Luke whispers, and wraps his arms around Han from behind, his head resting in the space between Han’s shoulders.
"Just wondering what you thought of the place," Han says. It's not a lie, except the "just" part.
“It’s perfect,” Luke murmurs, for Han and no one else. “I can’t believe it’s ours.”
Han pushes down the little twist in his chest, and tries to pretend his eyes aren’t watering. “Yeah?” he says, around the lump that rises in his throat. “Don’t get too excited, kid. You haven’t even seen any of the good stuff yet.”
“Well,” Luke says, “I was hoping you’d give me a tour.”
Han takes him around the rooms he barely knows himself: the living room and its tiny attached kitchen. The guest room, and the third bedroom, empty now and set aside for Luke’s training. Their bedroom, with a bed so deep and soft it’s hard to get up once they lie down and try it. The bathroom, with a tub that’s supposed to light up and make bubbles, and that’s more than big enough for both of them at once. The patio, with their very own little fenced-off piece of the complex's yard.
“It… feels good here,” Luke says. “The land, and the planet. Can you feel it?” He takes Han’s hand. And he does feel it—at least in the breeze on his face, and the warm, dying light of the sunset. He smells it in the grass and the soil, and feels peace pass from Luke’s fingers into his own. And maybe it’s more.
“You’re hungry," Han says. It's just a hunch, really. Plus the fact they haven't eaten since hyperspace, and the gnawing hunger in Han's own stomach. He doesn't really think he can use the Force, not to really feel what Luke is feeling.
But Luke laughs, and says, "So are you."
“Want to go see how the kitchen works? I used to be a pretty good cook, you know."
"Well, that's good." Luke wraps his arms around Han, and whispers in his ear. "Because, just between us? I'm pretty awful."
It's funny, the things they never managed to learn about each other, falling in love like they did in the middle of a war. Han's never really cooked for Luke, other than heating up whatever they happened to have in the Falcon's galley, and he doesn't think he's ever had Luke's cooking at all. It's a strange kind of first, after all they've been through together: their first home-cooked meal. In their home.
Lando's stocked the kitchen with the things he thought were necessary, which are mostly but not all what Han would have chosen for himself. It'll take him time to remember the shapes of all the containers—how the salt is tall, with a ridged cap, and the sugar in a squat, smooth box. For now, Luke reads the labels, and Han repeats after him, and makes a mental note to get Lando to pick up some of those raised Aurebesh magnets they had at the hospital, if there's anything like a shopping center on this world.
"Need udnut oil," he mutters, and adds another thing to his non-existent shopping list. They're kind of out in the middle of nowhere here, which was the point, but it's going to make it hard to get what they need.
Luke laughs. It comes out of nowhere, as far as Han is concerned, a light, carefree sound that he hasn't really heard since... since Endor. Maybe since Hoth.
"What's so funny?" Han tries to sound at least jokingly upset, but he's smiling, on the verge of laughter, too.
"You." Luke cups his hand around Han's chin and turns his head, into a soft kiss. "I never knew you were such a gourmet."
The refrigerator's less thoroughly stocked—there's some fruit and some milk and a couple of sauces, and a bunch of heat-and-eat instant meals. "Guess my gourmet cooking skills are going to have to wait," Han remarks drily. "Add meat and vegetables to the shopping list, okay?
"Here." He hands Luke a package of instant nerf stew. "We should be able to heat this up, eat it with some of that bread?"
Luke finds a pot in one of the many drawers, and puts it on the stovetop. "I think I can handle this much cooking," he says. "If you want to pick something to listen to?" They've both gotten kind of addicted to those audio dramas Chewie found. There was nothing quite like the over-acted exploits of star-crossed lovers from the pre-holo era to take their minds off the weeks of boredom peppered with moments of sheer terror that had marked that last extended hospital stay. Han hadn't really thought about whether they'd keep it up, once they were allowed to live their lives again. But he's kind of glad that Luke seems to want to.
The stovetop talks: "Low heat. Medium. High." It's not sentient, like a droid, but between those voice functions and Elcee, Han should be able to cook at least something on his own when Luke's not around. "You might want to take that down to medium, kid," he mutters over his shoulder as he starts up the entertainment system. "Don’t want to burn our first home-cooked meal.”
He starts up the next episode of Precious Cargo , a drama about the crew of a hyperspace freighter who fall, predictably, into each other’s beds over a series of long jumps. It makes him a little sad, sometimes, to hear the characters doing the kind of stuff he’d thought he’d be doing with Luke after the war. But it’s just the right mix of funny and serious, and they get all the technical stuff right. “What do you think?” he asks Luke, as the opening theme starts to play.
