He did not see that he was covered in blood until he fell against the stark white wall of the med bay and sank to the floor, moving his hands to cover his face. He wanted to block it all out--the harsh lights, the silence of the hallways, the look of tremendous pain on her face that was burned into his mind and refused to leave him. So he brought his hands to his eyes and then he saw it. The blood. Covering his hands, covering his arms and his clothes. It was not fresh blood. It had browned and dried and clung uncomfortably to his skin and made him sick because the color reminded him not of life but of death, excruciating death.

Han Solo rubbed his palms together in a furious attempt to remove the blood, her blood, from his hands. It cracked and fell to the floor in tiny flakes and he fought hard against the lump rising in his throat as the color of his own skin began to show. Finally, he gave up and buried his face into his hands, desperately willing himself to wake up from this horrible, horrible dream.

But he couldn't. This was real.

He had lost her.