Leia Organa stepped from the female shower room, smoothing down her new Alliance uniform. She had coiled her damp plaits neatly round her head, in a more practical style than the buns she had been wearing earlier. She couldn't remember ever needing a shower more.
The freckle-faced young man in charge of Stores-"Griff," he had introduced himself laconically-met her outside the door.
"Does the uniform fit? I had a job to find one-you're awfully small."
"It's fine, thank you."
The young soldier saluted and ran off, obviously eager to get back to the celebrations. Leia followed more slowly down the corridor. In her new outfit, she felt different, older. As though the person she had been had died with Alderaan, and a new woman created in her place. Someone wiser, sadder, but unyielding as steel.
She felt slightly detached from the noisy celebrations going on around her, feeling the same floaty sensation she had felt during her interrogation. The result she had been striving for since the Death Star plans had been transmitted to her ship was accomplished. The most powerful weapon ever created was gone, destroyed in an instant by Luke's shot. But it had taken her home and sixty million people along with it.
She would not have thought it possible, if she hadn't seen it happen.
The euphoria she had felt earlier, the rush of adrenaline and relief when the Death Star had blown, was all ebbed away now. Her various aches were resurfacing, and she was weary to her bones.
The fighter hangars were filled with groups of revellers. All the alcohol stashed away in the base must have been broken out tonight. She spotted Wedge Antilles, the pilot who'd shot a TIE off Luke's tail, still in his flight suit and surrounded by a circle of admirers. He was gesticulating wildly with the half-empty bottle he clutched. Leia smiled half-heartedly and walked on through the hangar.
Her feet took her to the end of the row of fighters, where a battered YT-1300 stock freighter stood. It felt like coming home.
The three of them were in the lounge. Luke, unlike Wedge, had managed to shed his flightsuit, and was in his farm clothes. His eyes were fixed on Han with an earnest concentration that spoke ill of his sobriety.
"But it's _true_," he was saying. Then he spotted her.
"Leia! _You_ believe me, don't you?"
"Kid...you're drunk," Han said resignedly.
"Ben spoke to me. Up there. He _did_!" Luke insisted.
Leia sat down opposite him and patted his arm.
"I'm sure he did," she soothed. Oddly, she found as she said it that she did believe it, incredible as it seemed. Luke gave her one of his beautiful smiles.
"I knew you'd b'lieve me," he said contentedly. Leia turned to Han.
"Did you get him this drunk?" she hissed. Han gave her an injured look.
"Me? I _rescued_ him-people kept on giving him drinks! No telling what state he'd be in now if I hadn't. You make a hopeless drunk, Luke."
"'M I drunk?
Han groaned. "Think you can hold your drink any better, Your Royalness? Cos I've a bottle of Corellian brandy I'm not about to waste on someone as bottled as Luke already is."
A small voice at the back of Leia's mind insisted that drinking brandy with smugglers was a Bad Idea; but the last few days had brought her beyond caring.
"Why not?"
Han grinned lopsidedly. "That's the spirit, Princess. Come and carry the glasses, would ya?"
The _Millennium Falcon_'s galley, like the rest of her, seemed to hold more than met the eye. Leia recognized the bottle of brandy as a famous vintage, and probably quite expensive. She wondered where Han had got hold of it, and decided it was better not to ask.
She returned to the lounge, setting the glasses on the hologame table. Chewie gave a soft howl, pointing at the seat.
"Aaw," Leia murmured. Luke was curled up on the seat, cheek pillowed on his hand, fast asleep. Behind her, Han snickered.
"He's had the hell of a day, Princess. And he's gonna have a monster hangover when he wakes up, too."
He threw Luke a half-affectionate glance as he sat down by the console. He opened the brandy, pouring a share into each of the glasses.
"Go easy now, Chewie. I know alcohol doesn't have much effect on Wookiees, but that stuff doesn't come cheap."
_Maybe he did pay for it_, Leia thought, sitting down. Han leaned back in his chair, staring at her.
"What'll we drink to, Princess?"
Leia raised her glass. "To life!"
It was an old Alderaanian toast. _Force knows, we have seen enough death!_
"To life," Han echoed, knocking back the brandy. Chewie growled something that presumably meant the same in Wookiee-speak.
