garbageship | That's no moon... Wait, no, it's a moon.

Nightmares, he thinks, were the one thing he handled well. Mostly Ben would run to his mother when he was upset about something-- Han's habit of cracking jokes and trying to stir him out of his moods only ever made things worse-- but when he woke up in tears, haunted by the future or the past, a vision stirred up by the Force or borrowed from the sleeping mind of some neighbor or (though at the time they couldn't have known) a nightmare seeded bu Snoke, Han was always best at putting him back to sleep. He'd tell the same stories-- long-ago bar fights and battles, the calculated risk of the Kessel run, his voice low, his presence solid and reliable. Leia would chide him about those tales, but it worked. He couldn't understand the strange fragility of Ben's empathy, couldn't help him control the things he could do, but bad dreams? That, he could handle. No problem. He never minded getting up in the middle of the night.

Putting his other hand on his son's shoulder feels like the right thing to do, like completing a circuit.

What he did was everything he could do. It wasn't enough, maybe it couldn't have been enough. They failed Ben, maybe, but it wasn't due to a lack of love.

"We didn't know what else to do," he says gently.

His memories of those stories have fogged but they're still there, worn in by multiple retellings. They were good stories, most of them, and sometimes they would reappear as dreams and keep nightmares at bay. What mattered most, though, was that his father was there and telling them, whenever he really needed him. Ben had felt safe then. Leia was the one who could soothe and help him understand his emotions, but Han provided safety in the dark.

Safety in the dark. Is that why Snoke needed him to hate his father so violently—because the man was the embodiment of security when Ben was a child? Was killing him supposed to destroy all possibility of that safety returning?

"I believe you." The reply is slow and careful, like the words are difficult to say and impossibly fragile. This is a revelation.

Sometimes they were awful stories, but at least they always ended well. Already Ben has dredged up some of them; the game that won the Falcon, a perennial favorite of both of theirs, almost always guaranteed to have Ben nodding off before the final hand was played. So often it felt like there was so little he could do for their son, but they had that.

In spite of everything it had been so hard to send him away. Han had never like to think of it that way, not away; he was with family, it seemed like the safest place he could be. They truly hadn't seen any other option; couldn't ask Like to come to them, after all, not when he was trying to live his own life and rebuild the Jedi. Even before Ben turned there had been nights when they fought about him being gone, not blaming each other but themselves, bitter and lonely and worried. Maybe it's no wonder how they grew apart after.

Wordlessly he grabs Ben's other shoulder to pull him in for an embrace, something in him crumbling. Part of Han is desperate for forgiveness he can't ask after, for him and Leia both. For not doing better, somehow. For how things went. He's not sure what to call it, but Ben believing they tried their hardest is the first bit of salve on an old, still-raw wound.

Even the bad ones had felt like things that Leia wouldn't like Ben hearing, and that alone made them great.

Ben puts his arms around his father. They both need this right now, maybe. There's a lot of pain and guilt in the gulf between them, and time has done nothing but allow old wounds to fester. Since they don't get very far with words, this could be one of the best ways for them to start the healing process.

There's something to be said for that, the joy of what felt like confidentiality. Leia only worried that he'd replace one dark dream with another, but Han saw no reason to sugar-coat his past. It wouldn't have felt so honest. At that point in his life-- a husband, a father, a General in the New Republic's forces-- his own past felt a little like the stuff of legend. A story, nothing more. What mattered really is that it worked, that Ben found sleep again after. He wouldn't wish the nightmares on anyone, but in spite of that there's something to treasure in the memory of those long nights.

He's been thinking that the only reason his death would have mattered was because he was there, the first and simplest obstacle that needed to be cut down. All along he's been sure it wouldn't have helped the conflict in Ben's heart, but now he's starting to believe maybe the loss would have mattered on its own. (That should be obvious, but even at the heart of all this aggressive hoping, Han Solo has a tremendous capacity for pessimism.)

Clinging to Ben's broad shoulders he lets himself feel the edge of everything he's been holding back-- the old grief, the terrifyingly tentative hope, his own regret that things have come to this. None of it outweighs his certainty that Ben can come back from this but it's been bearing down on him all the same. If he could stay in this moment forever, close and protective, shielding his son from everything awful and uncertain in the universe, of course he would; but things have never been so simple, not for any father. Still, he holds on for a long, long while, maybe selfishly, because both of them need this.

When he pulls back he's smiling, a little of the tension gone out of him. They've got to move forward, no matter how nice it is to linger in these little moments of understanding.

