Sleep. It’s such an incredibly fleeting thing to Han Solo. However many hours of rest does he get to have on a daily basis simply stands as an unknown number. Four hours? Three hours? Six hours? Six hours on his best day, eight hours meant he’s on vacation, and four hours or less meant he has a certain task at hand. In this moment, as he lays face down with his pillow pressed over his head, Han holds no recollection of ever having taken up a new adventure. So far, the mental tally furiously hit its brakes after surpassing two hours. Two hours. That’s hardly adequate for a man who spends most, if not all of his time running around the world, tucking one discovery into his belt after another, saving a couple lives along the way and saving up a little fortune for …show more content…
), he’s still human. After his last escapade; the trip to Peru and Cairo, all the events that had followed, with the Nazis and Hitler’s army—and by the seven hells, Han just wants to sleep! Although half-dressed and on the verge of delirious from exhaustion, Han springs up from his bed. There’s a scowl pulling at his lips with every rap to his front door, reiterating succession of ‘mr. solo’, ‘mr. solo’ — is his father’s name, dammit, not his! Who the—Luke? Brought to a standstill by the frantic voice he now remembers very, very well, Han stares at his front, enveloped by the gloom of his hallway. Han remembers him; how could he forget? Gorgeous kid—sad to see that he works a mechanic’s position for a local garage rather than having taken up the status of a star. In consideration of the foregoing, he shouts, ❝One sec! Not dressed.❞ It’s true. He’s dressed enough to greet Lando or Chewie, but certainly not enough to greet someone like Luke. Heels over head, Han dresses in short order, just about frantic by the time he swings open his font door. Momentarily blinded by distant lamposts, Han squints past the unwelcome light, then drops his chin down to the short stack standing