Backlash Chapter 1: Part 1, a star wars fanfic

a/n: and so we go forth with another installment in the Identity 'verse. an interlude, if you will. i fondly refer to this as my Haiku story, because it will take part in three parts - part one is 5 scenes, part two is 7 scenes, and part three is 5 scenes - voila. breaking from my usual custom, this story does not have a prologue or an epilogue. for refresher notes, this 'verse operates on the following timeline:

ANH (0 ABY), then, three years later, ESB (3 ABY), then, one year (ish) later, ROTJ (4 ABY), with Leia's age in ANH as 19, and her age finishing ROTJ as 23 (based on how I vaguely align her birthdays in my head) - note also that Identity began in 4 ABY (Prologue), took place primarily during 5 ABY, and ended in 6 ABY; The Naberries took place 6 months after Identity, during 6 ABY - and so we end up here; still 6 ABY - this story picking up directly after the epilogue of The Naberries. This will take us through the 'end' of 6 ABY in that stories after it will not take place in 6 ABY - we find Han and Leia still not married a year, facing the onslaught of the Vader Reveal.

this story 'verse continues to be au.

Part 1:

Immediate Backlash

6 ABY

Eerie. That's the word she would use – eerie. It seemed most appropriate to describe the – the tenor, the aura of the galactic political apparatus in the days following the event that would, in later years, come to be referred to as the Skywalker Reckoning.

For the immediate present – it was known as nothing more than an average day, the final day of a workweek, on which Princess Leia, adopted daughter of House Organa of Alderaan, wife of Han Solo, Rebellion military leader, heroine of the Galactic Civil War, and respected, powerful Ambassador of the New Republic – convened a press conference alongside her father, her brother, and two prominent members of the Naberrie family and delivered a public elocution outlining her hidden bloodline, and her genetic connection to the Empire's darkest shadow.

In silence – silence, so it seemed – the galaxy – the media, key New Republic political actors, members of the military – reeled, or so she assumed – after all, she herself had reeled, had perhaps only recently found solid ground again, and so she assumed that the public world she'd grown up in the very heart of was lurching and staggering under the weight of the information.

The silence, though – it was not altogether unexpected, but it was maddeningly difficult to interpret – it worried Leia on a multifaceted level; it worried her Council, her advisors, her father – to the point that she began to ask herself if it had been foolish, unbearably foolish, to plan the press conference in such a way that she controlled the entire narrative – allowed for no questions, and provided only statements, and personal testimonies, from the family.

She stipulated – that there would be time for questions when her statements had settled; she wanted to give them that benefit – in a subtle way, she tried to implore them to think, rather than to rabidly shoot off at the mouth – she crafted things in such a way so that she gave her Vader declaration on the final day of the working week, and stepped back to observe, rather than immerse herself in work – and then the silence came, the nothing.

The careful attention of her plethora of advisors, assistances, and councilors had been hard-pressed to determine how the calm was going to break, how it was all going to explode when the working days began again, and in the stunned, almost shell-shocked nothingness the Media and the galaxy seemed to give her over the break days of the week, she existed in a suspended state of both hope, and impossible dread – wondering when the floodgates would disintegrate, anticipating the first brutal interrogation – she was on edge, all her neatly made plans and prospective statements clashing together in her head –

Early in the morning, the first day of the workweek post-press conference, she had set out for her office with no real indication of what, in all the hells imagined by beings throughout the galaxy, was waiting for her.

It was madness – chaos, mayhem, turmoil, and pandemonium – all of those significant words that defined uproar as poetically as it could be defined – and though she ran directly into a head-spinning barrage of screaming demands – it almost helped her breathe.

The courtesy the galaxy had done her – had done Luke, had done her father, and Han, and the Naberries – in holding off for a day or two while the knowledge sank in, saturating their thoughts and opinions – was no courtesy at all; it had left her almost bereft, at a loss for how to handle nothingness when she'd prepared for staggering eminence – she had lain awake that first night, wide-eyed, still, for a few brief hours asking herself what it would be like if – if no one cared, if the news blew over like brief afternoon rain on a sweltering summer day – and that naive indulgence was obliterated, blown to bits when the galaxy finally snapped back into their right minds.

Even so – even then, even with an awakening, and the sudden shriek of blowback to her announcement – primarily, it seemed that most beings wanted clarification; stiff, half-breathless questions were asked that were barely able to disguise the tone of their unspoken, less controlled question, which was – what the fuck did Princess Leia just reveal?

The galaxy – ah, well, the core of the worlds, the majority of the populace, that is; Leia knew that in a galaxy so expansive, so impossibly large, there were worlds, and cultures, who did not involve themselves, did not care - but for her intents and purposes, for the centralized world she lived and worked in, the galaxy wanted to know if they'd heard right –

And in the midst of it, bright and early, shoulders set back, composure hardened and steeled, Leia drew on her own personal experience when it came to weathering this exact same revelation, and faced it with all of the meticulous, fortified grace she'd spent months preparing herself to embody.

She supposed – aside from the haunting silence that had followed the explosive press conference – that her assessment of the burgeoning ordeal as eerie was perhaps most accurate because – though she had braced herself for her personal reaction to the stress of it all, she found that as it began to unfold – she was ready.

Thus far – things made sense; things were – somewhat logical; a calm before a storm burst into a melee, and the onslaught of initial demands for statements or answers patterned exactly what she thought they might – her political acumen was validated and she was, she was –

Bolstered, almost; invigorated, by the fact that this was a political nightmare – gearing up to be – and she was trained to handle that.