Han laughs. “Garrett and Kiva, of course. Are they finally getting together tonight, or what?”
Luke laughs again. “I give it another two episodes. Want to make it a bet?”
“Yeah. All right.” Han head back to the kitchen, wraps his arms around Luke’s waist from behind, and sways with him into the music. "Want me to take over?" Han asks. "I mean, if you're getting tired."
"I am," Luke admits. "But I think it's almost done."
It smells done, and Han can hear the pot bubbling and feel the warm, humid air around the stove. "All right," he says. "I'll cut the bread, if you want to get the bowls."
He says it with a false confidence he doesn’t really feel. It’s one thing to complete set-up tasks in the hospital’s rehab center, another to have to prove—to himself, if no one else—that he’ll be able to do his part in the real world.
But he remembers where the bread is, and Luke directs him to the knives and cutting boards. Han pulls a couple of the knives out of their block before he finally finds the serrated bread knife, and then it’s really not too hard to use his sense of touch to make sure he slices the long baguette into pieces that are more or less the same size.
“Looks good,” Luke says—also casually, also like it’s nothing. “Do you want to eat at the table, like responsible adults, or collapse on the sofa?”
There's something about the way he says "collapse" that feels like soft things and warm embraces, and lets Han know—through the Force, or just through knowing Luke—that it's definitely what he'd prefer. "Being responsible adults is overrated," he says, and arranges the bread on a plate with a grin.
They eat in near-silence as the long-suffering romantic tension between Garrett the first mate and Kiva the mechanic drags on. "I don't know why we listen to this shit," Han remarks, when an especially corny line of dialogue makes Luke laugh in what should be a serious moment.
"Because it's fun," Luke says. "And you love it. Hold still." And then he runs a finger along Han's bottom lip, sending a flood of chills over his body.
"What's that for, kid?" Han asks. "Getting started a little early?" It doesn't feel early, though. It's been months, and neither of them's been up for much more than kissing.
"You had some stew there, that's all." Luke makes it sound like an apology.
"Hey." Han puts his bowl on the coffee table and wraps an arm around Luke, pulling him close. He smells like spices and the fresh, green air and his hair's soft and ticklish on Han's cheek. "You doing okay?" he whispers. "I don't want you to overdo it. You know this is all that matters to me, right? Just this. Just having you here."
Luke leans into Han's shoulder, putting all his weight there, and Han tries to pretend that he can't feel him shaking, that Luke's body doesn't feel twice as light as it was.
"I'm okay," Luke whispers. "I'm tired. But a month ago, I wouldn't have been able to do this much. And I meant what I said. It does feel good here. There's a lot of... life energy, you could call it. It's a good place to heal."
"Yeah." Han holds Luke to him, and kisses him on the crown of his head. "We'll be all right," he says, as Kiva the mechanic ends the episode by telling the captain: "What feelings for Garrett? I haven't the slightest idea what you mean!"
"Looks like I won the bet," Luke says. "Does that mean you get to get the bath ready?"
Han's never exactly done that before—didn't feel right to break in the bathtub or the bed when he was here before, without Luke. But it makes him weirdly happy that Luke just asks him to do it, without offering to help or asking Han if he can do it on his own.
"I can try." Han kisses Luke again—on this lips this time, but still gently. "Take it easy, okay? I'll come get you when it's done."
The bathtub's for Luke. There's no question about that. Han would have gone with a basic chemical shower—easy to use, easy to clean, no frills and no fuss. But it's one of their happiest memories: that pool on Yavin, where all the pilots who'd grown up on worlds that actually had water would go to wash off and goof off and relax when the base's showers hadn't been enough. Han would never forget the look of joy and disbelief, and maybe a little bit of guilt, that had lit up Luke's face when the water had washed over him for the first time. So he’d told Lando to get them the biggest, most extravagant bathtub the contractor could find.
Han's gotten pretty good at remembering how to work things, at trusting his hands to find the buttons and switches, even though they blur together, and he can't read the labels at all. He's usually got someone to help him the first couple of times, though. This time, it's just him and this monster of a tub.
At least its controls talk too, when Han moves his fingers over them: "Temperature. Water level. Bubbles. Lights."
"Yeah, yeah," he mutters. "Lights are nice. But first I've got to fill this thing up."
Another little glimpse of Luke tugs at his memory. One of those too-long nights on Thyferra, when they'd lie awake, talking about what they'd do when they were finally out of there, and on their own. "Of course you can use the Force," Luke had said. "You already do, without realizing it."
Han had laughed. He’s still not really sure if he believes it. And it’s always better, in his experience, to laugh at the things you’re not confident about, than to make yourself look like a fool later on.
Luke had insisted, though. “You do. How many times have you ‘fixed’ the Falcon by banging on one of the control panels?”
