Waking Up

by CorellianBlue

(first published 2002, revised 2016 and 2020)

I

Against medical advice, Han Solo opened his eyes, and immediately regretted the decision. An explosion slammed into his eyes, the ache penetrating deep into his brain. Physically cowering, he covered his hands across his face and screwed his eyes shut, the new agony momentarily blocking out his nausea and bone-aching weariness.

Nearby, the huffing growl of a Wookiee chuckle did not improve Solo's mood, but the inevitable lecture from Chewbacca did not come. Wondering if he was sicker or more pathetic-looking than he thought he was, Solo self-consciously straightened his shoulders and adjusted his seated position on the medical bunk, long legs dangling over the side.

Unenthusiastically, Solo tried to reassure himself that, all things considered, he didn't feel too bad. Not too bad for a guy who had spent the last Standard year frozen in a solid block of carbonite. The medical examination had come to the same conclusion, but painfully slower than Han had.

His symptoms indicated he was still suffering from dehydration, a lingering hypersensitivity of his senses, and joint stiffness and muscular weakness caused by severe contractions. The dehydration and consistent vomiting were upsetting the balance of his electrolytes, which in turn made him fatigued, irritable and about as close to shit as he had ever felt in his life. The doctor had explained that as he was physically and mentally exhausted from the trauma of a primitive hibernation process and the scan-grid torture on Cloud City, he needed to rest and recuperate more than anything.

Rest, Solo thought bitterly. I've had more than enough rest to last me a lifetime.

He knew that wasn't true. The suspended animation had not been akin to sleep or unconsciousness, not by any stretch of the imagination. Despite not wanting to think about it, Han had vivid recollections of exactly what it had been like—a living nightmare: not quite fully cognizant of where he was, always straining to work it out, to remember, to fight against the constant pain and the suffocating need to draw breath.

Han's heart beat quickly at the thought, and he rubbed his hands across his face and up through his hair. The examination room's regulated air was suddenly ice-cold against his bare skin and he trembled in response. At least it was a change from the humid air that hung throughout the rest of the Mon Calamari cruiser. Even though the ship's company was comprised of mainly humans who preferred more temperate conditions, he had found the cruiser's environment thick and oppressive from the moment he had arrived onboard. The air had seemed to cling to his body as heavily as the carbonite had.

Han decided he wouldn't think about the carbonite now. Couldn't afford to. The doctor had offered him psychological counselling, but he had shrugged it off in the dismissive manner he was renowned for.

He was fine, he had assured the doctor. If anything, he'd been a little insane before the carbonite. He had joked that with any hope the freezing process had straightened him out a bit. The doctor had simply regarded him with a sceptical eyebrow and advised that her offer remained open whenever he felt up to accepting it.

Solo shivered and struggled to ignore the vague buzzing that persisted in his ears. There was too much noise in this place for his liking. He had been afforded some privacy by being placed in the small examination room, but the ruckus coming from beyond the closed hatch was getting on his nerves. Outside, the constant rumble of voices and the clatter of equipment and people being moved about made him grimace and twitch. The Alliance was in full-scale preparation for an assault against the Empire. But this was supposed to be a medical facility for sick people. Couldn't they be a bit quieter while they prepared for all-out war?

There was also a bad smell coming from somewhere. A nausea-inducing combination of vomit, stale human sweat and the sickly stench of carbonite that sometimes made him forget about the bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. Solo suspected he was the source of the odour.

At least his mind had finally jettisoned the hallucinations that had sporadically haunted him. That had been the worst thing about his sight returning: initially he had been unable to tell the difference between reality and the delusions that had periodically gripped him.

A spasm contorted Han's stomach, triggering a gasping wince. He fought back the stream of bile rising in his throat, refusing to heave up yet another mouthful of foul-smelling yellow-green liquid into the bowl he guaranteed Chewie was still holding. He had already vomited and dry-retched more since his rescue than he had throughout the whole of his life.

The first time Han had thrown up was as the guards had dragged him down the hallways to the cells in Jabba's dungeons. Shivering and sweating uncontrollably following his release from the carbonite, his body had convulsed, rejecting the fetid remains of the last meal he had consumed and a small amount of the carbonite that had entered his digestive tract. The guards had not been sympathetic, particularly as they had worn most of Solo's vomit across their boots. The smuggler had received a whack across the back of the head and a few punches to his stomach, causing him to heave again. Enraged, the guards had pushed Han unceremoniously in through the cell door, his blindness serving to disorientate him further.