Diplomatic, political, legislative – these sorts of prolific state scandals were her field of expertise –

She was sure it would turn personal, and yet for now, she could hold her own –

It was others – others she suddenly worried about; others like Han, whose temper she thought of when she scanned through a couple of headlines that were already referring to her as a bastard – mild, she thought, considering what they could call her, and might soon call her in the coming days.

She thought of Rouge, who had often reveled in breathy, high-class society gossip mills, but had never experienced anything on this large of a scale – of Winter, who was raised with Leia's diplomatic education, but none of the spotlight – she thought of her Alderaanians, her sweet, suffering people, so struggling to be resilient, and now bombarded with this – she was sure, at least some of them, must be suffering some identity crisis similar to the one she had experienced, as they tried to decide if House Organa had misled them, betrayed them – or protected them.

And she – she thought of Luke; as she slipped into her apartment, several hours too early, at a loss for what to do, gritting her teeth, tired and frustrated – the day had gone downhill so quickly, and even in the midst of all the things she was prepared for, and knew how to handle, inevitable anxiety burrowed into her heart, engaging in a stakeout there, as she began to anticipate the next few weeks.

Luke, she thought, closing her eyes and leaning against the door – he'd come to her office for moral support, after lunch; he'd stood with her in one of the open courtyards, asking what she thought about everything so far – and there it was, the first instance –

Well, the first public instance of aggression; Leia had hit her first roadblocks precisely three hours and seven minutes after she arrived in her office, when her assistant quietly informed her that her morning meeting with a dignitary had been cancelled – at the dignitary's instance.

But Luke – Luke's first experience was when that young Falleen had come upon them in the courtyard, his eyes wide – and Luke had smiled at him in innocent greeting, while Leia's mind immediately went to the massacre Darth Vader had overseen on Falleen –

The memory of her brother's face when he'd been spit on was unlikely to fade anytime soon, and Leia reflected on that, and on the emptiness of her day – the emptiness of her upcoming week, from what it looked like – and she tilted her head back against the apartment door, and rather than let the frustration, and inarticulate mass of emotion marinate in the pit of her stomach, she closed her eyes and gave a short, loud, frustrated, scream.

The sound faded into the walls and decorations of her home, and she opened her eyes, lowering her head – she felt the immediate release of tension in her head and shoulders, a little immaturely satisfied feeling – sometimes there was nothing as ultimately liberating as a shriek of anger – perhaps the only type of recklessness a descendent of the one of the most sinister Sith Lords history had yet to see could afford.

She was staring forward, silent, when Han cautiously poked his head around the corner from in the kitchen.

Without fully emerging, her peered at her for a moment, only a small glimpse of his nose, eyes, and hair visible beyond the wall – and she couldn't quite tell if he was giving her one of his soft, amused smirks, or a frown, when he raised his brow a little and straightened back up, disappearing back into the kitchen.

She heard glasses clinking together, and then his voice, a deep, calm drawl –

"Welcome home, Sweetheart."

Leia bowed her head a moment, and broke into a relieved smile – she hadn't expected him to be here; she'd assumed he would bury himself in some hidden military hangar, or sequester at the Falcon – while he could, he was avoiding political news at her request – and this morning, she'd been taciturn and tense with her routine, distractedly kissing his cheek before she left.

She lifted her head – that she could come home, come home and slink into the apartment, let loose a hectic scream, and have him breeze over it like it was nothing, merely his Leia, being Leia, was a blessing she felt especially privileged to have.

She pushed away from the door and made her way slowly towards the kitchen, taking a deep breath – whatever he was cooking in there smelled like the beginnings of something delicious, and she tried not to start theorizing as to why he was home early – he was always back before her, anyway.

Leia shed her heeled shoes, and her cloak, loosening a few of the more intricate pins from her hair as she entered the kitchen. She found Han at work next to the stove, something bubbling lazily on one of the burners while he worked with a thin, sharp peeling knife and some fresh vegetables.

She leaned against the counter opposite him, her eyes fixed on his back, as she dropped the pins in her palms back and forth between hands for a moment. She set them aside, and then she absently hiked up her gown, inching off her stockings bit by bit while she quietly watched Han peel.

She twisted her stockings casually around her hands, pulled tight, and then let them loose expertly, flicking them at the back of his head. They slung around his neck haphazardly, and Han half-whirled around, reaching up to grab at them.

He gave her a slightly amused look.

"What'd these poor stockings do to you?" he quipped.

Leia shrugged.

"My dark side coming out," she fired back dryly.

Han have a jerk of his wrist, sliding the stockings off of him and dropping them to the floor. He looked at her intently for a long moment, and then turned back to peeling vegetables.

Leia shifted her weight, resting back on her heels. She sighed.

"You're home early," she remarked. Her brow furrowed a little, and she backtracked slightly – "Are you?" she asked. "Home early?" Perhaps he was done with his assignments for the day – unless it concerned a deployment, Leia avoided knowing too much about Han's work day; she was careful to avoid looking like she handed him things, or put herself in situations where she could be accused of favoritism or impropriety.

Han shrugged.

He picked up a sliced piece of a pepper and bit it off his thumb, chewing it thoughtfully.

"Yeah, I'm early," he agreed. "Most of the mornin', I was in closed briefs with Rieekan and other of your people," he shrugged again, "about the military and – not talkin' to press. Military neutrality," he muttered.

"My people?" Leia asked softly.

Han grunted.

"Carlist pulled in all the Alderaanian soldiers and pilots," Han waved vaguely, "anyone in the military who was Alderaanian, and the Rogues who are here, made his opinion on everything clear, goin' forward," he said.

Leia placed her hands behind her, gripping the counter.

"How was that?" she ventured neutrally, keeping herself steady.