“That’s not the Force,” Han had said, even as he’d held Luke closer, in what felt like the thousandth too-small hospital bed they weren’t really supposed to share. “That’s just luck. And knowing my ship.”
It still hurt, more than he wanted to admit, to think of the Falcon . His ship. Always his ship, even if he couldn’t fly her. But maybe Luke had been right after all. Maybe what felt like intuition, or a lucky guess, was the Force. And even though Han didn’t know this bathtub the way he knew the Falcon , his luck—or intuition, or whatever it was—still might be worth a shot.
"Well," he says, "here goes nothing." And he reaches out again to the blur of the control panel, which—almost immediately—replies "Automatic bath."
Han grins. "Automatic works." They can mess with all the fancy settings later. He pushes the button, and water so hot he can feel it in the air starts to burble out of one of the pipes.
He digs around in the cabinets until he finds the towels, and sets two of them out by the bathroom door. “Luke?” he calls. “Hey, Luke! Bath’ll be ready in a minute.” He’s not really sure how long it’ll take, but the exhaustion of the day is starting to catch up with him. He hopes it won't be long.
“Luke?” The apartment’s not that big, and Han can still hear Garrett’s overconfident voice bragging about his flight school ranking over the entertainment system.
Luke's the type who always sits through the credits, but it's not like him to let it go to the next episode without Han.
“Luke?” Han calls again, not wanting to acknowledge the note of panic that seeps into his voice from somewhere inside him. He remembers all too well that second seizure. The one no one had seen coming, that had made the med droids decide it was worth risking the hyperspace jump to the hospital on Thyferra. The one that Han had been powerless to do anything for except stand there, blind and speechless and useless, and beg the Force or whoever was listening to take anything it wanted, except Luke.
The monitor’s supposed to detect the seizures. It did detect the third one, the way it detected the stress on his heart during the jump, and Han and Leia and Chewie and Lando and even Threepio know, at least in theory, what to do if—when—the next one comes. But that doesn't do much good when Han's in the other room, and all the droids gone off with Lando.
“Luke!” Han runs out of the bathroom, cursing as he stubs his toe against the doorframe and crashes into an end table he swears wasn’t there before. If something happened… if anything happened while he was gone…
Luke’s still on the sofa; Han can make out that much, his yellow-beige jumpsuit light against the black synthetic leather. “Hey, Luke. Come on, Luke.” His voice and his whole body’s shaking, as he kneels and puts his hands on Luke’s chest, his shoulder. He’s breathing.
He’s breathing. Tears well in Han’s eyes, and his hands start shaking even harder. “Hey, kid.”
He touches Luke’s face, and Luke mumbles something that sounds like “...morning.”
And Han’s still crying, but he also can’t help but laugh. "It's not morning. You just..." His voice catches in his throat. "You just fell asleep on the couch."
"Han?" Luke touches Han's cheek, the tips of his fingers brushing away the silly, paranoid tears. "Why are you crying?"
That, for some reason, makes the tears fall harder, and something in Han’s chest starts to burn.
“I called your name, and you didn’t answer,” Han manages to say. “I thought—I was afraid that…”
“Han.” Luke says his name like a caress. “I'm sorry.”
“It’s not your fault."
And then, as if their home itself knows that the mood desperately needs to be lightened, the voice of the automatic bathtub rings out: "Your bath is ready. Enjoy."
They undress each other. There's no special reason, but Han just starts undoing Luke's fasteners, and Luke replies by unbuttoning Han's shirt. "We need some kind of basket for our dirty laundry," Luke says, and Han adds that, too, to his unwritten list.
"The scars are almost gone," Han says, as he slides the jumpsuit sleeves down Luke's arms. He can feel the place, halfway down Luke's forearm, where his natural skin meets the cooler, smoother synthflesh of his prosthesis. He can still feel the largest of the lightning-shaped scars, too, like the one on his chest, near his shoulder. But the smaller ones, the little webs of lines that had criss-crossed Luke's whole body, have faded. "I can barely even feel them anymore."
"Everyone was right," Luke says. "The bacta on Thyferra is different. They're not really gone, though," he says, in a voice that goes sad and quiet. "You can't really feel them," he explains. "But... they're pretty obvious."
"Yeah?" Han kisses the big one, the almost star-shaped sprawl by his shoulder, and then the cleaner little line from the surgery on his heart. "I wish I could see them, then. I bet they're beautiful."
"Yeah. They're all the ways you fought to come home."
Luke doesn't say anything; maybe he can't. He just takes Han by the hand and steps into the tub. His feet hit the water one at a time with a splash, and he lets out a breath that's more like a sigh.
"Good?" Han asks.
