The Dying Never Stops (NJO vig, Hobbie, Han)
Title: The Dying Never Stops
Author: djcati
Fandom: Star Wars NJO (DT1: Onslaught)
Characters: Hobbie Klivian, Han Solo
Summary: Han thinks tapcafs are the solution to his grief, and Hobbie's mission is simply to make sure he's all right.
Rating: PG
Notes: I'm blaming this one on Leia, and Mike Stackpole.
Words: 2562
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"I know you're there, Hobbie."
Han's voice was gravelly from a combination of alcohol and grief, and though he forced amusement into it, there was a bitter edge to his words.
Hobbie winced. "Hello, Han."
The tapcaf they were in didn't lend itself to conversations between people with more than a couple metres between them; nowhere on Coruscant really did. So, resigned now to having been discovered, Hobbie stood, glass in hand, and moved over to sit beside Han at the bar. He didn't say anything; just sat and stared into his half-empty glass. He hadn't intended for Han to see him at all, so he'd wait for the older man to speak. He was waiting for several minutes.
"Leia sent you, di'n't she?" Han didn't look up at him.
"No," Hobbie answered almost truthfully. See-Threepio had contacted him, requesting that he follow Han to make sure he was all right. Hobbie knew that Han wasn't all right, but he also knew what Threepio -- and Leia, since the request was obviously on her behalf -- really meant.
"Sure she did, t'watch me," Han half-slurred, finally looking up at his friend. Hobbie might have been imagining it, or it might just have been the gloomy darkness in the tapcaf, but Han's eyes were so deep in shadow, so full of grief and horror and desperation, that he could barely bring himself to meet the older man's gaze. But he did, and he didn't waver.
"Maybe," Hobbie admitted, searching Han's gaze for the cocky pilot he used to know. "She's...worried. About you." Everyone is. He had spoken to Wedge just after Threepio's comm call, and Wedge had been just as concerned. Unfortunately, he'd said in a strained voice, Iella was away and no one else could watch Syal and Myri.
"I'm sorry, Hobbie. If I could leave them, I'd come with you, and talk to Han myself, but...I can't..."
"No, that's OK. I'll just go and watch out for him...Threepio said it seemed like he didn't want company really."
"Sure...Don't let him get himself into trouble, huh?"
"Heh, Han Solo, trouble? Never."
"Yeah. Well, try, anyway...Hold on a second, Myri, Daddy's on the comm...OK, Hobbie, I have to go. Keep me posted?"
"Will do..."
Hobbie looked away when Han didn't answer and stared into his glass again. He hadn't really intended to drink on this particular mission, but his glass was almost empty already. He'd been in three other tapcafs while trailing Han, too...Thankfully, all without incident -- so far.
Shaking his head, Hobbie pushed his glass away and slumped forward on the bar, resting his chin on his forearms. Blond hair fell into his eyes, but he ignored it. It wasn't nearly as annoying as this silence was uncomfortable. But what could he say? Chewbacca was gone, Han's best friend, his partner, first mate, everything. Seeing Han without the Wookiee by his side was odd enough for Hobbie, but in this state, and knowing that Chewie was gone...
What could he say?
"I know, y'know," he whispered, turning his head to glance up at Han, still not brushing away his hair. "I know what it's like to lose a best friend."
And suddenly, Han was angry. "You don't know what it's like," he insisted, slamming his drink down on the bar. He glared down at Hobbie, who slowly sat up straight again. "Chewie was...he..." Han's voice faded, and he blinked and turned his glare on the barman, who nervously turned away and concentrated on cleaning glasses.
"I know," Hobbie repeated quietly. "I'm sorry. Someone like Chewie...I guess I can't imagine." He sighed. He shouldn't have bothered trying. Biggs' death, and thinking he'd lost Wes...they both hurt like hell. But he'd never broken down over them, like Han had now over Chewbacca.
But was that really because they'd hurt less? Or was it just because...there was no time to break down when he was fighting? He couldn't say, and didn't want to try.
"Yeah," Han muttered, his anger fading back into despair. "Someone like Chewie..."
Another few minutes of awkward silence passed; Han drained his glass, then said, "I thought it'd all stopped. The dying."
Hobbie shook his head and leaned forward on his elbows again. "It never stops. That's life," he said with a short, cynical laugh.
"I don't know what to do," Han said in a hoarse whisper.
Hobbie glanced up, but Han wasn't looking at him, instead staring off at some point in the distant murk. Hobbie leaned on his arms again and just listened.