Han shifted back and forth, and then reached over to adjust a temperature on something, scattering peppers into the boiling water on the stove. He picked up a fresh root vegetable and looked at it for a moment before answering.

"Hell, to tell the truth, didn't seem like any of 'em really believed it," he said flatly. Leia saw his jaw move as he frowned. "Figure Dansra said it best, she told 'em if it hadn't sunk in yet, to just remember, when it does, that they never cared who you parents were before."

Leia compressed her lips – faithful Dansra. She relaxed her shoulders a little, tilting her head at Han's cooking project.

"Then Carlist gave me a ten minute lecture about keepin' my cool and not goin' off like a thermal detonator if anyone looks at you funny," he drawled.

"And your response?" Leia asked.

"Told 'im to fuck off but – real friendly," Han joked.

She smiled faintly, leaning back, slouching. She took a deep breath.

"What are you cooking?" she asked in a small voice.

Han turned around, still holding half a vegetable, and a knife. He looked over her intently, as if trying to gauge – really gauge – what mood she was in, how her day had unfolded – what was going on.

She seemed okay; she seemed at eerily at ease – Leia's little screaming routine was, despite how counterintuitive it seemed, usually an indication that she'd had a harrowing, but bearable day – it wasn't something she did when she was in the midst of an unstable, anxious period. With Leia - if she wasn't talking to him, wasn't being effusive with her emotions - then there was a bigger problem.

He didn't answer her question about dinner.

"You are home early," he pointed out in a low voice. That, he was sure of – he always expected Leia late, and he had assumed her nights would get later now – what with damage control on the horizon.

She lifted her shoulders, taking a deep, quiet breath. She seemed to reflect for a moment, and then she looked at him through her lashes, a grimace of resignation touching her lips.

"I had nothing to do," she told him dully.

Han arched his brows, tossing the legume in his hand up in the air and catching it. He tilted his head at her a moment, waiting. His brow furrowed –

"You had nothing - ?" he started warily.

"My meetings were cancelled," Leia said bluntly, "one by one," she continued calmly, "not at my insistence."

She tapped her fingers gently on the counter, holding her head up – she felt small admitting it, as small as she'd felt every time Tavska, with her unreadable expression, and her loyal eyes, had relayed the information to Leia – and now, again, Leia tried to remind herself – this is politics; this is their way of battening down the hatches, devising a game plan, seeing who is going to do what, and who is going to react how, before they make a move –

Her logical reasoning helped a little, but the emotional hit was still significant – Han's account of the Alderaanian military reaction gave her some relief, but in the silence of her office today she'd felt a taste of – the misery that would come, if she lost all support – lost all support because of the sins of her genetic father, when she had proved, time and time again, that she was his polar opposite –

Hadn't she?

Han looked at a loss for a moment.

"People are going to stand by you, Leia," he said.

She gave him a vague smile – for once, he sounded like he was trying to convince himself, rather than confidently reassuring her. He looked over her again, his eyes lingering, and he noticed – the material of her gown was darker at the neck, as if it had been wet recently.

It was a stain – he stared at the stain on her collar, and then looked closer, his brow furrowing. He put down his knife and wiped his palm on his trousers, scrubbing off vegetable juice and drying his hand.

"What's this?" he asked, pointing at it tensely, narrowing his eyes.

Leia have a little flick of her shoulders. She twitched her eyes down at the spot he was pointing at - she already knew what he noticed - and rolled her eyes a little.

"Saliva," she said coolly.

Han gave her a sharp look.

"It's what?"

"Saliva," Leia repeated. "Someone," she said delicately, "spit on me."

Han stared at her for a moment. Then, he pressed his lips together tightly, moved past her, and grabbed a hand towel. Without a word, he turned on the sink, ran warm water over it, and wrung it out.

He stepped closer to her and started smoothing the wet cloth over the stain, running it up over her neck at the line between her collar and her gown. He used the action to give himself a moment to calm down, because anger flared in his chest, and his fingers started to itch, aching to curl into fists and exact revenge – if he could find the culprit.

He thought of Rieekan warning him he had to keep any of his reactions under wraps – and the Viceroy, and Winter, and so many others had advised him of that, as well, leading up to all of this – but he looked at the stain, and her skin, and he didn't know if he'd make it through all of this as honorably as they wanted him to.

Leia tilted her head back.

"Your skin is red and flaky," he said hollowly. "What species spit on you?"

Leia gave a small shrug. She'd didn't respond; she didn't want to get into the weeds, start flinging accusations and targeting Han's mind at a specific threat. Right now, she focused on Han's hands, gently prodding away the nastiness of the afternoon.

"Looks okay," Han muttered, examining her skin, holding the towel away from her skin.

He set it down behind her, and gave her a long look.

"Don't have a stroke, Han," she soothed softly. "It didn't hurt me."

"Physically," Han said roughly.

Leia blew air out through her lips shakily. She lifted her shoulders.

"I've been spit on before," she said.

Han leaned forward and touched her shoulder, running his thumb in circles over her arm. He took a breath like he was trying to calm down, and lowered his head to kiss her collarbone; right at the edge of her clothing, where no doubt she'd wiped filth off of her when she got into her speeder.

Leia reached up and held his head to her closely, sliding her fingers through his hair. She turned her face towards his cheek, holding back tears easily – there would be plenty of reasons to cry in the coming weeks, she wouldn't waste time doing it so early on.

He kissed her shoulder again, kissed her jaw, and then straightened up a little, touching her hip, and leaning forward into her. He touched her cheek, and then held her chin in his hands, his eyes boring into hers sincerely. He gave her a long, intent look.

"I love you," he said. "Love you so much, Sweetheart."