After being reunited with Chewbacca, the nausea had overwhelmed Han again. The Wookiee had tenderly held onto his friend as Han heaved up clods of bile and carbonite, dry retching for long minutes after his stomach was empty. Even if he hadn't had been so exhausted from all the vomiting, he would not have been abashed at his body's sudden need to expel the contents of his bowels. His bond with Chewbacca was deep enough that embarrassment was one thing that did not come between the two friends. Fortunately, Chewie was able to help Han into the corner of the cell and remove his trousers before he could soil himself. Han had been grateful then, and now as he recalled it, that Leia hadn't been around to witness such a potentially humiliating situation.

The sudden thought of Leia twisted Solo's stomach again and amplified the thumping pulse in his temples. He wondered where the princess was.

Throughout most of the 30-hour voyage from Tatooine, Leia had not strayed far from his side, keeping a vigil next to him as he had recovered in the Falcon's medical bunk. Han had slept most of the journey through hyperspace, and when he hadn't been sleeping he'd been spewing up his heart into a bowl or into the sani. Even the tasteless mush Leia had tried to feed him had refused to stay down.

Solo's sleep had been far from restful, wrestling with demons from his past in carbonite-spawned nightmares. But the worst feeling would come just before he awoke. In those moments as he hovered between sleep and consciousness, he had been never being quite sure whether he was safe onboard his ship and simply dreaming horrific images, or if he was still trapped inside the carbonite. More than once he had awoken from these nightmares, drenched in sweat and screaming.

Leia had been there for him throughout his ordeal, holding his hand, wiping his feverish face, soothing him with feather-soft kisses across his brow. His guardian angel, he had deliriously thought of her then. His princess.

So where the hell was she now? It almost felt as if she had dumped him at the medcenter and disappeared back into the convoluted apparatus that was the High Command of the Rebel Alliance.

A softly spoken Wookiee interrogative drew the Corellian back to the present.

"No, I don't wanna throw up again," Solo snapped defensively, but his body thought otherwise.

Han doubled over and heaved up a wad of bile, knowing without a doubt that Chewie was holding the bowl immediately beneath his chin. The acid burned the back of his throat and he heaved again, the convulsive gagging reaction feeding upon itself.

Han gripped the edge of the bed in a white-knuckled hold, shoulders trembling as he willed the retching to cease. Despite the cool air, his bare shoulders and chest broke out in sweat as he rode the choking sensation. The nausea gradually subsided, but he could still feel a solid lump in his stomach.

He swore the lump was a mound of carbonite, despite the doctor's reassurances there was nothing there and it was more likely a psychosomatic response to the carbonite's vice-like pressure that had entrapped his body. Admittedly there had also been a tightness in his chest that had seemed to restrict his breathing, but that had since faded to the odd twinge. Han could only assume that, for the time being, the weight in his stomach would remain, along with the nausea.

In combination, this also meant that the last thing Han felt like doing was eating. The doctor had advised that if he didn't start eating soon, he would be admitted into the medical center and placed on intravenous therapy—or worse, a gavage to force-feed him. Her threat had, at least, made him accept the anti-emetic medication she offered to combat the nausea and vomiting.

For a spice smuggler used to running drugs and intoxicants of many varieties, Han had a natural wariness towards any sort of medication, but he'd been so fed up with vomiting he had almost thankfully submitted himself to the infuser. Now, still hunched over, rubbing at the contorted muscles of his stomach and spitting into the bowl, he wondered why the hell he was still throwing up.

Coarse Wookiee hair brushed against Han's face as Chewie wiped a string of spittle from his friend's mouth.

"All right," Han acknowledged hoarsely, shaking his head in self-disgust, "so maybe I changed my mind. Again. Maybe I enjoy puking."

Solo accepted the tumbler of water pressed into his hand, rinsed his mouth, and then quenched the rest of his thirst. At least water stayed down. Most of the time.

[You are doing well, Little Brother,] Chewbacca rumbled. [Much better than I had hoped.] There was a distant ringing in Han's ears as the Wookiee set the metallic bowl down on the floor. [Perhaps you should lay back and get some rest.]

"I'm tired of sleeping," Solo complained, making no effort keep the irritation from his tone. "All I've done since Tatooine is sleep. Sleep and puke," he amended.

Chewbacca chuckled, then quickly apologised. The Wookiee's uncharacteristic apology was about all Solo could handle.

"Stop it, Chewie. This is me you're talking to. I'm not an invalid. I'm not so fragile that you have creep around me all the time. You got something to say, you look me in the eye and you say it."

To punctuate his annoyance, Han opened his eyes and stared in what he hoped was the right direction. The pain was just bearable. Now it only felt like grit was coating the inside of his eyelids instead of shards of ground glass. But one thing was certain—he still couldn't see. Smudges of colour shifted across his vision, melding, wobbling and refusing to conform to anything near to sharp focus.

