Jun. 14th, 2008

ishotfirst: (carbonite)
When he walks back through the door, it's not exactly walking. It's darker than he remembered coming through, and he trips on something in the fog and stumbles, falling, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

"C'mon, Solo," the tin voice of a stormtrooper in his armor. "Get up."

They drag him to his feet and then walk him the remaining distance to the cell, then throw him in. His body feels like hell, and the warm booth at Milliways, the whiskey with Ben Wade, the comfort from Demeter fades like a burnt out star. Maybe he was dreaming it all, just an after effect of the poison running through his veins.

A familiar bark jars him out of his funk and he lifts his head as large, furry arms wrap around him and pull him up.

"I feel terrible."

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October 2008

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