It helped him center himself on her, and their relationship, rather than start to spiral down into a dark abyss of dread, anticipating how much worse it was going to get it – if it had barely been three days, and she was being spit on, there were old colleagues refusing to see her –

Leia smiled faintly, her eyes softening. She reached up and grasped his arm lightly with both of her hands.

"You're alright," she quipped softly.

That's how it always was with them. Never 'I love you, too' - always something else; something quick, clever, but more meaningful than a simple – me too.

He kissed her on the lips, and she took a moment to slid her arms around his hips, passive in the moment, letting him kiss her while she just – took it, absorbed it, was comforted. He pulled back, gave her a stony look.

"You've got a right to hit back," he said.

"No one hit me," Leia said calmly.

"Spitting on you is assault," Han said flatly. "You know what spitting around an Imperial superior got you in the academy? Lashes," he said stiffly. "It's assault."

Leia breathed in once, out evenly.

"In the grand scheme of things, it is minor," she said, again with that calm, diplomat's tone. "It is not one of the things I am going to react to, and I have been – "

"I know you've been spit on before," Han interrupted sharply. "I know in what context, and that's why I'm sayin' it's not minor, and you've got a right to – "

"Han, I mean I've been spit on by political opponents before," Leia interrupted, just as sharp – she blinked rapidly. "I wasn't talking about – why did you go there?" she asked. "Why did you – bring that up?"

Han looked appalled, taken aback.

"I thought – I didn't," he shook his head. He straightened up a little and reached up to cover his mouth.

Leia lifted her eyes and glanced away, her expression complicated. She turned back, and cleared her throat.

"It's alright," she said quietly.

Han's shoulders fell roughly.

"Sweetheart, I don't care what the circumstances are, you can't just let – "

"I'm not letting anyone – do not," Leia raised her hand, "do not suggest I allow – "

"Fine, I can't let!" Han corrected. "I'll lose my mind," he growled. "I don't want anyone to – I know you can deal with their words, Leia, but if I'm supposed to behave," he fumbled for a moment. "I know you can protect yourself, so – kriff, I'm worried that if you do your stoic thing for the small stuff, someone'll really hurt you!"

"What is anyone going to do to me that's worse than what's already been done?" Leia scoffed.

"Kill you, Leia, I'm afraid they'll kill you!"

Leia grit her teeth tensely. She swallowed hard, her shoulders tensing.

"I can't be violent right now! I can't be harsh!" she burst out stiffly, her voice strained. "I have to be more Alderaanian than ever – I have to embody pacifism, and kindness and – anything that clearly delineates me from Vader, anything about Vader! In these coming days – I will be watched more closely, and judged more harshly, than ever before – to some extent, I'll never escape comparisons to Vader, or the stigma people will inevitably attach to me, but these next few weeks are vital, Han," she implored.

She bit her lip, and gave a nod to punctuate her statement.

"They're vital," she repeated. "It isn't just me – you can't be violent, because I won't be able to hush it up, or cut you slack – I cannot be seen as vengeful, or dark – I can't be seen as corrupt or willing to cut anyone a break – I have to be so perfect right now," she gasped, "no mistakes."

"You're human," Han snapped. "That's too much pressure to put on yourself!" he implored.

Leia's expression cracked a little, and she looked incredulous.

"I know," she moaned, "but it will settle – it will start to become a part of the zeitgeist, like everything does, we'll stop being paralyzed - but right now, it's starting," she said hoarsely, "and the scrutiny is going to be insufferable."

She reached out and placed her hands on his neck.

"I have to be visibly strong, and reliable, and in control – I can do it, Han," she assured him soothingly. "I was raised to do this. And I know who I am," she promised. She sighed. "I know you're going to have a hard time," she acknowledged. "I've got you, and Luke," she trailed off. "It'll wear off."

The question still remained – as to where she would be, professionally, when it all did start to settle and become old news – but she would confront that reality when she was out of this proverbial asteroid field.

"I'm not having a hard time," Han grumbled flippantly.

Leia nodded. She threaded her fingertips into the hair at the nape of his neck.

"It's going to be hard," she soothed quietly.

She just wasn't sure Han had been hit with the full force of it yet – she'd seen the daunted worry in his eyes in the moments before the press conference – the strange thing was, Han was one of the most jaded, skeptical, hardened people she'd ever met, but when it came to Leia – he seemed to truly believe no one could dislike her or deliberately do her wrong –

Han's lack of respect for, and interest in, politics contributed to his overall ignorance of the special kind of bloodthirsty and barbaric they could be.

Han tilted his head. He nodded a few times. He shot a dirty look at the stain on her collar, and he straightened up.

"Is my dinner burning?" Leia teased softly, tilting up her chin playfully.

Han strode back a bit, reaching behind him to lower the temperature on the stove. He looked at her silently for a long time, and then smiled a little wryly, and turned on his heel, leaving the kitchen as if he were on a mission.

Leia pursed her lips and watched him go, her brow furrowing. She cocked her head, listening for movement – and then she heard low music coming from the living room – and then she heard it get louder.

She parted her lips, curious, and a few moments later, she pushed away from the counter, giving Han's abandoned cooking project a last look, and ventured into the living room – and there was Han, adjusting the genre of music on the holo, his collar loosened, a determined look on his face.

He turned to look at her, and then lifted his foot, shoving a table out of the way, up against the wall with the sofa. He lunged forward, took her hand, and spun her forward – Leia laughed, caching her breath. She looked up at him, feigning suspicion.

"What are you up to, General Solo?"

He drew her closer dramatically.

"Listen, Sweetheart, is this is the beginning of how bad it's gonna get, you're gonna spend the night dancin' with me."

Leia bit back a laugh.

