a/n: this was originally intended to be something short and kind of flirty; as per usual with me, it became something else entirely. more of a - commentary, if the serious detachment that often is necessary from [good] royalty.

After Midnight

She stared at her reflection intently, absorbed in the woman she saw there. It was the same face she saw every day – she rarely paid it much attention. Her looks had never particularly impressed her; given her social status, countenance was a secondary charm – but she could get by without it.

As it were, she had always thought her face too round – youthful, her mother always told her - you have such a youthful face – Leia rolled her eyes, as she cut glances at the sharp, thin features of other women at court, and noticed the way men's eyes followed them.

I never want men's eyes to follow me that way, anyhow – she told herself, unbraiding and undressing in front of palace mirrors – as if I am a piece of meat –

Those glances of longing between the men and women at court, though; regardless of the torrid entanglements they sometimes morphed into, the sentiment was genuine, and for Leia – when her hand was taken by some lord or minister or other, and she was given a bow, and a compliment to her good looks –

Insincere, she scoffed, every time; if he doesn't tell me I'm lovely, it's an intergalactic protocol nightmare.

She had never considered herself ugly, but that was about as much as she thought on the matter – pleasant-looking enough, but too girlish, was a satisfactory place to be – though she did judge her eyes to be a bit – cartoonish, she used to tell her mother – I look like a holo-animation.

The queen, beautiful in her own right, and never one to entertain Leia's moments of insecurity over what she considered superfluous things, always shook her head – holo-animations don't have the depths of intelligence in your lovely eyes, darling.

Looking at her reflection now, older than she had been then, Leia frowned a little, her teeth scraping over faded lipstick on her lower lip – and I value my intelligence, Mother, but men aren't looking for scholarship in a woman's eyes.

She had established herself as plenty cold, plenty formidable, plenty calculating, and clever, but all that be damned, there were brief moments when she wanted to be admired, desired, like someone without a name and a crown that made it all so insincere, or all so strict, and precaraious – and if that was betraying the finer tenants of what it meant to be an independent woman, then so be it.

She stared at herself, reaching up to press her fingertips against her cheeks, words echoing in her ears – his words, Han's words, offhand, and casual –

Y'know, that's the damn problem with hot women like you, Your Worship – looking right at her when he said it, his eyes smoky with lust – can't ever tell if they're as innocent about their looks as they act.

Said in response to some short, biting comment she'd made in response to a compliment – You like nice, Leia – Save it for your latest conquest, Han.

That seemed to bother him, sharply, she saw it in his eyes, the irritation still lingering when he said his piece, and left her tight-lipped and embittered for the rest of the night, in knots over his comment –

Hot? Hot.

Beautiful, she'd heard more times than she could count, and she had always doubted its sincerity – not always for reasons of insecurity, but because she knew compliments were part and parcel of diplomacy, especially to a crown princess.

Hot?

She barely knew what to make of the word, and she facilitated between furious, some internal voice in her swearing it was another tease of his – and earnest – pride, nearly; were Han's eyes on her in the basest, most carnal way men looked at women?

Was he – was there sincerity in it, sincerity she'd sought her entire life?

She straightened up, clutching at the sleeve of the gown that had draped off of her shoulder – she hadn't changed from the party that had been given this evening, and amongst the other Rebellion women in their short skirts and shorter dresses, she had felt like a relic – which she was, of a destroyed dynasty – and a girlish maiden – which, frankly, she also was, though she'd lost much of her girlishness since watching her world burn before her eyes.

Turning from the mirror, an uncharacteristic, confrontational determination burning in her chest, she exited the small 'fresher in her quarters, refusing to allow herself to mull over her actions for too long - she wanted to ask him, she wanted to see what was in his eyes –

Leia abandoned her elegant high heels and pulled on a pair of worn casual leggings, and simple tanned leather boots. Gathering most of her gown in her hand, she wrapped it once around her waist, then knotted it expertly, fashioning it into a sort of tunic – she took a thin coat from her closet, and left her quarters.

She found her way to the Falcon by heart, well aware of the path – and disturbed by her familiarity with it – why did she spend so much time on his ship? Because she could sense he was looking at her like that, despite his irreverent mocking, his lack of deference – not that she wanted deference; she was no snob –

Chewbacca was milling outside the ship, presumably on the edge of closing things up.

"Is he here?" she asked.

Chewbacca gave a polite nod, gesturing, growling something kindly – Leia pursed her lips, not understanding, but still clarifying, for her own sake –

"Is he alone?"