"Anakin thinks I blame him an' I...I dunno. Maybe I do." Han's eyes widened and he turned to look at Hobbie, barely recognizing him. "That's bad, isn't it? But I-- if he--- he ran away! And just let him-- he let Chewie die, jus' after he'd saved 'im!"
Hobbie swallowed and met Han's eyes, but knew that the older man wasn't really seeing him, that he wouldn't really hear him. "It's understandable," he said cautiously, "but I don't think Chewbacca would want you to blame your son." Or yourself. "I think he'd-- he'd want you to remember him saving you."
He didn't know all the details of just what had happened at Sernpidal, but he'd heard most of the story from Wedge, who had spoken to Leia a few days earlier. He imagined young Anakin would be beating himself up enough without thinking Han blamed him... Hobbie sighed. Families always caused each other so much pain...
"He ran away...Solos don't run away!" There was a tense pause, then Han lifted his glass and thumped it down on the bar for attention. "'Nother one of the same," he instructed the barman, ignoring Hobbie's wince.
The young man behind the bar glanced at Hobbie, frowning, then turned back to Han. "You've had enough," he told him warily but firmly.
"What?" Han's tone was one of utter disbelief.
The barman swallowed. "You've been here drinking that stuff for almost two hours. And you've had a lot. I really think you've had enough."
Han blinked and stared at him, then growled and got to his feet. "Now, lis'n here, pal," he started, reaching over the bar to grab the man's collar.
Hobbie got to his feet too. "Han--"
"Better watch out, buddy," said a voice from beside him, and Hobbie turned to see a tough-looking spice dealer there. The younger man ignored the blond pilot, stepping past him to tap Han on the shoulder. "You wanna be careful--"
Han's fist swung round on reflex, slowed by the alcohol but still strong. Hobbie ducked to avoid the dealer's flailing arms as he staggered back, then faced a moment of indecision as the crowd in the tapcaf hushed. Should he grab Han's arm and pull him away from the bar, out into the dirty grey streets? Or let the older pilot get into the fight he so desperately sought.
He looked up at Han quickly, then shook his head. No -- Han was in no condition to win such a brawl and, judging by the angry crowd that was surrounding them, he'd already upset enough of the regular that there was no chance of leaving without serious injury. And then Leia would kill Hobbie...
"General Solo," he whispered loudly, clear enough for the closest tapcaf patrons to hear and realise who they were about to pick a fight with. "I think we should go."
"'M not a general," Han muttered, looking at Hobbie in mild surprise, as if he'd just remembered he was there. He let go of the barman's collar and turned to face the crowd; the barman retreated a few metres gratefully, tugging at his shirt.
"I think we should go now," Hobbie clarified, grabbing Han's shoulder and directing him to the door before the startled crowd decided that maybe they wanted to pick a fight with Han Solo after all.
"Right," Han agreed reluctantly, allowing himself to be led out into the street. He shrugged Hobbie's hand off his shoulder a few metres from the tapcaf and stood still for a moment.
Hobbie looked round, but thankfully, no one had followed them. "Han," he said, trying to direct him over to a turbolift that would take them up a few levels, "I think you should go home. Get some rest."
"Don't need rest," Han insisted, though he didn't struggle as Hobbie pulled them both into the lift. Perhaps he didn't notice. He leaned a shoulder against the durasteel inside, ignoring the Squibs that edged away from him and the Selonian regarding him in mild confusion. He pulled a tattered piece of flimsi from his pants pocket and held it up in front of Hobbie triumphantly. "Gotta go to th'next tapcaf...Dex's Den," he added, frowning as he read the printed Basic.
Hobbie hesitated. He really didn't want to get in an argument with Han, but he wanted even less to accompany him to another bar. It was getting late, and dark outside -- or at least, the mirrors were dimming this side of the planet into an artificial night as dictated by the chrono schedule.
No...if Han went to another bar, Hobbie knew he wouldn't be able to prevent another fight. The time of day meant the even less desirable Coruscanti scum were surfacing... He shook his head. "Home," he repeated, and looked up as the turbolift stopped at the appropriate level. Ah, slightly cleaner air... "Leia and the kids'll be wondering where you are."
Nope -- not the right thing to say. Han stopped just half a metre from the 'lift, and spun round just as it descended once again. Anger and despair were back on his face. "No, they won't. They don't care--"
"What?" Hobbie was incredulous. "Han, they care more than anything about you. Leia, the twins...Anakin...they're worried about you." He wasn't jealous...not at all. Oh, but he was, and he caught himself wishing sometimes -- like now -- that he had someone who cared about him like that. Families were usually worth the pain they caused each other... "You need to go home and show them you're OK."