The brandy burned on the way down and settled glowing in her stomach. She welcomed its warmth; she had been cold to her bones on the Death Star, and hadn't been able to shake the sensation since. _I'm not going to get drunk though. That won't help any._
She propped her chin on her fists and smiled across at Han. She was glad he had come back; not just because he had saved Luke over the Death Star, and thus them all, but because it mattered, somehow, that he hadn't just taken the money and run, that he had cared enough to come back. She watched him a little shyly, at his angular face beneath the scruffy brown hair, his changeable eyes and lopsided grin, at the scar that ran diagonally across his chin. She wondered how he had come by the scar.
"Thank you for coming back, Han."
His grin widened.
"Like I said, couldn't go letting Luke have all the glory, could I? That was some shot he made though, I gotta hand it to him."
The shadows shifted on his face as he spoke.
"The Force was with him," Leia replied absently. Han snorted.
"Aww, Princess, don't tell me you believe all that stuff he was spouting about Kenobi talking in his head?"
She was instantly defensive on Luke's behalf.
"His father was a Jedi-if he has the same power, anything is possible for him."
Han's mouth twisted. "The kid got lucky, is all."
He looked over at Luke's sleeping form, his face softening a little.
"Good thing for you all that he did."
_You_, not _us_. Leia frowned.
"Another?"
She nodded, and he topped up her glass.
"To us," she said, but seeing his expression fill with glee, hastily clarified, "The Rebel Alliance!"
She gulped down the shot, fuming that he could think-that he thought-as though she would be interested in _him_! In a rude, arrogant pilot with a mouth the size of a meteor crater! He _was_ attractive though-if one went for scoundrels. Tall and lean, with those mesmerizing eyes and hair that made her want to run her fingers through it. _That's the brandy talking_, she told herself. But deep down, another voice whispered that it wasn't. She smothered it resolutely and spread her hands on the table.
"So you don't believe in the Force, Han?"
"Sure I do. I'm sitting drinking with a gorgeous Princess-something must like me."
And he reached out and stroked her hand. He had big hands, calloused but oddly gentle. Leia pulled her hand away sharply, but his was already gone. Her heart was racing. _Okay, I'm definitely drunk now. I _knew_ this was a bad idea._
"But Luke..." Han was saying. "If all he's saying is true, the kid needs his head examined."
Leia leaned her forehead on her hand, feeling dizzy.
"If hearing dead people talking makes you crazy, then Luke's not the only one mad around here."
Her eyes were burning, the tabletop blurring in her vision. She bit down on her lower lip. She hadn't meant to say what she just had, and she certainly hadn't meant to cry. The alcohol was destroying her inhibitions, lowering her carefully constructed barriers. She put her other hand over her eyes.
In an instant, Han was beside her, an arm round her shoulders.
"Are you ok? You're not about to pass out on me?"
She turned her head to press her cheek into his shirt, blinking hard.
"No, but I might just weep on your shoulder-in the accepted manner of damsels in distress," she joked weakly. He pulled her in closer to him, arms circling her.
"That's ok, sweetheart. Just don't throw up on me now. Crying's fine-go ahead and cry if you need to, Princess. It's ok. It's ok."
He was being kind, and she hadn't expected him to be kind. It took her off guard, knocked out her defences. Arguing she could have coped with, but she couldn't fight against kindness. So she sat there, leaning on him, head on his shoulder. There was a comfortable hollow there just the right size for his head, below his collarbone.
She couldn't remember if she had actually shed tears, yet. She thought not. At first, it had hurt too much, been too big, to cry, and later there had been no time. Now, with a clear invitation to weep, the tears refused to fall. She sniffed a few times, but did not move away from Han.
Cautiously, tentatively, he lifted a hand to stroke her hair, his fingers trailing down onto her neck, making little circles between her collar and her plait. His hands were confident-he must have done this before, had lots of women, she thought, and pulled away.
"'M ok, now," she murmured, feeling resentful. She hated people seeing her weak. Han leaned forward.
"Y'know, Princess, if you ever need that shoulder, the offer still stands."
His expression hovered somewhere between 'optimistic leer' and genuine sympathy. Leia was similarly torn between rapping out a sarcastic retort and flinging herself back into his arms, so she did neither, merely looked at him. This aggravating, fascinating puzzle of a man, as different from Luke's straightforward candour as it was possible to be.
She stood up, leaning a hand on the table. She wasn't drunk enough not to be able to walk straight, anyway.
"I'm going off to bed, Han. Look after Luke, won't you?"
She had reached the ramp before he caught up with her.
"Princess, you gonna be ok?" He put a hand on her shoulder. Behind him, Chewbacca harned, sounding concerned, in so far as a series of growls and roars could. Leia smiled up at Han.
