Work Text:
The standard-issue medical tape tears with a noise like a dying creature, but the massive, furred giant on the lower berth does not care for Finn’s delicate touch. Chewbacca growls—a low, sub-audible vibration that rattles the rivets in the *Falcon*’s bulkheads. The blaster burn across his left thigh is ugly, a scorched crater of matted hair and cauterized flesh, but the Wookiee’s reaction to a simple bacta patch is far more dangerous than the wound itself.
Finn takes a cautious half-step back, the roll of grip-tape trembling in his hand. He does not speak Shyriiwook. First Order indoctrination taught him standard, basic military hand signals, and how to rifle-butt an opponent in three distinct directions, but it never covered the intricate tonal nuances of a seven-foot-tall walking carpet who is currently concussed and delirious with pain.
"Listen, big guy," Finn whispers, holding his hands up, palms out in a universal gesture of please don't snap my spine. "I'm just trying to stop the bleeding. You're losing a lot of liquid."
Chewie answers by roaring—a deafening, lung-expanding bellow that shakes dust from the overhead wiring—and swiping a clawed paw the size of a dinner plate straight at Finn’s throat. Finn duck-rolls across the metal grating, barely dodging the blow. The claws catch the sleeve of his jacket, tearing clean through the fabric. He scramble-crawls toward the hatchway just as the heavy hydraulic door opens, revealing Han Solo standing in the doorway with an unlit breath-stick between his lips and a pair of hydro-spanners tucked into his belt.
Han takes in the scene with a practiced, weary eye: Finn cowering on the floor, Chewie thrashing against the restraint straps, and half the medical kit scattered across the cabin. "You hurt Chewie, you're gonna have to deal with me!" Han barks, pointing a grease-stained finger directly at Finn’s face.
Finn scrambled backward until his shoulders hit the far wall, breathing heavily, wide-eyed. "Hurt him?! He's almost killed me six times!"
Right on cue, Chewie snaps the heavy leather restraint strap across his chest like a dry twig. He lunges off the berth, teeth bared, broad hands reaching straight for Finn's neck in a desperate, disoriented attempt to make it seven.
Finn flinches, pulling his chin down into his collarbone. "Whichisfine," he squeaks out in a single, terrified breath.
Before the claws can make contact, Han steps smoothly into the threshold, catching Chewie by the shoulder harness. "Whoa, whoa, easy, big guy! Easy! It’s just the kid!"
The friction of Han’s familiar voice acts like a cold bucket of water. Chewie halts mid-lunge, blinking through heavy, pain-clouded eyes. He lets out a low, pathetic whine, leaning his massive head heavily against Han’s shoulder. Han catches the full weight of the giant without flinching, his rough hands sinking into the thick fur of Chewie's neck, scratching at the sweet spot right behind his ears that always calms him down.
"I know, buddy. I know," Han murmurs softly, his voice dropping an octave into that gentle, low register reserved only for his ship and his family. "You're hurt. But he's not First Order. He's with us."
Chewie huffs, a long, trembling breath, and allows Han to guide him back onto the berth. Han glances over his shoulder at Finn, who is still glued to the bulkhead, clutching his throat.
"Get up, kid," Han orders, though the usual bite in his tone is softened by concern. "We can't fix him up here. He needs a real medic, and he needs someone he actually trusts not to shoot him."
"I wasn't going to shoot him!" Finn stammers, scrambling to his feet. "I was trying to help!"
"He doesn't know you," Han says simply. "Come on. We're setting down at the temple."
The Millennium Falcon touches down with a heavy, mechanical sigh on the landing pad of the quiet Ajan Kloss retreat. The humid air smells of damp earth and crushed leaves as the ramp lowers. Waiting at the foot of the ramp stands a small group. In the center is Luke Skywalker, his hand resting light and familiar against Han’s hip the moment Han steps down to greet him. At fifty-three, Luke wears his faded Jedi tunics with an easy, unpretentious grace, his silvering hair pulled back, his bright blue eyes instantly locking onto his husband's tired face. Behind him stand his fathers—Anakin Skywalker, broad-shouldered and imposing even in his late seventies, his mechanical arm folded behind his back, beside Obi-Wan Kenobi, who looks on with serene, amused patience.
"He's in a bad way, Luke," Han says softly, leaning into Luke’s side for a brief, heavy second. "Delirious. Kept trying to tear the kid's head off."
Luke doesn't hesitate. He moves past Han and steps onto the ramp, his movements soft and deliberate. "Chewie," Luke calls gently, his tone warm and familiar.
Inside the hold, the low, thrumming growl instantly subdues. Luke steps into the cabin, reaching out through the Force with a wave of calm, soothing warmth before he even physically touches the big Wookiee. Chewie lets out a long, shuddering sigh, his huge hand reaching out blindly until Luke’s small, gloved fingers wrap around his broad knuckles.
"I've got you, old friend," Luke whispers, stepping close to examine the wound, taking the bacta spray from the deck. "You're safe. Let me take a look."
Meanwhile, down at the bottom of the ramp, Finn hesitates, shifting his weight nervously under the intense gaze of the two elder Jedi. Anakin steps forward, his sharp eyes assessing the jumpy, defected stormtrooper from head to toe. Beside him, Obi-Wan strokes his white beard, a gentle, inquisitive smile playing on his lips.
"So," Anakin says, his deep voice carrying a rumble of calm authority as he gestured toward the temple entrance. "You're the one who survived six attempts on your life by a disoriented Wookiee."
Finn swallows hard, adjusting his jacket. "Seven, sir. Technically."
Obi-Wan chuckles softly, turning to lead the way inside. "Come along then, young man. Let's get you a cup of tea and see about fixing those nerves of yours."