Chewbacca gave another nod, and Leia felt more relief than she should – he had stood so close to that female ensign from Eriadu all evening, while she fawned, and twirled her blonde hair.

Leia went up the ramp, aware of Chewbacca watching her, and she tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat, her footsteps light as she made her way around the ship.

"Han?"

She called his name as a warning, finding him not in the main hold, not in the cockpit – his cabin door was open, light spilling out of it, loud, live noises emanating from it – he was always so bold, so loud, there was no delicacy in his movements or the way he lived.

"Han," she said again, softer, stepping just into the frame of his cabin, on the threshold peering in.

The door to his private 'fresher swung open haphazardly, abruptly, and he half-stepped out, jumping, and stepping back directly into the door when he saw her. Clearly caught off guard, he swore, reaching behind him to rub his hip where he'd slammed it into the doorknob.

He looked at her for a long time, his expression unreadable, and Leia stared back –

He had a damp towel draped over his shoulder; water dripped from his hair down to bare shoulders – unmistakable, he was just out of the 'fresher; steam still fogged the mirror behind him, she could just see it past his head – and he wasn't in his bloodstripes, but in more casual trousers, slung so low that she thought – if she tilted her head, looked closer, she could identify paler skin at the dip of his hips, a fine trail of hair –

"You gotta put a bell on or somethin,'" he drawled finally, giving her a look.

He stepped out and leaned against the doorframe of the 'fresher, arms crossed.

"I called your name," Leia said quietly.

"Did you?" Han snorted. "Try yellin' it louder next time," he said, and arched an eyebrow suggestively. "Sweetheart."

Leia considered him for a moment.

"Perhaps, if you give me reason to."

Han grinned at her, inclining his head as if to acknowledge that she'd held her own in the jest.

He lifted one leg to prop behind him, swayed slightly; lowered it again – Leia noted he seemed a little blurry, insofar as a person could be blurry; he was relaxed – drunk, she supposed; still drunk, from the party where she had taken only one glass of wine.

"C'n I help you with somethin'?" Han asked, with exaggerated gallantry.

"Yes," she said.

His eyebrows went up, as if he hadn't been expecting such an answer – but why would she be here, otherwise? Except – ah, well; she suspected he wasn't unused to women showing up to his – his bedroom, which she was realizing, with sudden gravity, was exactly what she had done.

She felt her face flush, but did nothing to acknowledge the chemical reaction.

"I would like to know," she began formally, "if you meant what you said."

Both of Han's brows went up. He stepped forward, taking the towel from his shoulder in a sharp flick of his wrist, and putting it up to his hair to begin drying it. He came forward a few more steps, eyeing her warily.

"What'd I say?" he muttered. "Meant what?"

His inquiry bordered on suspicious now –

"Earlier this evening," she said, her tone clipped. "When you referred to me – my looks," she paused. "My appearance."

Han kept drying his hair, and then lowered his arms slowly, moving closer. He gave her sort of a funny look, as if contemplating what she could possibly be asking, and then draped the towel over his shoulder again, still slowly coming forward. He didn't say anything until he was nearly level with her, and then he crossed his arms loosely.

"Your appearance?" he quoted, amused. "I didn't say'nything mean," he said after a moment, narrowing his eyes.

"No," Leia agreed. "You – referred to me – as part of, a certain class of women – "

"You're talkin' about what I said about hot women?" Han interrupted bluntly.

He leaned over, bracing one arm against the frame of the door lazily, and looking down at her, half-curious, half-searching.

Leia closed her eyes slowly, sighing quietly – she wasn't sure, really, if she was closing them because he was deliberately giving her a hard time, or because he was suddenly so close and so, so –

So undressed.

Not undressed – as undressed as a man had – ever been, in her presence – at least outside of a nice, proper beach setting, or indoor palace pool – there was something so alarmingly sexual about him, standing there -

She gave a curt nod, opening her eyes.

"Yes."

"What about it?"

"Did you mean it?"

"That beautiful women act like they don't know they're hot?"

"That I," Leia sighed – "am one of them."

Han looked at her impassively for a moment. He reached up and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, his knuckles running along his neck as he lowered his hand. He tilted his head.

"You aren't gonna stand there," he said, a more serious edge to his voice, "and tell me no one's told you you've got looks before, Princess."

"Of course they have," she replied immediately, her words terse, "it's a diplomatic requirement."

Her teeth clenched.

"Your daughter is a shining figure in this court, Queen Breha. The Princess is a stunning young woman, Viceroy Organa. Alderaan must be quite proud. The daughter of the house is lovelier with every year," she listed mechanically.