"They don't care -- how could they, Hobbie?" Han was looking right at him now, having forgotten about the turbolift and even the flimsi in his hand, the tapcaf list that threatened to be blown away by the breeze from self-absorbed passers-by. He didn't seem quite so drunk, either, and Hobbie belatedly remembered Corellians' infamous reputation for holding their drink. "How could they?" he repeated, his voice bleak.
Hobbie swallowed and glanced down the street; Han's apartment block was in sight, but neither of the men made a move towards it. "Cause they love you, Han, they care about you."
Han shook his head, stumbling back to lean against the nearest building. "Not after everything I've done," he insisted in a hoarse whisper.
"That's what love is," Hobbie told him, and wondered how he knew.
"But I let Chewie die." Han winced, remembering it all over again. Louder: "I let him die!" and a group of Jawas scurried away.
Hobbie chewed his lip for a second, then shook his head. He just didn't know what to say -- nothing would help Han's pain, he knew. Nothing he could say. Sighing, he lifted a hand to Han's slumped shoulder, resting it there a moment before nudging him away from the wall and in the direction of the nearby apartment block. "Come on," he said quietly, letting his hand drop back to his side as they walked down the street.
"How did you cope?"
"Huh?" Hobbie glanced up, but Han was staring off into the crowd. But it had definitely been him that had spoken. "What do you mean?"
Han glanced at him quickly, his pain still clear to see in his eyes, then looked back into the crowd. "You were Biggs' friend, huh, an' I know Janson's been 'ported dead a couple times..." His voice was low, rough, sad; a sudden change from his previous anger. "I never lost anyone that close b'fore..."
So he had been listening. Hobbie swallowed and didn't answer for a few moments, not until they reached Han's apartment block and the security guard waved them in, recognising them both. "I didn't," he answered, pain in his voice. "I just...kept fighting."
Han nodded, but still seemed troubled, and when they entered the turbolift he closed his eyes and slumped back against the wall, sliding down to a crouching position. "But they died fighting," he whispered, and Hobbie glanced at him as he pushed the button for the correct floor. "They-- I mean, Wes di'n't really die, but I mean, they knew that's how they were gonna go. Chewie-- Chewie died," he continued a little louder, opening his eyes and glaring at his boots, "cause we abandoned him to a moon."
"Chewie died saving you," Hobbie corrected him firmly. Maybe Han had a point -- most starfighter pilots knew the risks and were prepared to die every time they got in the cockpit -- but it didn't make death anything less. "All the time I knew him, I knew that'd be how he went, cause that's what he did, all the time: saved you, and your family, including Anakin. Just like Biggs was a pilot and that's how he died."
Han blinked up at him, apparently taken aback by Hobbie's almost-angry tone. The turbolift pinged and the doors slid open, but he didn't move and neither did Hobbie. After a few seconds, the 'lift pinged again and the doors started to slowly shut behind them. Hobbie sighed and half-turned, raising his arm to hold them open, then glanced back.
Rubbing at his eyes -- whether from tiredness or tears, Hobbie couldn't tell -- Han pushed up onto his feet and stumbled past the ex-Rogue, out into the corridor and towards his apartment, the door at the far end. Hobbie frowned and followed him, but neither of them spoke until they reached the door, and Han hesitated, his hand halfway to the control panel. "Thanks. For today." It sounded reluctant.
"Just looking out for a wingmate."
Han nodded and entered his code. The door whooshed open and Hobbie could hear See-Threepio's tinny voice saying something as Han stepped inside. Ignoring the droid, Han turned and looked at Hobbie, as if wondering whether to invite him in or not.
Hobbie shook his head and took a step back. "I'll leave you to it, then...stuff to do tonight," he lied. A moment's hesitation, then: "You know no one could ever stop Chewie when he wanted to do something, so...don't be too hard on the kid..." He knew that Han knew he meant Anakin, but he also knew from the look on his face that Han didn't want the advice.
But Han nodded again, repeated his thanks, and closed the door.
Hobbie sighed. He didn't really know why -- after all, Han was safe, and well, and hadn't even gotten into a proper fight. All parameters fulfilled and exceeded. Mission success. Right?
So why did he feel so much like he'd failed?
It was just his stupid pessimism again, that's what it was, and Hobbie tried to forget it as he left and wandered back to his own apartment. He also tried to forget his own constant claim that it wasn't pessimism -- it was realism...