"Had enough blasters for today? I wanted to ask if you'd help me with something."

Of course Han's death would have mattered on its own. Ben hasn't realized the extend to which his father gave him time to exist outside of the pressures of the force, but he did. He taught him how to fix things and how to pilot. He told him stories that weren't about the great Skywalker legacy or the endless battle of light against dark. With Han, Ben didn't need to be the next great Jedi knight who would help restore balance to the universe; he could be a person instead of a symbol of hope and renewal.

His father was his strongest tie to a world beyond the force and the war being waged inside of him. He still is.

Ben wishes he could be small again so he could, just for a moment, let his father hide him from powers and destinies and all of the years of fear and anger that anchored him to the dark side. That sense of safety that Han gave him when he was a frightened child is gone, maybe forever. Many things have been lost beyond hope of retrieval. Hopefully, Ben Solo won't be one of them.

He composes himself when Han pulls away.

"I have." What a ridiculous question. "What would you like me to do?"

Now, decades later and parsecs away, it isn't so easy to shield Ben from the battle within or around him. It's almost funny; Maz had advised him to take up that struggle again, and here he is serving it by doing his best to escape it again. Creating an eye in the storm, space for them all to breathe, for Ben to learn who he might be. System repairs and blaster practice are all necessary on their own, but there's more than one reason he's trying to draw Ben into tasks that have nothing to do with the Force.

He's been mulling this one over, since it violates exactly that idea, but he thinks it's worth it. The thing is, Ben is his first priority, but his son can't be his only priority. Rey needs guidance, and Han owes--

Well, he owes it to her, what else matters?

"I want to teach Rey to deflect blaster fire." He hesitates, knowing that sounds a little crazy because he's no Ben Kenobi. But he was there to watch that lesson, he understands the concept. He just doesn't have the sense or the reflexes to pull it off.

"I'd need a demonstration."

Which is its own excitingly terrible idea. It's for a good cause. That's what he keeps telling himself.

No need to explain further. His eyes narrow and he wonders, briefly, if Han is seriously contemplating this. "She won't agree to be around me if I'm armed with my lightsaber."

Not that he doesn't want to do it. He does. Unlike firing a blaster, it's something that he knows he excels at.

"I'll convince her."

Somehow or other. He's pretty sure he can manage it.

"I don't think she'll let you give her pointers, but..."

It's got to be better than nothing, right? The example will be worthwhile, and it'd do Ben good to finish off with something that showcases the skills he's been practicing for years. Something, incidentally, which is meant to defend, which is far more in line with the side of the Force they're trying to encourage here.

"You underestimate the degree to which she distrusts me." In a way, that makes her the smartest of all of them. An enemy of the First Order would never be given a weapon so soon after their capture, whatever their apparent allegiance.

Of course, an enemy of the First Order would also have been tortured and killed, most likely. Perhaps that isn't an apt frame of reference.

"I'm willing to do it."

Snoke was more about stopping enemy fire midair than blocking it with a weapon. The former is defensive and displays a power that intimidates foes. The latter isn't particularly impressive... unless you're a girl shooting desperately at a monster and that monster blocks every single shot.

Rey has very good reasons to distrust him. In spite of that, Ben's comment earns a brief, sharp look. He wants to ask, he really does, but it doesn't seem like the moment. Should she? He's had ample opportunity to hurt her and worse-- and he has, clearly-- but Rey--

He shakes his head. One thing at a time. Maybe he's wrong.

"She'll be able," he says, sounding decisive.

He's not decisive, he's looking for confirmation.

Someday, they will need to talk about Rey. He has questions and suppositions regarding her, but nothing that he can confirm. Whatever he knew he has hidden along with every other memory, thought, and emotion that he hadn't wanted Snoke to see.

"Then so will I." Also decisive, if not confident that Han is right.

At least the two of them are grasping at the same straws. Han desperately wants to know what happened, but that time in Ben's life-- it's too much, he suspects, to delve into. Not yet, not when he hasn't got much solid ground beneath his feet. But he wants to know. He wants to be right about it, for Rey's sake and for Ben's and for his own. But he doesn't want to risk saying anything too soon. She's lost so much; he won't give her anything unless he's sure he can help her keep it.

"Good."

Just one big happy maybe-family.

It is too much, at least for Ben. There are a lot of things buried in his head and he's afraid to dig too deeply. He isn't sure that he can.

This is going to end well for everyone.

That's no moon... Wait, no, it's a moon.

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