It took considerable effort for him to ignore the adrenaline rushing through his system and convince himself that his sight had not returned to the state it had been at the beginning of his hibernation sickness, that his retinas had not detached as had been an initial concern. His blurry vision was now caused by ophthalmic drops that had been placed in his eyes for the medical examination. There was no damage to his eyes as the temporary blindness he'd experienced had been simply caused by lack of use.

Lack of use, Han dully reminded himself. One year's lack of use.

The ophthalmic drops had relaxed the muscles in his eyes and dilated the pupils, meaning he was unable to focus properly. The doctor had suggested that a possible side effect of the drops, combined with the hibernation sickness, could be a sensitivity to light that would wear off within a few hours.

That meant more time he had to spend feeling like shit. And what the hell was he going to do, sitting in his underwear on a bunk in the medcenter, feeling like shit?

Solo wondered if he might be able to make it back to the Millennium Falcon, as he would find it a lot easier to relax in the comfort of his own bunk on his own ship. But he knew it would be a struggle convincing Chewie to allow him to go back to the Falcon.

Solo suspected that if the Wookiee had his way, he'd be checked into a ward for a few days. The Corellian also doubted that Chewie would let him out of his sight, so there was no chance of waiting until Chewie left him alone for a moment and then bugging out. Besides, not only would Han have to stumble blindly through unfamiliar corridors to the hangar deck, first he had to find his clothes.

It just ain't gonna happen, Solo told himself. Not without Chewie's help. He needed to persuade his partner that the best place for him was back with his ship.

[How are your eyes?] Chewbacca asked, his concern evident. [Are they as light sensitive as the doctor predicted?]

Refusing to wince any more, Han replied, "They only sting a bit. Worst thing is not being able to focus properly." He gestured towards the brown blur that had to be the Wookiee. "It sort of reminds me of those screaming hangovers I've had."

Han could hear the grin in Chewbacca's response. [You are certainly an authority in that field.]

"Years of dedicated study," Solo agreed. "As I recall, you haven't done too badly yourself on that front either, Professor."

Chewie's reply reeked of false modesty. [I am a simple apprentice compared with yourself, Little Brother.]

Han nodded and raised a sanctimonious finger. "And don't you forget it."

Chewbacca chuckled and Han was relieved to finally hear his friend relaxing back into the familiar banter they shared. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the Wookiee would be receptive about helping him return to the Falcon.

Han licked his dry lips. "Hey, partner, why don't we blow this joint? Head back to the Falcon and relax in the comforts of home. I'll even let you win at dejarik."

[The doctor told you to stay put until you could see. She also wants to see you again before letting you go.]

Han's stomach tipped and tightened as a cold chill ran up his spine, but he raised a dismissive hand. "My sight's getting better. Besides, I never listen to doctors."

[I've noticed.]

"C'mon, Chewie." Han's plea was almost a whine. "You know how much I hate medcenters. They make me feel like I'm sick."

[You are sick,] Chewie pointed out.

"Doc didn't think so."

[That's not quite the way she put it.]

Solo couldn't repress a truculent sigh. Chewie wasn't going for this. He needed another plan. He tilted his head tilted downwards, trying to gauge the distance to the floor based on the position of the brown blur he thought was Chewie's head.

Not that far, he decided. Forty, fifty centimetres, tops.

Solo slipped from the examination bunk. The shock of his bare feet hitting hard floor jolted through him, the deck having broken his fall sooner than he had anticipated. The sudden impact jarred every bone in his body and a dizzying rush caused him to sway for a moment. He steadied himself against the edge of the bunk, swallowed away the acidic burn rising in his gullet.

Not again!

Chewbacca growled a warning, [Han…]

"Look, I'm up. Get my clothes and we're outta…"

Solo was able to take a few faltering steps before the nausea returned in a trembling surge. The next thing he knew he was on his knees, coughing up more gunk into the bowl that had appeared from nowhere. Han could not that believe his body had anything more to get rid of.

The attack did not last long and he soon crumpled up onto his side, seeking relief from a sudden feverish sweat in the coolness of the deck. He did not resist when Chewbacca gently picked him up as easily as if he was a child and laid him on the bunk in the same position, half on his side, his face turned against the cool sheets.

"'S'just a bit dizzy from sitting still," Solo weakly insisted, but he made no attempt to move, having finally found a position that seemed to combat the nausea.

The pulse thumped in his ears and he tried to ignore the generally ill-feeling that had swamped him. He closed his eyes and bit his lip to repress a whimper.

Han felt a light blanket being draped across him, then a Wookiee palm press against his forehead.

[Please lay still,] Chewbacca insisted. [I have enough to worry about without having to chase you around the ship with a sick bowl.]