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Author: djcati
Fandom: Star Wars NJO (DT1: Onslaught)
Characters: Hobbie Klivian, Han Solo
Summary: Han thinks tapcafs are the solution to his grief, and Hobbie's mission is simply to make sure he's all right.
Rating: PG
Notes: I'm blaming this one on Leia, and Mike Stackpole.
Words: 2562
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"I know you're there, Hobbie."
Han's voice was gravelly from a combination of alcohol and grief, and though he forced amusement into it, there was a bitter edge to his words.
Hobbie winced. "Hello, Han."
The tapcaf they were in didn't lend itself to conversations between people with more than a couple metres between them; nowhere on Coruscant really did. So, resigned now to having been discovered, Hobbie stood, glass in hand, and moved over to sit beside Han at the bar. He didn't say anything; just sat and stared into his half-empty glass. He hadn't intended for Han to see him at all, so he'd wait for the older man to speak. He was waiting for several minutes.
"Leia sent you, di'n't she?" Han didn't look up at him.
"No," Hobbie answered almost truthfully. See-Threepio had contacted him, requesting that he follow Han to make sure he was all right. Hobbie knew that Han wasn't all right, but he also knew what Threepio -- and Leia, since the request was obviously on her behalf -- really meant.
"Sure she did, t'watch me," Han half-slurred, finally looking up at his friend. Hobbie might have been imagining it, or it might just have been the gloomy darkness in the tapcaf, but Han's eyes were so deep in shadow, so full of grief and horror and desperation, that he could barely bring himself to meet the older man's gaze. But he did, and he didn't waver.
"Maybe," Hobbie admitted, searching Han's gaze for the cocky pilot he used to know. "She's...worried. About you." Everyone is. He had spoken to Wedge just after Threepio's comm call, and Wedge had been just as concerned. Unfortunately, he'd said in a strained voice, Iella was away and no one else could watch Syal and Myri.
"I'm sorry, Hobbie. If I could leave them, I'd come with you, and talk to Han myself, but...I can't..."
"No, that's OK. I'll just go and watch out for him...Threepio said it seemed like he didn't want company really."
"Sure...Don't let him get himself into trouble, huh?"
"Heh, Han Solo, trouble? Never."
"Yeah. Well, try, anyway...Hold on a second, Myri, Daddy's on the comm...OK, Hobbie, I have to go. Keep me posted?"
"Will do..."
Hobbie looked away when Han didn't answer and stared into his glass again. He hadn't really intended to drink on this particular mission, but his glass was almost empty already. He'd been in three other tapcafs while trailing Han, too...Thankfully, all without incident -- so far.
Shaking his head, Hobbie pushed his glass away and slumped forward on the bar, resting his chin on his forearms. Blond hair fell into his eyes, but he ignored it. It wasn't nearly as annoying as this silence was uncomfortable. But what could he say? Chewbacca was gone, Han's best friend, his partner, first mate, everything. Seeing Han without the Wookiee by his side was odd enough for Hobbie, but in this state, and knowing that Chewie was gone...
What could he say?
"I know, y'know," he whispered, turning his head to glance up at Han, still not brushing away his hair. "I know what it's like to lose a best friend."
And suddenly, Han was angry. "You don't know what it's like," he insisted, slamming his drink down on the bar. He glared down at Hobbie, who slowly sat up straight again. "Chewie was...he..." Han's voice faded, and he blinked and turned his glare on the barman, who nervously turned away and concentrated on cleaning glasses.
"I know," Hobbie repeated quietly. "I'm sorry. Someone like Chewie...I guess I can't imagine." He sighed. He shouldn't have bothered trying. Biggs' death, and thinking he'd lost Wes...they both hurt like hell. But he'd never broken down over them, like Han had now over Chewbacca.
But was that really because they'd hurt less? Or was it just because...there was no time to break down when he was fighting? He couldn't say, and didn't want to try.
"Yeah," Han muttered, his anger fading back into despair. "Someone like Chewie..."
Another few minutes of awkward silence passed; Han drained his glass, then said, "I thought it'd all stopped. The dying."
Hobbie shook his head and leaned forward on his elbows again. "It never stops. That's life," he said with a short, cynical laugh.
"I don't know what to do," Han said in a hoarse whisper.
Hobbie glanced up, but Han wasn't looking at him, instead staring off at some point in the distant murk. Hobbie leaned on his arms again and just listened.