"It's amazing. Come in."
Han follows him, and they sink into the water, Luke's back against Han's chest, their breaths rising and falling in rhythm.
Luke lets his head fall back, against Han's shoulder, and the ends of his hair trail into the water.
"You sure you don't want a haircut?" Han asks, even though he turned down the offer at the hospital.
"Maybe in a month or two." Luke laughs. "I thought you liked it long?"
That’s true, even though Han can't remember ever saying so.
"You don't have to say it," Luke says. "I just know."
"Mind reading." Han shakes his head. "Kind of creepy."
"It's not creepy," Luke insists. "It's just our connection in the Force. It means we know each other, better than anyone else in the world."
"Well, I don't know what you're thinking," Han says, "but I'm thinking we ought to try out some of the jets and stuff on this bath. Cost the Alliance a small fortune, you know."
Luke turns on the bubbles, dims the room lights, and paints the bath in what Han would guess is a soft greenish glow. "That good?" he asks. "Too dark?"
"No," Han says. "I mean, yeah. It's good." The lights are too dim for him to see much of the color, but it doesn't really matter. They're not for him.
"You didn't have to do this, you know." Luke links his fingers through Han's under the water.
"Yeah, I did," Han says. "Wanted to, too."
They fall into bed after that, sinking deep into the mattress that Lando insisted was "the best night's sleep money can buy."
"It's amazing," Luke says. "We can see all the stars through the window. They're just as bright as they were on Tatooine."
Han's not sure he wants to see the stars—not sure he wants to be reminded that the chances of getting back up there, of flying, get slimmer and slimmer as more and more time passes by.
"I've been thinking," Luke goes on. "About the Jedi academy."
"I'm not going to be able to get out there and search, for people who are strong in the Force or anything."
"You'll get better," Han says, almost as a reflex, but he knows that isn't true in the way it needs to be. The droids say he won't need the repulsorchair forever, that he might not need the monitor after a while. But that's not the same as being able to fly all over the galaxy at a moment's notice, and they both know it. "But what are you going to do till then?"
"I don't think I want to search." There's a little smile in Luke's voice, but a wistfulness too, like when he mentioned the stars, and Tatooine. "I think I'm going to teach everyone. Anyone who comes here. The orphans, and the veterans, and anyone else who needs a home."
"I think that's crazy." Or at the very least, not the best way to raise a generation of decent Jedi. "But I also think it's the most Luke Skywalker thing I've ever heard."
Han scooches to his right, closing the last little space between them, and turns over on his side.
"The most Luke Skywalker thing you've ever heard?" Luke laughs at that. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not."
"Yeah, kid." Han drapes his arm across Luke's chest. "I'm not really sure either."
It's not like they haven't, just about every night. It's not like it's anything special.
But it is, because it's their first kiss in this bed, and Han makes it long. Drawn out. A treasure.
"You taste good," he says.
Luke smiles against his lips. "So do you."
"You up for more?" Han definitely is, but he knows they're going to have to take it slow now. He trails his fingers down Luke's arm and finds the monitor. "What does this say?"
"It says I'm fine," Luke says. "But I say I'm exhausted. And whether you can see it or not, there is a huge, uncovered picture window right over there."
"All right," he says. "Close the curtains. And we'll stick to kissing for tonight?"
And then Luke's laughing—really, honestly laughing—and Han has no idea why.
"What's so funny? I'll have you know, there are a lot of people in the galaxy who'd give anything for one of my kisses."
"I'm sure there are," Luke says. "Han, I'm not laughing at you."
"What's so funny, then?"
For whatever reason, that one word sets him laughing again.
"Curtains?" Han repeats, and a laugh creeps into his voice too. "What's wrong with them? Let me guess." He squints in the general direction of the window, even though he knows it won't do any good. "Lando went with something really tasteful. Gold and pink?"
"Better. There aren't any curtains."
"What do you mean, there aren't any curtains?"
"I mean, our oversized bed is in front of an oversized window looking out on a complex where hundreds of people are going to live. And Lando"—Luke pauses for effect—"did not buy curtains."
Han groans. "All right."
"Meat, vegetables, and udnut oil. Those Aurebesh magnets. A basket for the laundry. What else?"
"Oven mitts?" Luke suggests. "And a mat for my training room."
"And curtains," Han finishes the list. "And this time, I'm not trusting Lando."
"He did a good job." Luke snuggles in close. "He just... forgot a few things. But if you're up for shopping tomorrow, I am."
"Of course." Luke yawns, and the sound of it makes Han yawn too, in sympathy. "That's what people do, right? When they find their first home. And besides," he whispers, his lips on Han's ear, "beds like this aren't exactly made for sleeping."