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Luke wakes up on the couch in the Falcon's lounge, under a blanket that he doesn't remember getting down when he came in. Leia must have thought he looked cold. The door to the Falcon's guest cabin is closed, but he knows she's not there. The door to Han's cabin is closed, too. He moves quietly, not wanting to make any noise and wake them. It's only a little after dawn.
Outside it's finally quiet, or at least quiet enough that no noise of celebration is penetrating through the ship's hull. When he sits up, the cool deck plating under his bare feet feels almost like cool stone. He goes barefoot through the lounge and up to the cockpit where he can see the rising sun through the trees.
It's quiet and green and alien. Here and there he can see movement through the trees, the few people who didn't spend the night in celebration or who have work to do that won't wait. Luke puts his feet up on the control panel, knowing Han will scold him for it if he catches him.
The forest is beautiful, but he misses the desert, a bone-deep ache that never quite goes away. He wants to stand where he can see all the way to the clean sweeping horizon and feel the hot wind on his face. There was a time when he never thought he'd miss anything he left behind.
He's older than that now. He's not sure when he stopped being young. Possibly when he stopped believing that life was fair, and he knows when that was. He runs a hand through his hair, and then steadies himself, making himself be still and mindful of his breathing. He closes his eyes and thinks about sand and rock and silence.
There are footsteps behind him.
"Hello, Han," Luke says, without opening his eyes.
"Hi, kid," Han says quietly. Luke feels him lean over his shoulder and opens his eyes to see him set a cup of something hot down at Luke's elbow. "Don't wake up Leia."
"I won't," Luke says.
Han looks out at the forest. "Don't you ever sleep?"
"A Jedi needs no sleep," Luke says. Han gives him a skeptical look. "Okay, no, that's not really true. I'm just not tired."
"You're strung out, is what you are. I'd say you need a stiff drink, only I bet Jedi knights don't drink."
"They might, but they don't get drunk. Which sort of takes away the point, I think," Luke says. "Really I just want to sit here for a while."
"Sure, kid," Han says. He retreats, leaving the cup. Luke wraps his hands around it, feeling its warmth. He wonders if it was Leia who put the blanket over him last night or not. The cup feels right in his hands, he realizes; he's finally gotten used to the oddly mismatched sensations from his real hand and its artificial twin.
He looks down at his hands. He's not angry; it isn't even a struggle anymore not to be angry, as easy as breathing in and out. Something to do all his life.
He can do that, he thinks. He can half-hear Han moving around somewhere in the ship, not hear but feel Leia turning over restlessly in her sleep. The smell of burned plastic from his father's funeral pyre still clings to his skin, and suddenly he wants to be outside, breathing fresh air.
The air on the forest floor smells sharp, like crushed leaves and the lingering smoke-smell of bonfires. It feels nothing like the dry desert wind on his face. Luke walks barefoot on the mossy ground and turns his hands up to cup the green, dappled sunlight, as if he could raise it to his lips like water and drink.