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“You’re a complete idiot, kid, but you’re my idiot.” Han’s voice is barely a ghost against the screaming roar of the Hoth wind.
He's fighting the whiteout, his boots sinking hip-deep into drifts that feel like frozen concrete. His lungs burn with every ragged breath, the air so cold it feels like inhaling powdered glass. Then, he sees it: a shock of blonde hair and a tan parka, half-buried in a snowbank, shivering with a violence that shakes the very ground. Luke is a ruin. His skin is a waxy, translucent gray, his fingertips blackened by the onset of frostbite. As Han hauls him upright, Luke’s body suddenly heaves. He isn't just sick; he is violently, projectile vomiting a thin, clear bile that freezes almost instantly against the snow.
Han doesn't flinch. He doesn't have time to. He drags Luke back toward the makeshift shelter of a crashed probe droid, the wind trying to jettison them both into the void. Once they are shielded from the worst of the gale, Han pulls a medical recorder from his belt, the device humming with a sterile, clinical light.
Luke’s eyes flutter, glazed and unfocused. “What're you doing?” he rasps, his voice a dry rattle.
“I need to check your alimentary canal before I can give you any nutrients,” Han grunts, his gloved fingers working with urgent precision to assess the damage.
Luke blinks, a look of profound confusion crossing his pale face. “... What's that?”
Han sighs, the sound hot and heavy in the freezing air. “The long canal from the mouth to the anus through which food passes as it is digested and absorbed.”
“Gross,” Luke whispers, though there is no strength behind the word.
Another spasm hits. Luke doubles over, retching violently. Han catches him, the heat of Luke’s shivering body contrasting sharply with the freezing air. Han quickly swabs a sample from the residue, the recorder beeping as it analyzes the pH levels. They are above 7—alkaline. It’s a sign of systemic distress, a body shutting down.
Han doesn't hesitate. He pulls Luke back against his own chest, hauling the younger man into his lap to share every ounce of body heat. The friction of their heavy coats creates a static charge that makes the air crackle. With a steady hand, Han prepares a nutrient shunt. He applies a thick, medical-grade lubricant to the needle—a necessary step to prevent the frozen, brittle skin from tearing—and slides the needle carefully into Luke’s arm.
“Checking your amino acids,” Han explains, his voice low and gravelly, his chest vibrating against Luke’s back.
Luke leans back, his head resting in the crook of Han’s neck. “Can we just... cuddle?” he murmurs, his voice sounding small, fragile.
As Luke shifts, his breath suddenly hitches. It isn't a sigh; it's a wheeze, a desperate, whistling struggle for air. Panic flares in Han's gut. He knows about Luke's asthma, the way his lungs can betray him when the cold hits too hard. Han immediately presses his ear to Luke’s chest, listening to the frantic struggle of the alveolus—those tiny, shimmering air sacs where the gas exchange happens.
“Just breathe, kid. Deep breaths,” Han commands, his grip tightening.
The tension breaks as Luke lets out a wet, shaky laugh, the sound of survival. Han closes the gap, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to Luke’s freezing forehead, the heat of his lips a promise that the storm hasn't won.