"And how will that help?"

Han shrugged good-naturedly.

"You seemed to have a good time dancin' at our wedding."

"I was tipsy," Leia whispered loudly.

Han spun her in one direction, and laced his fingers into hers.

"Hell, we've got wine, whiskey," he listed, nodding towards their kitchen.

Leia leaned forward to rest her head on him, sliding her hand under his shirt, resting her palm against his bare back – and for the most part, she gave into the evening, to his distracting, to laughing – for the most part, because there was a part of her that still worried for Luke, for the disillusionment that was coming for him, as much as it was coming for Han – and she worried that he had no one to go home to, and she worried that he wouldn't come to her if he needed her.

Luke was tired – and that was a feeling he was almost pleasantly used to. Considering he spent more time in deep, trance-like meditation than he did in restful sleep, he was accustomed to a sort of balanced, plateaued feeling of fatigue.

He was somewhat unaccustomed to the exhaustion he was feeling now – this was not the charming bone-ache of being constantly attuned to the Force, always awash with the life of surrounding beings – this was just plain, average, human worn out.

And this – this was what Leia grimly warned was – the beginning?

Luke had faced accusations of naiveté before, from Leia herself, even – but he had never quite taken it to heart, choosing instead to remind her, and himself, that he was not naïve because he was optimistic, and reconciliatory – yet in the face of the festering response to Leia's public confirmation of their heritage, he felt more callow and guileless than he had since he failed Yoda's first test on Dagobah.

Cancelled meetings – Leia, who was more often than not so busy she could hardly get home to eat dinner at a decent hour, was finding herself in limbo, subject to a schedule that was suddenly and glaringly emptying – and that was only in these first few days – there was that, there was –

The strange sense of fear Luke sensed from his own military colleagues, even those who would never think ill of him – he could tell they abruptly saw his awe-inspiring Force sensitivity as a dangerous weapon; it was as if some of them had only just now connected the fact that the Sith and the Jedi utilized the same Force, and not some divergent species of it.

He had noticed – that while his fellow Rogues made an effort to bluster and carryon, making do like nothing had happened – making a convincing show of conveying to others that they did not change their opinions of Luke – he noticed that they shot him sidelong glances; wariness, or perhaps even a hint of betrayal, in their eyes.

Luke refrained from reading their thoughts and emotions, from soothing their taciturn nerves with a touch of reassurance – he wanted to be trusted, with his power; he wanted to show he was the same Luke, respecting them, equal to them – working with them as anyone else did, when he wasn't off on his exploratory missions.

Ah, and the spitting – mundane, painfully unoriginal, and yet somehow vastly shocking; Leia seemed unperturbed by the act – which had, these handful of days later, happened more than once – and yet Luke found it startling in every sense of the word: an abrasive act, a demeaning act, somehow both personal and impersonal, and even as he wrestled with the abashment that came with it, he hated how it caught him off guard and disheartened him, because that left Leia focusing on him to soothe him, and he wanted to be the last worry on her mind.

Trudging – though Jedi did not trudge, Luke allowed himself one this evening – slowly up to the door of his simple, scarcely lived in apartment on Coruscant, he became aware with swift certainty that his privacy had been breached. Almost immediately upon touching his palm to the access lock on his door, he recognized a familiar presence – his brow furrowed, and he paused.

He stared at the closed door for a long moment, contemplating what he was feeling – an unexpected guest, though in a way, he was not surprised at all – she was the single soul on his side, so to speak, who had been privy to what was coming –

Luke pressed his palm gently into the reader, finishing the unlock sequence, and tapped his code in, slipping in quickly and allowing the door to whistle shut behind him softly. His apartment was small; the entrance opened up directly a room that was a lounge area on one side, and a neat kitchen nook on the other – directly in front of him was a path that narrowed into a hallway, leading back to his bedroom and bath.

His attention fixed on the sofa, as it were, where he expressed no shock, and only a mild sense of interest, when he found her sitting there as if she owned it – worn, tanned leather boots up on a metal table, emerald flight jacket tossed over a chair – vibrant, eternally knotted red hair loose and unkempt and provocative.

Luke studied her for a long time, tilting his head to the side with a slight uplift of his brow – the last time he had seen her – they'd been somewhere in the wilds of Dathomir, digging through long-ruined records; he'd been fascinated with the lore, the knowledge they were on the verge of uncovering, and she'd been taken with the native witches – and how they tamed beasts ten times their size.

He could easily remember the vein of their last conversation – in between his time in the Nubian lake country, and Leia's explosive press conference –

Do you know why the Emperor wanted you to turn so badly? – she had asked.

Power, Luke had said solemnly – the power of the darks side corrupts –

Spare me your philosophy, Skywalker, it was fear, not power – if you broke through Vader's enslavement, Sidious lost – and if he killed you, Vader would do what Sith always do – kill the master –

Happened anyway, Luke murmured –

Perspective, she had bit out sharply – if that hulking black masked sadist had humanity in his core, then I have this nasty feeling like I should be a better woman –

You are a better woman.

She had shrugged at him in her callous, warrior way, but what struck him more than anything was her lack of interest in his bloodline – Vader was your father? Seems implausible but I sense no deception – for a very long time, I believed Sidious was mine.

Luke had stared at her, alarmed, while she bowed her head and folded her hands, a mocking sort of curtsy – a Sith Princess, to kill the one in white – it was all a lie, though, she said, dull – I don't know what family he stole me from.

He had wondered if she would go off in search of those lost relatives while he returned home for a while to be at Leia's side – his work with her was so – private, enlightening, so integral to his own education in the Force, yet he desperately needed his breaks, for the reasons he'd told his newfound grandmother about months ago, on Naboo –

Yet here she was.