Her lips drew back in a small, bitter smile.

"The sentiment lacks sincerity," she said, "and I've certainly never been referred to as – "

"Hot?"

Leia sighed shortly.

Han drummed his fingers against the wall, shifting his weight. Her eyes fell from his face to his neck, then along his shoulder. She looked over him with interest, remaining silent for the time being, until he cleared his throat –

"S'it offensive?" he asked finally. "'M I in trouble 'cause I like what I see?"

She looked up at him sharply.

"Did you mean it?"

He blinked, his eyes narrowing testily.

"'Course I meant it," he snapped – almost snapped. "You think I say the stuff I say to you to get you all hot and bothered so I can turn around and call you ugly one day for a laugh?"

She said nothing to that, except –

"I am not hot and bothered."

"Too bad."

He flashed a grin.

She glared at him.

"You bother me."

"Well, half my battle's won, then," he quipped. He flexed his arm, leaning on it again, and tilting his head. "You come hunt me down to hear it again? Need me to stroke your ego?"

"I would prefer you not stroke anything about me."

Han tucked his free hand into the waistband of his pants, a makeshift pocket, drawing attention to it – and his waistline – sharply.

"Your loss."

"Sith's sake, Han."

"You came to my room, Leia!"

She stared at him.

"C'mon," he drawled after a moment. "You're not an insecure girl. S'obvious. You got yourself squared away. You don't need me tellin' you you're - " he flicked his hand at her vaguely, "hot – pretty; good-lookin.'"

"It's not about insecurity. It's about sincerity," Leia said, her voice softer. "I never knew if I could trust compliments."

Han grunted thoughtfully.

He shrugged.

"Yeah, well," he muttered. "Y'can trust mine, got it?"

She looked at him intently for a long time.

"You think I'm attractive?" she asked. "In such a way?"

His eyebrows went up, amused.

"In such a way?" he quoted.

Leia lifted her chin, and tilted it boldly behind him, indicating the unmade bed.

"That such a way," she said. "Not classically. Not," she reached up to rub at her collarbone, trying to find a word. "Respectfully."

He was staring at her in silent disbelief, and then his brow furrowed, and he shook his head little.

"I respect you," he said uncertainly.

"I don't think you understand what I'm trying to say," Leia said tensely.

"I don't," Han said, snorting, his brow furrowing this time.

She grit her teeth.

"There are – women one calls pretty, and those one calls beautiful, and those who have – sex appeal," she said, her eyes flicking up through her lashes – "and you – are insinuating that I – have," she paused, "sex appeal."

Han blinked.

"It's never been a damn insinuation."

Leia was silent for another moment.

"No one thinks of me that way."

"Yeah, most of 'em wouldn't dare," Han snorted. He shrugged, and reached up to grasp the edge of the towel on his shoulder, winking at her. "'M a daring guy."

He looked over her for a moment, and then frowned.

"You're – you're," he started, shaking his head. "You're…a lot of those things," he muttered, turning his head and rubbing it against his wrist. He sighed harshly. "Pretty," he mumbled under his breath, "beautiful, sexy."

Leia leaned against the wall, listening to him intently. Her head rested on the frame, and his wrist lingered at her temple, close enough so that she almost felt the warmth of his skin – not close enough to touch. He shifted his weight, and she wondered if he noticed he shifted his hips forward – she noticed, and was amused with herself for savoring it.

"It's just a dress," she said, a little numb for a moment - she looked down, at the gown she'd worn, at the gown that she'd dressed down and tied up; it wasn't even something provocative, not like the average woman was usually wearing at parties –

Han laughed, looking back at her.

"Sure," he said. He shook his head. "But 'm not lookin' at the dress," he said. "You look – good, the way you do," he faltered, "'cause somethin' about your eyes," he muttered.

"My eyes?"

"Yeah," he grunted softly.

He lowered his hand from his shoulder and rested it at his waist again – still leaning against that wall; leaning over her, the way – the way it might go in the right sort of novel.

She wondered how this night would go if she stepped across the threshold into the room – she was tempted, not by sex, by something deeper; by the chance to have an experience with someone so – genuine, that she knew it was not all brought on by the trappings of protocol and political maneuvering, but raw, and human –

She didn't even know what she felt for Han, underneath all the other emotions that gathered on her shoulders and suffocated her, these days.

She felt – loosened, briefly, from the trappings of her station – all because a man had considered her to be an object of lust?

Lust – she had decided, when she was a teenager, and there was no lust in her protected life, in the polite, conservative circles around her – is the pastime of less evolved people –

And now – in the midst of war, of Rebellion, of loss, and dire circumstances, to start having her head turned would be selfish, ridiculous – but it also seemed so human, and real, when everything else was mechanical, and bitter.