"Anakin thinks I blame him an' I...I dunno. Maybe I do." Han's eyes widened and he turned to look at Hobbie, barely recognizing him. "That's bad, isn't it? But I-- if he--- he ran away! And just let him-- he let Chewie die, jus' after he'd saved 'im!"
Hobbie swallowed and met Han's eyes, but knew that the older man wasn't really seeing him, that he wouldn't really hear him. "It's understandable," he said cautiously, "but I don't think Chewbacca would want you to blame your son." Or yourself. "I think he'd-- he'd want you to remember him saving you."
He didn't know all the details of just what had happened at Sernpidal, but he'd heard most of the story from Wedge, who had spoken to Leia a few days earlier. He imagined young Anakin would be beating himself up enough without thinking Han blamed him... Hobbie sighed. Families always caused each other so much pain...
"He ran away...Solos don't run away!" There was a tense pause, then Han lifted his glass and thumped it down on the bar for attention. "'Nother one of the same," he instructed the barman, ignoring Hobbie's wince.
The young man behind the bar glanced at Hobbie, frowning, then turned back to Han. "You've had enough," he told him warily but firmly.
"What?" Han's tone was one of utter disbelief.
The barman swallowed. "You've been here drinking that stuff for almost two hours. And you've had a lot. I really think you've had enough."
Han blinked and stared at him, then growled and got to his feet. "Now, lis'n here, pal," he started, reaching over the bar to grab the man's collar.
Hobbie got to his feet too. "Han--"
"Better watch out, buddy," said a voice from beside him, and Hobbie turned to see a tough-looking spice dealer there. The younger man ignored the blond pilot, stepping past him to tap Han on the shoulder. "You wanna be careful--"
Han's fist swung round on reflex, slowed by the alcohol but still strong. Hobbie ducked to avoid the dealer's flailing arms as he staggered back, then faced a moment of indecision as the crowd in the tapcaf hushed. Should he grab Han's arm and pull him away from the bar, out into the dirty grey streets? Or let the older pilot get into the fight he so desperately sought.
He looked up at Han quickly, then shook his head. No -- Han was in no condition to win such a brawl and, judging by the angry crowd that was surrounding them, he'd already upset enough of the regular that there was no chance of leaving without serious injury. And then Leia would kill Hobbie...
"General Solo," he whispered loudly, clear enough for the closest tapcaf patrons to hear and realise who they were about to pick a fight with. "I think we should go."
"'M not a general," Han muttered, looking at Hobbie in mild surprise, as if he'd just remembered he was there. He let go of the barman's collar and turned to face the crowd; the barman retreated a few metres gratefully, tugging at his shirt.
"I think we should go now," Hobbie clarified, grabbing Han's shoulder and directing him to the door before the startled crowd decided that maybe they wanted to pick a fight with Han Solo after all.
"Right," Han agreed reluctantly, allowing himself to be led out into the street. He shrugged Hobbie's hand off his shoulder a few metres from the tapcaf and stood still for a moment.
Hobbie looked round, but thankfully, no one had followed them. "Han," he said, trying to direct him over to a turbolift that would take them up a few levels, "I think you should go home. Get some rest."
"Don't need rest," Han insisted, though he didn't struggle as Hobbie pulled them both into the lift. Perhaps he didn't notice. He leaned a shoulder against the durasteel inside, ignoring the Squibs that edged away from him and the Selonian regarding him in mild confusion. He pulled a tattered piece of flimsi from his pants pocket and held it up in front of Hobbie triumphantly. "Gotta go to th'next tapcaf...Dex's Den," he added, frowning as he read the printed Basic.
Hobbie hesitated. He really didn't want to get in an argument with Han, but he wanted even less to accompany him to another bar. It was getting late, and dark outside -- or at least, the mirrors were dimming this side of the planet into an artificial night as dictated by the chrono schedule.
No...if Han went to another bar, Hobbie knew he wouldn't be able to prevent another fight. The time of day meant the even less desirable Coruscanti scum were surfacing... He shook his head. "Home," he repeated, and looked up as the turbolift stopped at the appropriate level. Ah, slightly cleaner air... "Leia and the kids'll be wondering where you are."
Nope -- not the right thing to say. Han stopped just half a metre from the 'lift, and spun round just as it descended once again. Anger and despair were back on his face. "No, they won't. They don't care--"
"What?" Hobbie was incredulous. "Han, they care more than anything about you. Leia, the twins...Anakin...they're worried about you." He wasn't jealous...not at all. Oh, but he was, and he caught himself wishing sometimes -- like now -- that he had someone who cared about him like that. Families were usually worth the pain they caused each other... "You need to go home and show them you're OK."