"I'm going to be fine."
The freckle-faced young man in charge of Stores-"Griff," he had introduced himself laconically-met her outside the door.
"Does the uniform fit? I had a job to find one-you're awfully small."
"It's fine, thank you."
The young soldier saluted and ran off, obviously eager to get back to the celebrations. Leia followed more slowly down the corridor. In her new outfit, she felt different, older. As though the person she had been had died with Alderaan, and a new woman created in her place. Someone wiser, sadder, but unyielding as steel.
She felt slightly detached from the noisy celebrations going on around her, feeling the same floaty sensation she had felt during her interrogation. The result she had been striving for since the Death Star plans had been transmitted to her ship was accomplished. The most powerful weapon ever created was gone, destroyed in an instant by Luke's shot. But it had taken her home and sixty million people along with it.
She would not have thought it possible, if she hadn't seen it happen.
The euphoria she had felt earlier, the rush of adrenaline and relief when the Death Star had blown, was all ebbed away now. Her various aches were resurfacing, and she was weary to her bones.
The fighter hangars were filled with groups of revellers. All the alcohol stashed away in the base must have been broken out tonight. She spotted Wedge Antilles, the pilot who'd shot a TIE off Luke's tail, still in his flight suit and surrounded by a circle of admirers. He was gesticulating wildly with the half-empty bottle he clutched. Leia smiled half-heartedly and walked on through the hangar.
Her feet took her to the end of the row of fighters, where a battered YT-1300 stock freighter stood. It felt like coming home.
The three of them were in the lounge. Luke, unlike Wedge, had managed to shed his flightsuit, and was in his farm clothes. His eyes were fixed on Han with an earnest concentration that spoke ill of his sobriety.
"But it's _true_," he was saying. Then he spotted her.
"Leia! _You_ believe me, don't you?"
"Kid...you're drunk," Han said resignedly.
"Ben spoke to me. Up there. He _did_!" Luke insisted.
Leia sat down opposite him and patted his arm.
"I'm sure he did," she soothed. Oddly, she found as she said it that she did believe it, incredible as it seemed. Luke gave her one of his beautiful smiles.
"I knew you'd b'lieve me," he said contentedly. Leia turned to Han.
"Did you get him this drunk?" she hissed. Han gave her an injured look.
"Me? I _rescued_ him-people kept on giving him drinks! No telling what state he'd be in now if I hadn't. You make a hopeless drunk, Luke."
"'M I drunk?
Han groaned. "Think you can hold your drink any better, Your Royalness? Cos I've a bottle of Corellian brandy I'm not about to waste on someone as bottled as Luke already is."
A small voice at the back of Leia's mind insisted that drinking brandy with smugglers was a Bad Idea; but the last few days had brought her beyond caring.
"Why not?"
Han grinned lopsidedly. "That's the spirit, Princess. Come and carry the glasses, would ya?"
The _Millennium Falcon_'s galley, like the rest of her, seemed to hold more than met the eye. Leia recognized the bottle of brandy as a famous vintage, and probably quite expensive. She wondered where Han had got hold of it, and decided it was better not to ask.
She returned to the lounge, setting the glasses on the hologame table. Chewie gave a soft howl, pointing at the seat.
"Aaw," Leia murmured. Luke was curled up on the seat, cheek pillowed on his hand, fast asleep. Behind her, Han snickered.
"He's had the hell of a day, Princess. And he's gonna have a monster hangover when he wakes up, too."
He threw Luke a half-affectionate glance as he sat down by the console. He opened the brandy, pouring a share into each of the glasses.
"Go easy now, Chewie. I know alcohol doesn't have much effect on Wookiees, but that stuff doesn't come cheap."
_Maybe he did pay for it_, Leia thought, sitting down. Han leaned back in his chair, staring at her.
"What'll we drink to, Princess?"
Leia raised her glass. "To life!"
It was an old Alderaanian toast. _Force knows, we have seen enough death!_
"To life," Han echoed, knocking back the brandy. Chewie growled something that presumably meant the same in Wookiee-speak.
The brandy burned on the way down and settled glowing in her stomach. She welcomed its warmth; she had been cold to her bones on the Death Star, and hadn't been able to shake the sensation since. _I'm not going to get drunk though. That won't help any._
She propped her chin on her fists and smiled across at Han. She was glad he had come back; not just because he had saved Luke over the Death Star, and thus them all, but because it mattered, somehow, that he hadn't just taken the money and run, that he had cared enough to come back. She watched him a little shyly, at his angular face beneath the scruffy brown hair, his changeable eyes and lopsided grin, at the scar that ran diagonally across his chin. She wondered how he had come by the scar.