"Leia," mumbled Han, his brow furrowing tensely. "Look," he said, his voice strained. "You mind leavin'?" he asked.

She pursed her lips, taken aback.

"Have I – offended you?" she asked, unable to comprehend such a thing – offend – Han Solo, when some of the things he said –

"No," he muttered. "'Caust it's not the dress. It's you," he said huskily, "so, 'less you're wantin' me to kiss you or somethin', I don't want to have to keep lookin' at you, thinkin about it'."

She was caught off guard by the honesty, but she didn't show it – she felt outside of herself, outside of them; this conversation had been so bold to begin with – who did she think she was, confronting him this way? She didn't recognize what had driven her to do it, inside her self, and she didn't recognize the sudden vulnerability he was showing – was it because it was after midnight, that she was curious and brazen, and he was forthright and passionate?

I want him to kiss me, she thought, clinically – I want him kiss me so hard it bruises me – to know – exactly what it's like to be kissed by someone burning this hot, wanting my body, and me, and not my money, or my parents' name, a kiss that lackedthe ever-present restraint inherent in men who dallied with the sovereign-to-be.

She ached – to be kissed impurely, and indecently, not like Raal had kissed her on Coruscant, after her Imperial presentation, or Kier had kissed her in the public gardens, under the watchful stars.

She didn't move – she reached out and placed her hand on the towel at his shoulder, drawing it off of him – letting it fall to the floor. Han, his face turned away, made a soft noise in the back of his throat, and then stepped forward, touching her hips, his hands moving up her torso possessively –

Fingertips brushing, and wantonly pressing into, her breasts before his lips touched hers –

It was rough, incredible; thrilling; her back hit the wall of his bunk room, and his body shifted against hers hard, holding her there, pressing her back; his hands were at her neck now, tilting her chin up, and – startled, despite inviting it, or delighted – at the electricity of it, she cried out softly against his lips, her fingers shaking as she held onto his hips, then his ribs, then his arms.

It went on for an eternity, the kiss – full-body, consuming rapture; the dizzying sensuality of his mouth, his tongue, intensified, by the subtle, tempting way he shifted his hips against hers, his breath hitching more and more as his kiss devolved into smaller, quicker kisses –

She thought – oooh, oh, no; she wasn't thinking, not clearly; she expected his lips to travel to her jaw, her throat, but he stopped, and she took a deep breath, her knees shaking – she turned her head, her lashes trembling, her lips brushing his as she tried to focus on him.

"Fu-uu-uck," she swore, the word escaping her lips unexpectedly –

He laughed, low in his throat, his hips still pressed hard against hers, and she pressed one of her hands to her stomach, digging her fingertips into her ribs, resisting the urge to slip her hand down between his legs – she resisted it, because she had to, because despite the thoughts she was having, this wasn't the right time – but for once, instead of feeling an erection and thinking, somewhat warily – I can't believe I'm supposed to let that inside me – she thought – fuck, oh fuck, I want it inside me.

She thought about it for a moment – I could let him have me against this wall, what difference would it make?

If he kept shifting against her like that – she could think herself into a climax –

"Hey," he whispered softly, his lips brushing hers, and then turning his head. He kissed her brow slowly, and then nudged her temple with his nose. "Leia – you want to stay?" he asked.

He cleared his throat.

She moaned huskily, reaching out to drape her arms over his shoulders. She took a deep breath, lifted her head; her chin touched his arm, and she looked over it to his bed, her vision hazy, her skin, her blood – hot.

Yes, she thought – and no.

She bowed her head, her eyes stinging.

"Han," she began, her voice breaking hard.

He sucked in his breath, and shook his head, lifting his hand to her face – his palm pressed against her cheek.

"Don't," he muttered. "You don't have to – don't cry about it," he said seriously.

She didn't, but she looked at him, long and hard, wondering what all this was about – she was inflamed, because he desired her; and her desire reigned itself back in quickly, because as much as she wanted to be ached for, and craved, like this – she wanted it compounded by a deeper emotion, as well –

She had been held back, before, because her entanglements lacked lust, lacked – what she felt was genuine, unencumbered passion; now she held back because she was so uncertain of her own more tender emotions – and a man like Han – 'what difference would it make?' – she quoted her own thoughts, silently.

It would make all the difference.

She had lost everything; deep down, she was so heartbroken now, that she had missed her chance for anything casual, because casual had become synonymous with an easy loss, in her mind, and she was tired of losing things – and Han was – transient, casual.