"Mara," Luke greeted finally, his tone mild.

She tilted her head back, her chin rising sternly to acknowledge the greeting – she blinked at him, thick lashes shading her eyes for a moment – green eyes, the brightest he'd ever seen, like fluorescent poison behind delicate glass.

"Darth Sunshine," she replied finally.

Her voice was so effortlessly unreadable; somehow deep and musical at the same time, and Luke was torn between giving a stoic grimace at the title, or rolling his eyes, and trying to make light of it –

It was a headline Leia had struggled to hide from him, though he didn't know how she figured she'd be able to, what with the ubiquity of the holos – Luke Skywalker, handsome darling of the Rogues, reveals dark heritage – what does one call a blue-eyed, moisture farmer with a grand Sith Inheritance – Darth Sunshine.

It was macabre. It was mockery, and satirical, but Luke found it frightening, and grim – he was grateful that on some level, there were outlets that did not fear him - -but he was wounded that they thought the tragedy of his family such a farce, that they though it so simple – and he knew it hurt Leia; never in her life had Leia found Anakin Skywalker's fate to be amusing.

He settled for pinching his nose at her with a withering glare.

"I see you've suddenly taken an interest in politics," he quipped – he'd never quite known Mara Jade to keep up with the ins and outs of holo chatter.

She inclined her head with a small smile, her expression gallant.

"Out of concern for you, Master Luke," she retorted smoothly.

Luke did grimace at that, his lips quirking up.

"You aren't supposed to call me that," he reminded her. "We're equals."

"Ah, but it makes you blush like an angel of Iego on her wedding night."

"You would know," Luke retorted.

"Not quite; I never did marry her."

"You're in a glittering mood," he noted.

"Glittering?" she quoted, with a distasteful frown. "You say things like that, Skywalker, and I feel the need to open whiskey bottles with my teeth to counteract the appalling femininity of what you've implied."

Luke smiled a little wryly.

"I'd prefer just Luke, today," he said, a tired look crossing his face. "I have a hunch the Media nicknames will – worsen."

She shrugged again.

"Sure, Lu," she answered, deadpan – and Luke grinned, shaking his head in acceptance – it would do.

He loosened the collar of his black – no, it was tan; tan tunic. He shook his head a little, jumping at the colour – he usually wore black, preferred it even, but Leia insisted he dispense with it for a while – You can't wear black – Leia, it's just a colour – there is no such thing as just anything; everything is critical right now, Luke - !

So he tucked away black, and wore the sandy khakis he'd favored back at the Lars homestead, and he was sure that somewhere, behind her cool eyes and calm façade, Mara was gathering together a handful of clever, stinging jokes about that as well.

His shoulders relaxed – slumped – as he trudged forward, sidestepping the table Mara had her feet up on, and eying an empty seat next to her on the couch. He considered asking to join her – and then remembered he lived here.

"You didn't have to come," he told her tiredly, confidently taking a seat on his sofa. He ran a hand through his hair and frowned a little, glancing towards his sparsely stocked kitchen.

"I rarely 'have' to do anything," she responded matter-of-factly. "I make most of my decisions based on personal desire."

Luke sighed wryly, briefly thinking of the numerous times they'd debated their personal beliefs – his penchant for sacrifice, juxtaposed with her penchant for living to fight another day.

"Well, we still have that to work on," he remarked.

"So says you," she retorted. She tilted her head back, and looked over at him, her eyes sharp. "Your light side of the Force."

"Your side, too," he answered gently. "You know you're capable of it."

"I still prefer neutrality."

"Your neutrality is more self-centered," he argued. "You claim you want neutrality, but neutral parties help arbitrate peace between those who are in the grip of emotion – your neutrality is – "

"I know my own neutrality," Mara said smoothly.

He caught her eye, and arched his brow. She smiled wryly, and Luke put his knuckles against his jaw, swallowing his pontifications – he could spiral into hours of back-and-forth with Mara on the intricacies of the living Force, and yet he found himself, for once – not in the mood.

His faith was unstable; he felt downtrodden with dread – the way the galaxy started to turn daunted, accusatory eyes on him – was this all a mistake, regardless of what Leia said? If all this did were reinvigorate a fear of the Jedi, his dreams of reviving the order would be ashes –

Luke swallowed hard, and gave her a short glance, clearing his throat.

"I have nothing to offer you – icebox is empty, no snacks – "

"You think I broke into your apartment for snacks?"

He sighed, head rested on his palm, gazing at her. He shook his head tensely – and thought, dryly, that if Mara wanted snacks, she'd have had them in hand when he walked in. No – she was here for something else, and he opened his senses to it.

"Why are you here?" he mumbled.

She turned her head, facing away from him, staring straight ahead. She seemed to think over her answer for a moment – and then she breathed out simply, pursing her lips.

"I was curious," she said flatly. She looked cynical. "I suppose I wanted to see the fallout of your sister's foolishness unfold in real time."

"It isn't foolishness," Luke chastised softly. "It's hope."

She lifted her shoulder slightly, almost dismissively. She had been – incredulous, when Luke had explained the plan Leia devised for revealing the information. Aggressively private and almost violently shy about her personal life, Mara's alarm at the public discussion of family was still sharp.

"And you," she said, turning to him again, her green eyes vibrant and intent. "I wanted to see you faced with the fallout," she said honestly. "What do you think of Sentients now, Luke?" she probed. "The people you fought for," she reached out and plucked at his shoulder, the stained fabric there, "are spitting on you."