"Thank you for coming back, Han."
His grin widened.
"Like I said, couldn't go letting Luke have all the glory, could I? That was some shot he made though, I gotta hand it to him."
The shadows shifted on his face as he spoke.
"The Force was with him," Leia replied absently. Han snorted.
"Aww, Princess, don't tell me you believe all that stuff he was spouting about Kenobi talking in his head?"
She was instantly defensive on Luke's behalf.
"His father was a Jedi-if he has the same power, anything is possible for him."
Han's mouth twisted. "The kid got lucky, is all."
He looked over at Luke's sleeping form, his face softening a little.
"Good thing for you all that he did."
_You_, not _us_. Leia frowned.
"Another?"
She nodded, and he topped up her glass.
"To us," she said, but seeing his expression fill with glee, hastily clarified, "The Rebel Alliance!"
She gulped down the shot, fuming that he could think-that he thought-as though she would be interested in _him_! In a rude, arrogant pilot with a mouth the size of a meteor crater! He _was_ attractive though-if one went for scoundrels. Tall and lean, with those mesmerizing eyes and hair that made her want to run her fingers through it. _That's the brandy talking_, she told herself. But deep down, another voice whispered that it wasn't. She smothered it resolutely and spread her hands on the table.
"So you don't believe in the Force, Han?"
"Sure I do. I'm sitting drinking with a gorgeous Princess-something must like me."
And he reached out and stroked her hand. He had big hands, calloused but oddly gentle. Leia pulled her hand away sharply, but his was already gone. Her heart was racing. _Okay, I'm definitely drunk now. I _knew_ this was a bad idea._
"But Luke..." Han was saying. "If all he's saying is true, the kid needs his head examined."
Leia leaned her forehead on her hand, feeling dizzy.
"If hearing dead people talking makes you crazy, then Luke's not the only one mad around here."
Her eyes were burning, the tabletop blurring in her vision. She bit down on her lower lip. She hadn't meant to say what she just had, and she certainly hadn't meant to cry. The alcohol was destroying her inhibitions, lowering her carefully constructed barriers. She put her other hand over her eyes.
In an instant, Han was beside her, an arm round her shoulders.
"Are you ok? You're not about to pass out on me?"
She turned her head to press her cheek into his shirt, blinking hard.
"No, but I might just weep on your shoulder-in the accepted manner of damsels in distress," she joked weakly. He pulled her in closer to him, arms circling her.
"That's ok, sweetheart. Just don't throw up on me now. Crying's fine-go ahead and cry if you need to, Princess. It's ok. It's ok."
He was being kind, and she hadn't expected him to be kind. It took her off guard, knocked out her defences. Arguing she could have coped with, but she couldn't fight against kindness. So she sat there, leaning on him, head on his shoulder. There was a comfortable hollow there just the right size for his head, below his collarbone.
She couldn't remember if she had actually shed tears, yet. She thought not. At first, it had hurt too much, been too big, to cry, and later there had been no time. Now, with a clear invitation to weep, the tears refused to fall. She sniffed a few times, but did not move away from Han.
Cautiously, tentatively, he lifted a hand to stroke her hair, his fingers trailing down onto her neck, making little circles between her collar and her plait. His hands were confident-he must have done this before, had lots of women, she thought, and pulled away.
"'M ok, now," she murmured, feeling resentful. She hated people seeing her weak. Han leaned forward.
"Y'know, Princess, if you ever need that shoulder, the offer still stands."
His expression hovered somewhere between 'optimistic leer' and genuine sympathy. Leia was similarly torn between rapping out a sarcastic retort and flinging herself back into his arms, so she did neither, merely looked at him. This aggravating, fascinating puzzle of a man, as different from Luke's straightforward candour as it was possible to be.
She stood up, leaning a hand on the table. She wasn't drunk enough not to be able to walk straight, anyway.
"I'm going off to bed, Han. Look after Luke, won't you?"
She had reached the ramp before he caught up with her.
"Princess, you gonna be ok?" He put a hand on her shoulder. Behind him, Chewbacca harned, sounding concerned, in so far as a series of growls and roars could. Leia smiled up at Han.
"I'm going to be fine."