Blinding whiteness. Bitter light. Frozen silence.

A heartbeat. The silence broken by that lone sound.
Another. The only sensory input he had.  And far too
much time between them. Time? That was a
joke. There was no time. Minutes fell dead and hours
did not pass. Heartbeat number 32467.  He'd taken to
counting them, the thoughts fleeting too rapidly through
his super-cooled brain. Nothing lingered long enough
for him to grasp and think about.

Bitter whiteness. Frozen light. Blinding silence.

Heartbeat 48341. He fixed on the number. Held it as
long it would stay. It was gone. He let the images flit
through his brain. With nothing coming in, all he had
were the images that flowed too fast. Chewbacca,
snorting at him. A redhaired girl in red and black,
gone before he could put a face or name on her.
Luke's face, over and over, always slipping away.
A grizzled old man in a coverall. Leia, always just
out of reach. Disjointed memories.

Frozen whiteness. Bitter silence. Blinding light.

52397. And 52398 hard on its heels, the gap shortened,
no images between. Light, assailing him. Air burning
between his lips, into his lungs. Heat, biting at his skin.
Fetid air in his nose, a million stinks. Weight pounding
on his body, pulling him to the ground. Cold, sudden and
brutal, colder than he had been, gnawing at his bones.
Sensory overload.

He collapsed. The arms that caught him were hard and
hot on his skin. The cloth scraped at him, his rescuer's
breathing roaring like the surf in his ears. More cloth,
chafing him as he shuddered with the sudden cold and
was bundled up close to the too-hot body that held him.
Slowly, he felt his temperature coming to normal.

But the memories no longer flitted. They pounded,
demanding entrance, but there was no matrix
to hang them on, no sense of time so that the random
images could form a coherent life. Faces assailed him.
Life, death, love, fear, flight, twenty-seven piracies,
and no order to any of it.

A presence wrapped around his exploding sense of self
and gently helped him rebuild. First, it cradled him as the
strong arms did, holding him steady against the onslaught.
Slowly, the pieces took on a coherent shape. The presence
took on a distinct voice, and explained the process.

As it hit him, each memory was placed into a framework
with the precision of a wine steward racking bottles. He
reeled under the onslaught, but the soothing voice
continued helping him reassemble the collection of
experiences that had been Han Solo.

Time resumed its normal passage, and he watched his
life in hastened retrospect: Leia in the carbon chamber,
the scan grid, Bespin, Hoth, the Rebellion, Yavin, Luke,
Tatooine, Jabba, the Corporate Sector, the Falcon,
Chewbacca, the Academy, Corellia.

The voice in his mind softened. A final mental
caress, like the ghost-image of a kiss, and it was
gone.

"Where, where am I..."

"Jabba's palace. You're free of the carbonite." The
voice that reached his ears was the same as
the one that had been inside his head. It was low,
and modulated, and he knew he should know it.

"I can't see." The other senses had come back on-line
and he could process their data. But the whiteness was
still there. A frission of fear passed through him at the
thought of being blind.

"You have hibernation sickness. Your eyesight will
return in time, with proper attention." He knew the
voice, but it sounded all wrong, almost muffled.

"Who are you?"

"Someone who loves you." The voice was clear now, as
if the baffles had been removed. He knew it.

"Luke."

His lover's lips were warm on his, the breath sweet,
reviving him, breathing for him, and bringing him
back to the living. Still feeling very weak, he
carefully slipped one arm around Luke's neck
and pulled him closer.

Luke pulled back, helping Han to his feet and
supporting him. The cloth draped around him
fell comfortably, like a cloak, but it was so heavy
Han staggered under its weight. Luke bore him up.

"We must go quickly. Jabba is gone, out on the
sail-barge, and if Chewie and the others do their
part, he won't return."

"Big 'if', there, Luke."

"Which is why (step up) we need (next step) to be gone
(last one, we're level). The Falcon is waiting for us. I have
a 'hopper to get us there."  He helped Han place his foot
in the mounting shelf, and settled him in the passenger
seat. "I'm going to buckle you."

Luke's hands were warm even through Han's shirt as he
pulled the straps around him. Han caught one and laid his
face against it. "Thanks for comin' after me. I mean it." He
pulled Luke in closer.  "I really mean it." Trusting Luke to
see his intentions, he waited a moment, and released the
breath he was holding when Luke's mouth met his own again.

When Luke moved away and clicked the buckle shut, he
kept a hand on Luke's wrist, just to know where he was.
He shut his eyes and settled back into his seat. Sweet
darkness enfolded him. He surrendered to it as Luke flew
them to his ship.

"Han, wake up, we're here." He opened useless eyes,
gaining only an unwelcome light blur.

"Shut your eyes, please, my love. I'll bandage them when we
get aboard, but for now, keep them shut when we're out in
the light." As he did, he felt the barest brush of fingertips
over his eyelids.

Luke led him up the ramp, his legs more willing now
than they had been at Jabba's. They made their slow
way to his cabin, the sound of the deckplates under
his feet and the familiar smells, metal and wookiee,
old synthleather and plaswiring, reassuring him he
was home.

Luke guided him to his bunk, and he listened as the
medi-pak whirred, assessing him. Gentle fingers
bound gauze around his eyes, and stroked his
cheek as the readout came through.

"I'm going to have to give you a series of injections.
And you need to stay warm and in the dark for
about two days." Luke eased his shirt off, and he
was cold again before the blanket came up over
his shoulder. Freezing touch of the injector
strapped to his arm, and a couple of quick stabs.
"I've programmed it to dose you on schedule."

"Next refit remind me to get this thing a pressure
hypo," Han grumbled. "How many times do I
get stuck?"

"There are twelve injections in the series, at three
hour intervals."

"Great. Fifteen hours of getting poked."

Luke chuckled and helped him sit up. "Now see if you
can eat a little. You're dehydrated, too." A cup of water
touched his lips, and he drained it, feeling the liquid flow
through him, irrigating him.

"More? I'm drier than the Dune Sea."

"In a minute. Too much will make you sick. Here."

This time it was juice, sweet and cool. Han drank, feeling
better by the minute. A spoon of soup reached his mouth.

"You don't have to feed me." Han took the spoon, and
Luke guided his hand to the bowl. He ate slowly,
regaining his coordination and fine muscle control. His
stomach growled for more at the end of the bowl. Luke
gave him more fortified juice while he got more soup and
a second cup of water.

"Now, rest until the others get in. Then we'll leave
and get you to the best medical care the Alliance has."

Han listened to the sounds of cloth and tried to put them
together. Weight on the bunk, and Luke was in his arms,
half-naked, his skin warm and comforting.

"What're you doing?" he asked.

"Keeping you warm. Just what the medi-pak ordered.
Besides, I owe you one. Or two."  Han could hear the
too-innocent ring in the words.  The arms were pulling
him closer, inviting him to lose himself in a seemingly
endless expanse of Luke. He accepted.

Blinded darkness. Sweet skin. Warming heartbeat.

Freedom.