He looked at her placidly, silent for a long time – of course she had noticed; of course she knew – perhaps she'd even watched as a growing mount of press shouted at him for comments as he went around his daily laugh; perhaps she'd been watching the Holos this afternoon, when a Senator from a former Imperial stronghold had been asked how he felt about the announcement, and had joked that he got along well with Princess Leia's father, and he'd certainly be keeping his meetings with her.

Luke's expression was gentle.

"They'll learn," he said simply – with quieter faith than usual, but faith all the same.

She stared at him in disbelief – and then a little smile crossed her lips, as if she thought he was both crazy, and the most honorable person she'd ever come across – it was possible that she'd wanted to hear him say he hadn't lost his faith in people, or his belief in what he was trying to teach her all along – that the Force's goal was unity and peace, and allowing it to guide her in the light would benefit the world around them –

Luke saw her mane of red hair fall forward as she moved, and he was still startled, his eyes wide open, piercing into hers, when she pressed her lips to his, resting her hand first on his chest, and then sliding it lower to grip against his hip bone.

Luke placed a hand on her neck, ducking his head forward to automatically return pressure to the kiss, and then his eyes fluttered, and he gasped, drawing back an inch or two –

"Mara," he mumbled huskily.

She stroked one hand over the back of his neck, and pressed her lips to his again, giving him a small, encouraging wink – before she closed her eyes. The angle of her body next to his was irrational, twisted and uncomfortable, and then in the next moment her boots came off the table in front of them and she shifted onto his lap. Luke held her waist in his palms with startled reverence, distracted into the kiss.

His thoughts evened out for a moment, going silent and blank – how many times had he considered this, despite their working, learning relationship – had he been less subtle than he thought, or had she conceived of her own feelings for him, sought him out while he refrained – apprehension whispered in the back of his mind, not about her, but about the timing – the meaning of it – and yet a part of him gave into her, relieved, so relieved, that he'd come home to her.

This was – fresh, though; unexpected – and what Luke found he wanted was someone to come home to, and that required a clear line drawn with Mara –

Mara, he thought, easing forward and reaching up to slide his hand over her neck.

She pressed him back into the sofa, and he sat up again, drawing back from the kiss slowly – Mara, he thought again, stopping her.

Looking down on him from his lap, her lips inches from his, she lifted her chin a little, her expression content.

"This is physical, Luke," she advised huskily. "None of that," she reached up and tapped her temple lightly, and then tapped his – no telepathy –

"No?" Luke asked quietly. "That sentiment sounds a lot like the age-old rule of hookers: no kissing on the mouth."

Mara blinked at him sharply. Her expression was stern, and annoyed, and her voice suddenly echoed through his conscious, though her lips did not move – I just kissed you on the mouth.

Luke laughed, tilting his head back. His hands fell to her shoulders, where they lingered in her hair, and then down to her ribs, holding her delicately. He took a moment to appreciate how good she felt on his lap, how perfect her hips seemed to fit into the cradle of his, and then he cleared his throat, and took a moment to forget it, lifting his head and catching her eye seriously.

"I'm trying to make a point," he said.

"Make it," Mara ordered.

He breathed in, and breathed out.

"You ought to get off of my lap for this."

"I don't think I will."

Luke snorted – he might have expected that.

He grimaced at himself – moments like these; he envied Leia's verbosity. She always knew what to say – even when she was disoriented and falling apart, furious and upset, she articulated things; she certainly had when she fought with her father for Han, and when she sparred with Luke himself over their views of Vader.

"Let me gather my thoughts," he requested – he scrambled slowly to do so.

He had come home exhausted, his skin crawling with anxiety, starting to feel a deep worry over the next few weeks and the future of his endeavors for the Jedi. He worried, too, for Leia, and for Han – for their family; he worried for the Naberries, both Pooja and Ruwee, here on Coruscant, and the others, safely protected by security Leia had personally selected from her contractors.

He didn't want to use Mara to take his mind off the swirling chaos that was brewing over the Vader legacy, the Vader reveal – he'd had intimate thoughts about Mara that were not singularly lustful, but colourful and romantic – the stirrings of interest that felt, sharply, like he'd be in love with her in a heartbeat, if she let him know her, and yet pursuing that risked jeopardizing what they could do for the restoration of the Jedi –

The personal and the professional, so to speak, conflicted in him, and yet here he sat, Mara willing – and he was daunted by the idea of having it out with her emotionally; it seemed wildly out of line to tell her he wanted nothing with her, or possibly everything, because what kind of man terrified a woman like that – he hadn't had so much as a date with Mara, but he contemplated telling her – that he wouldn't sleep with her, because he didn't want it to be one night, or even one month.

Loudly, Han's voice suddenly snapped through his ears – Luke had asked him, offhand, absorbed by his increasing interest in Mara – Han, you ever fall in love with someone you never, you know, touched? Been with? Is that possible?

Han had been distracted, doing something in the kitchen while Leia paced the living room, arguing with Winter and Evaan over how to handle something within the Diaspora – he'd pointed at Leia without a word, nodding, and then, when he realized Luke was still waiting, looked up, said – She was the first. She's the last – figure that means somethin' 'eh?"

Luke thought it unusually cryptic for the smuggler at the time, but now he wondered if Han had somehow figured it all out, that easily; his foundation with his wife was unbreakably strong because it wasn't built on the physical.

"Luke," Mara said shortly, touching his jaw brusquely with the tips of her fingers. "Most men fall asleep afterwards."

Luke blinked.

"'M not asleep," he protested.

"Gathering those thoughts?" she quipped. "They ought to be profound," she challenged.

Luke tilted his head and studied her for a moment, still gathering – harvesting – doing what he needed to do to his thoughts.