"They don't care -- how could they, Hobbie?" Han was looking right at him now, having forgotten about the turbolift and even the flimsi in his hand, the tapcaf list that threatened to be blown away by the breeze from self-absorbed passers-by. He didn't seem quite so drunk, either, and Hobbie belatedly remembered Corellians' infamous reputation for holding their drink. "How could they?" he repeated, his voice bleak.
Hobbie swallowed and glanced down the street; Han's apartment block was in sight, but neither of the men made a move towards it. "Cause they love you, Han, they care about you."
Han shook his head, stumbling back to lean against the nearest building. "Not after everything I've done," he insisted in a hoarse whisper.
"That's what love is," Hobbie told him, and wondered how he knew.
"But I let Chewie die." Han winced, remembering it all over again. Louder: "I let him die!" and a group of Jawas scurried away.
Hobbie chewed his lip for a second, then shook his head. He just didn't know what to say -- nothing would help Han's pain, he knew. Nothing he could say. Sighing, he lifted a hand to Han's slumped shoulder, resting it there a moment before nudging him away from the wall and in the direction of the nearby apartment block. "Come on," he said quietly, letting his hand drop back to his side as they walked down the street.
"How did you cope?"
"Huh?" Hobbie glanced up, but Han was staring off into the crowd. But it had definitely been him that had spoken. "What do you mean?"
Han glanced at him quickly, his pain still clear to see in his eyes, then looked back into the crowd. "You were Biggs' friend, huh, an' I know Janson's been 'ported dead a couple times..." His voice was low, rough, sad; a sudden change from his previous anger. "I never lost anyone that close b'fore..."
So he had been listening. Hobbie swallowed and didn't answer for a few moments, not until they reached Han's apartment block and the security guard waved them in, recognising them both. "I didn't," he answered, pain in his voice. "I just...kept fighting."
Han nodded, but still seemed troubled, and when they entered the turbolift he closed his eyes and slumped back against the wall, sliding down to a crouching position. "But they died fighting," he whispered, and Hobbie glanced at him as he pushed the button for the correct floor. "They-- I mean, Wes di'n't really die, but I mean, they knew that's how they were gonna go. Chewie-- Chewie died," he continued a little louder, opening his eyes and glaring at his boots, "cause we abandoned him to a moon."
"Chewie died saving you," Hobbie corrected him firmly. Maybe Han had a point -- most starfighter pilots knew the risks and were prepared to die every time they got in the cockpit -- but it didn't make death anything less. "All the time I knew him, I knew that'd be how he went, cause that's what he did, all the time: saved you, and your family, including Anakin. Just like Biggs was a pilot and that's how he died."
Han blinked up at him, apparently taken aback by Hobbie's almost-angry tone. The turbolift pinged and the doors slid open, but he didn't move and neither did Hobbie. After a few seconds, the 'lift pinged again and the doors started to slowly shut behind them. Hobbie sighed and half-turned, raising his arm to hold them open, then glanced back.
Rubbing at his eyes -- whether from tiredness or tears, Hobbie couldn't tell -- Han pushed up onto his feet and stumbled past the ex-Rogue, out into the corridor and towards his apartment, the door at the far end. Hobbie frowned and followed him, but neither of them spoke until they reached the door, and Han hesitated, his hand halfway to the control panel. "Thanks. For today." It sounded reluctant.
"Just looking out for a wingmate."
Han nodded and entered his code. The door whooshed open and Hobbie could hear See-Threepio's tinny voice saying something as Han stepped inside. Ignoring the droid, Han turned and looked at Hobbie, as if wondering whether to invite him in or not.
Hobbie shook his head and took a step back. "I'll leave you to it, then...stuff to do tonight," he lied. A moment's hesitation, then: "You know no one could ever stop Chewie when he wanted to do something, so...don't be too hard on the kid..." He knew that Han knew he meant Anakin, but he also knew from the look on his face that Han didn't want the advice.
But Han nodded again, repeated his thanks, and closed the door.
Hobbie sighed. He didn't really know why -- after all, Han was safe, and well, and hadn't even gotten into a proper fight. All parameters fulfilled and exceeded. Mission success. Right?
So why did he feel so much like he'd failed?
It was just his stupid pessimism again, that's what it was, and Hobbie tried to forget it as he left and wandered back to his own apartment. He also tried to forget his own constant claim that it wasn't pessimism -- it was realism...
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