At What Cost
@mayxthexforce gets a plotted starter for Han
I need to get home.
The thought caused his heavy eyes to open, bleary as they were. A familiar night sky met his tired gaze, cold, crisp air filling his lungs as he took a shaking breath. Almost instantly, he rolled over, retching into the sand, though there was nothing much to come up but acid.
Acid, acid everywhere. Burning, stinging, soaking, digesting-
I need to get home.
He slowly got to his hands and knees, blinking dully as his right arm wouldn’t take his weight. In among the rest of the pain, he had failed to notice the twisted, unnatural angle that spelled a badly broken bone or three. Every breath, every movement, was a blooming of fresh agony across his skin and deep in his chest. Every twitch of muscle felt like a line of fire spreading outward from his core, even as he struggled to his feet on the sand. The scalding, burning heat of it on his skin, where the flightsuit had given way to the acid and the flame, was almost a relief. Liquid dripped from the fingers of his useless right hand and fell sizzling to the ground.
Home. Need to get home.
The hunter collapsed into the pilot’s chair of his ship, though how he got back to the Slave I was a hazy, uncertain memory. He had to ignore the way his fingers sought the controls, ignore each flare of pain as buttons were pushed and he got his ship airborne. Every breath was a heaving effort as he programmed his navsat with the coordinates he needed, long-since memorized as home. A long ways from here, from the sand and the heat and acid-
A sharp siren, the warning of arrival. With delicate care, he dragged his focus to the landing, feeling some flash of coldness when the other landing space proved empty. But He could hardly dwell.
Home. Get home.
A gentle set-down. An open bay. The bounty hunter stumbled down the ramp, half-falling towards the simple, modest home in the middle of such quiet fields. It was raining, he thought, the view through his HUD blurred and strange. He'd never seen it like that before, though...was it him? No...no, it was raining. Had to be.
With a last effort of will, he opened the door and made it inside, kicking the door shut as he fumbled with his helmet. The view of the world did not clarify, and he whispered a curse even as he dropped the helmet from shaking fingers. One hand on the wall, he staggered down the hallway, an urgency to each motion. He cast dark eyes around, and managed to slip his jetpack off what remained of it before collapsing to the couch in the family room, shaking and shivering.
Burning hot and icy cold, every breath wet and ragged, Boba Fett lay still and silent.
He had to stay awake. Han would never forgive him if he slept...Han would be home soon. Everything would be fine if Han were here. Surely he'd be back soon. Surely...surely he would return in time...
I made it home, love...I made it home.