"You're all heart, pal." The gentle caress of Wookiee fingers across his brow was a surprising comfort. "Be fine if I could stop throwing up."

[You'd be fine if you allowed yourself time to recover.]

"I'm not sick." He opened a useless eye at the sound of Chewie's chuckle, then shut it again. "Besides, I had plenty of time lying around on the flight from Tatooine."

Chewbacca shushed him impatiently. [Rest. Relax. You'll need your strength if you intend staying with the Rebellion.]

The words stung Han more than he cared to admit. His friend's comment was more accusation, indictment and dare than a casual passing remark.

Han's voice was tight in his throat. "Do you think I'd just leave?"

Chewbacca sighed deeply. [You are very much your own being, Han. In the past you have done as you please with little thought for what is best, for yourself and for those who care about you.] The Wookiee continued smoothing the hair across Han's forehead. [Besides, you have not yet told me your intentions. But whatever you decide, Little Brother, I will remain by your side, for I have pledged a bond to you.]

Han's stomach dropped again, though it had nothing to do with the nausea. He knew what he wanted to say: These people are my friends. Like you're my friend. And you all put your necks on the line to save me. Me! Even that slimy bastard Lando helped out.

Since his rescue, these thoughts had crowded Solo's mind as much as his nightmares. He was aware that his mumbled thanks to the Solo Rescue and Recovery Party on Tatooine had been totally inadequate. It frustrated him no end that he had been unable to express his gratitude, and annoyed only slightly less that his friends had not expected anything more from him. They had instead accepted his quiet solemnity as thanks enough.

"We're staying." His voice, though quiet, was uncompromising.

Chewie softly warbled, [You love her.]

Han's response was instinctive. "More than anything."

[More than yourself?] Chewie playfully suggested.

The corner of Han's mouth quirked up. "You're pretty hard on a sick guy, you know. What'll you do once I'm back to normal?"

[So, you admit you're ill.]

"I'm not sick!" The strength of his claim almost made him heave again and he reconsidered his assertion. "Well, maybe a little."

"Maybe a lot."

Solo turned his head towards the new voice. He had not heard the hatch to the examination room open, nor the footsteps of a newcomer, and it mildly disturbed him.

"Doc? Back so soon? Did you miss me?" He deliberately took on a buoyant air, hoping he sounded as cheerful as his words, even if he felt far from that way. "Are you here to send me out on parole? Release me back into society?"

Han assumed Doctor Tuulavich was staring at him in careful consideration. "Now you're giving me ideas, Solo. A detention facility might be a good place for you. At least it would make you stay put."

Her fingers felt cold as she placed a diagnostic collar around his wrist to take his temperature, pulse and blood pressure. He was tempted to sit up, to prove just how well he was, but the bunk seemed very comfortable at that moment and it wouldn't do his argument any good if he threw up again in front of her. Or on her.

"Am I still alive?" he asked her, struggling to rouse his old sardonic attitude.

The doctor's palm pressed coolly against his forehead, the backs of her fingers tapped against his cheek, and she expelled her breath in a sigh of annoyance.

"Despite your best efforts, yes."

Solo tried to remain co-operative as the doctor turned his head none-too-gently so he was looking up at her. Using her fingertip, she pulled down one of his lower eyelids to expose his eyeball. A bright light suddenly shone into his pupil and he recoiled, growling in protest, arms raised defensively to protect his eyes from further inspection.

The doctor made a tsking noise but made no attempt to continue examining his eyes.

"Still a bit sensitive," she remarked.

"What did you expect?" Solo groused. "You said it would take a few hours."

"I wasn't talking about your eyes."

Chewbacca woofed appreciatively and the Corellian was grappling to think of a suitable comeback when he heard the sick bowl being collected off the deck. He tried not to pull a face.

Tuulavich observed, "I take it the anti-emetic isn't working too well."

"I think I got the batch without the 'anti' in it," Han griped.

The doctor collected Han's wrist again and took a moment to study the analysis from the diagnostic collar before commenting, "Your temperature is up, as is your pulse, and your blood pressure is low."

Tuulavich's next question was not directed toward Solo. "He's not resting at all, is he?"

There was a pause where Han supposed Chewbacca shook his head in response to the query before adding—no doubt for Han's benefit—in a light-hearted ribbing, [He's always been difficult to handle.]

"Hey!" Han protested. "I'm listening down here."

"I think we should move to Plan B," Tuulavich suggested.

Chewbacca whuffled his agreement.

"Plan B?" Han asked warily, head tilted upwards as he strained to decipher the blurs above him. "What's that?"

"Say 'good night', Solo."

"Good night?" Han felt the head of the infuser press against his neck. There was a moment of panic—"N-no—" before the sedative overwhelmed him.

...continued in II...