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Han Solo (dice) wrote in valloic,

Han wished he had the slighest inkling of what was going on. There seemed to be something new every single day in this place and it was somehow worse than the whirlwind journey that Luke had dragged him on. It seemed completely bizarre that the threat of the Empire was just on hold, to be continued and everybody knew who he was but not in a way that made them angry to see him.

It was a lot to take in. He was almost pleased to visit the Jedi temple, regardless of whether he'd actually seen one before - it was something familiar in the sense that he knew what Jedi were, despite thinking they were all imaginary space knights that either never existed or vanished and abandoned them. Regardless, he didn't have overly high opinions of them but Luke seemed to want that future for himself regardless, so. There they were. He was surprisingly awake when he heard a knock on his door and he dragged a hand down his face, getting out of bed to go and open it to see Luke's face.

"Kid. Hey. I thought you did.... training," he waved a hand lamely. "Training stuff. I thought you did that in the day or something," he stepped back with an eyebrow raised, letting Luke into his apartment which was somehow already somewhat resembling the Falcon in the sense that it had a lot of clutter. Han wasn't a scavenger as such, but he was somebody who spent a lot of his life doing illicit jobs and acting like a magpie to get whatever he could. People threw away completely functional and useful things in any universe, it seemed. "Make yourself at home. Not that it's home."