Disclaimer: Still all George's
A/N: I haven't written in a while so I'm a bit rusty. Leia PoV, post-Battle of Endor,
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She has to tell him.
The words refuse to form and he's sitting there in front of her with same impatient rogue look he's always had, 'I could be fixin' the Falcon' spelled out in bold letters across his face.
But she needs to tell him this, needs to explain with all the appropriate decorum the truth he may or may not be aware of as it is—but the words don't form and every second is another blow to her nerve.
Her hands are still in her lap, unbelievably pale against the cargo of her military issued pants and she wonders if she should have dressed better for this, wonders if she should have prepared more, packed her bags incase he didn't—the knot in her stomach tightened painful and she can't deny the part of her that wishes he'll grow tired of the silence and walk out of the room.
She wants the excuse.
"Luke's my brother." She says at last, half surprised by the sound of her own voice.
"Yeah sweetheart, we've covered that—"
"No." Abrupt and halting, Leia can feel control slipping away, too many words on the tip of her tongue and none of them come out like she wants them to.
"He's my brother," she says, watching the flicker in his eyes as things fall into place, the happenings of the past few weeks repeating in his mind until at last the last block falls and his mouth forms a perfect 'o'.
"Luke's father…" he starts but the words fade away, incomplete. He tries again and fails.
"I'm sorry." She offers weakly, unsure what it is she's apologizing for, only hoping the words will banish the lump in her throat and the weight of shame in her chest. She can't stop herself from wondering if her father, her real father, knew. The irony of it all cuts her, rips a harsh sound from her lips that might be laugh as she stares at her hands, any pretense of calm or control melting away as surly as the world vanishes through the fog that settles in her eyes.
Han's hand settles on her own and she's startled by it, warm and large and brown against her.
"It's alright princess." He says and if she looked at him she might have seen the half-hearted shrug, the seriousness in the lines of his face, but she can't find the strength to lift her head and her eyes remain fixed on his hand.
He says her name and it hums in her ears along with the little puffs of air that pass her lips quickly and when she's crying she's overly aware of the fact that he's avoiding the blaster wound on her upper arm
"I—" she tries, but the words don't form.
"Don't matter sweetheart." He tells her, with all the confidence she once—and still occasionally—despised.
The words don't form after that.
It doesn't matter.
End
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