Han shifted back a little, breathing hard, and bowed his head, his palm bracing next to her head.

She took a deep breath, searching for something adequate to say. What she thought she was going to offer him, and what came out of her mouth – were two such widely different things, she blurted –

"I don't think we're there yet."

Again, her head tilted at his bed, and he followed her eyes, his jaw twitching.

"S'only a few footsteps, Sweetheart," he joked huskily – but he looked back at her with – at least some understanding.

There was silence between them, his palm slipping slowly down the wall, and he was straightening up. His brow furrowed, and he looked at her intently, the muscles in his shoulders flexing. Her lips moved soundlessly, almost an apology, but not quite, and they looked at each other, both of the unnerved by how things had gone since she showed up at his door.

"Han," she whispered.

He looked at her.

"What is it about my eyes?"

He swallowed hard. He took a deep breath, and gave a sort of grimace, and a soft whistle.

"You just got depth, Your Worship," he growled softly. "You got smarts and humor, and it makes you prettier'n anythin' else walkin' around out there."

Leia parted her lips – I stand corrected, Mama; men do look for something more –

"You could devastate a man," he murmured.

Leia wrapped her arms around herself, her fingers scratching at her collarbone lightly.

"Are you devastated?"

"Not yet," he answered. He gave her a slow smirk, his eyes roaming over her, to settle on her eyes – "not yet."

She looked to the side, thinking hard – what were they; two of those sort who constantly bickered, kept fiercer emotions at bay with petty, needling banter, careening on their way to a precipice they'd never come back from?

Yes.

Not yet.

Stumbling into a recognition of her own desire for him was a feat – she didn't want it complicated by thrusting herself into it before she contemplated it, tried to reconcile it with any – affection she did, or did not have for him – if she ever melted, she'd be volatile, and she wasn't prepared for volatility –

Yet.

"Leia," he said softly. "Leave," he requested again – gentle, without malice.

She nodded. She slipped away from him, turning her back, stepping into the hall - -and turned again, looking at him as he leaned heavily forward, rubbing his hands in his hair tensely, standing in the same place – though now, there was only empty space between him and the wall.

She watched him, a strange feeling tugging at her heart – all this, because of that look in his eye, when he said I was one of those women, unattainable, appealing – standing there, she watched his hand go from tugging at the hair at the back of his neck, to drifting down his chest, his navel – the waist of his trousers.

She left, at that moment, her face flushing – knowing his hand would only drift lower; he'd slide his palm over himself, and think of her –

She dashed back to her quarters, glad of the late hour and the deserted base – her hair was in a tangled, half-loose mess when she returned, when she was staring at herself in the mirror again, disentangling what had just happened, what her indignant inquiry had turned into –

Did you mean it?

'Course I meant it!

Leia leaned closer to her reflection, reaching out to touch her palm against the cool glass of the mirror, her breath making the image a little hazy – she stared at flushed cheeks, and bruised, pink lips, and bright, dark, devastating eyes – and it wasn't about his attraction to her – she realized, it was exactly as she'd said: it wasn't about insecurity; it was about sincerity –

She saw, with liberating, and painful clarity, what it was about Han that set her on edge, made her brittle, and often acerbic to him, around him – it was his irreverence, his lack of deference; it meant the things he said were honest, and raw – and if they were, if she could take them at face value, then she could loosen the hold on her heart, and her desires, bit by bit –

The way he made her feel was a terrifying thing to behold, not regarding the things it made her want – but because of the reciprocal rawness it might require from her – and when she spoke to him of the sincerity her life had lacked, she realized her own relationships had often been shallow, dictated by protocol – in guarding herself against the brutal political world, and the peril that dogged the shadow of royalty, she had often been insincere in her own mistrust of others.

With that entire world and way of life lost, she needed to relate as much as she needed to be relatable.

And Han, he was the only person – certainly the only man – who saw her as a woman, before he saw her as a princess –

It was the one thing, that in her very core, she had desperately sought – and now that she had it, she was stalled, unable to navigate it – and Han would have to wait, this thing with Han would have to wait, until she understood what her own needs were, in this life without Alderaan, without aristocracy – without the crown that had policed not only the way she was looked at, and loved, but the way she looked at – and loved – herself.

"We are half-people. Ripped from the pages of some bizarre mythology, the two sides within us, human and crown engaged in a fearful civil war, which never ends. And which blights our every human transaction..."

- David, Duke of Windsor / formerly Edward VIII
[The Crown]

-alexandra

story# 363