"How did you get in, anyway?" Luke asked her suddenly, redirecting the conversation in the most unexpected of ways – and she sat back, her weight shifting from his hips, to the tops of his thighs.

Mara gave him a somewhat distracted look. She blinked.

"I asked the door," she answered simply.

Luke tilted his head curiously.

"Huh?" he grunted, inarticulate. He quirked a brow at her. Mara leaned forward, mimicking his cocked brow, and then smirked.

"I spoke with the door," she confided wryly. "I – politely asked the Force to guide me towards the access code, and your door complied."

Luke looked startled, his eyes widening.

"What?" he asked. "You just asked – and the Force thought, 'Sure, Mara, asking me to break you into Luke's apartment is an excellent use of power – '"

Mara blinked at him sagely.

"Maybe the Force is trying to tell you something," she said cryptically.

Luke gave her a skeptical look, his lips quirking up at her deviant smile.

"I don't think the Force is telling me to sleep with you."

Mara gave a sharp shrug.

"Why not?"

Her eyes blazed, and Luke was on the verge of a sly remark when he realized – she was serious; she sought an answer to that, and he stopped in his tracks, taken aback – why not?

Why not – ?

"I don't think the Force concerns itself with the intimate personal lives of – "

"Do you not?" Mara challenged seriously. "Do you not think the Force was there when your sister made her intimate personal choices?" she quoted his terminology. "You tell me that you two have a stronger connection to this entity than anyone, and you don't think it ensured she found the right one, when there were so many suitors?"

Luke stared at her, his eyes fixed on hers, blue on green, silenced, and taken aback. He looked at her intently for a long time, contemplating that – imagining Han's annoyance at the idea that he was fated for a princess, and Leia's dismissive scoff at the idea that a little magic gave her something she built with her bare hands.

He grinned, and Mara's eyes flashed.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she demanded.

She lifted her hands and folded them – now perched on his lap, but indignant.

"Well," Luke began delicately. "You see – ah, because even my sister doesn't talk about her relationship like it's a god-ordained fairytale," he teased lightly. "I never took you for a romantic."

"You've yet to take me at all," Mara pointed out glibly, and then dipped her head lower, her voice softening. "Why?" she went on. "Because I was a bounty hunter, because I was in the trenches with the Sith?" she asked. "Because I carry a gun and hard liquor with the same skill, wear cheap leather boots instead of heels, because I'm abrasive – cold?"

Luke was silent – with a bit of wonder, captivated, listening. He flushed slightly, tacitly admitting that – perhaps he had thought all of that. He looked at her quizzically – the thing was, Mara's past had some of the nastiest demons he'd heard of; Mara had done heinous things to survive, she'd done reprehensible things as the Emperor's assassin, and she'd been a brutal vigilante when he came across her – fighting for justice in her way, wielding the Force like Death's scythe, rather than a symbiotic entity.

He'd expected – what he had expected –

He had expected walls; resistance – he was no stranger to damaged women; his own sister had experienced trauma so severe that she still had trouble softening her edges; she still protected herself with a sharp tongue, and aloof countenance, walls around her heart that, even these days, only Han seemed to get behind – and Luke had assumed it was that way with all women who had been hurt.

And yet –

"You may not have changed my opinion of power and governments and the way the world works, Luke, not yet," Mara said intently, "but you changed my opinion of men."

She was quiet a moment.

"You're not like the ones I knew," she said, and fell silent again. "You're the son of Vader," she said shortly, "and you've forgiven him. You brought light to the darkest soul in the galaxy," she said quietly – "I know. I grew up in his shadow."

Luke reached for her arm, resting his palm on her wrist. He tugged at it a little, and slipped his hand into her crossed arms, finding her fingers, intertwining his with hers – she accepted it in a firm grip, her eyes still boring into his.

He felt relaxed, sharing that secret with her – he'd told Mara ages ago, to bridge trust, because he didn't have what Leia had in terms of confidants, and he couldn't talk to Leia about Vader in the ways he wanted to. Mara was a better sounding board for Luke's specialized interest in Vader – and he knew Leia would likely be furious if she knew he'd brought someone unknown to her, un-vetted, into the fold, but he did it anyway because – as much as he loved Leia, no matter how they came to respect and understand each other regarding this, they'd always feel differently about Vader.

Mara was – different, less morally stringent than Leia. Luke was morally stringent, of course, but not when it came to his mission to bring all beings into the light: he saw redemption as a second chance at life, and Leia's view of redemption could often result in a just death.

Mara swallowed hard, dipping her head pointedly.

"I was raised not to have attachments, and it robbed me of my humanity," she reflected, "and I don't want that anymore," she said simply.

She was quiet a long time.

"I'd like to be in love with you," she said shortly – with matter-of-fact finality, and Luke let out a harsh breath, beaten to the punch – when he'd just almost gathered his thoughts enough to try and explain that he didn't want some light affair, the kind that normally peppered his lonely nights, she already knew.

She tilted her head thoughtfully, eyes glimmering.

"You're being wooed," she informed him firmly.

Luke laughed a little hoarsely.

"Mara," he said slowly, breathing out. "Slow down."

She thought about that quietly, falling silent, and Luke leaned back tiredly, taking a few deep breaths. He nodded to himself, and closed his eyes, deciding to let her search his feelings – this all has to blow over before you and I explore this –

"You complicate things," Mara murmured tersely.

He looked up boldly.

"This is a struggle I wasn't prepared for," he admitted bravely – Leia had prepped him; in the same way that Leia had prepped the Naberries, and Han, and all key political actors – and yet the actual reality hit in different ways.

Luke felt small, and silly, when he was suddenly faced with the reminder that Vader had choked the galaxy with fear and tyranny – the reaction was firing up in way that starkly brought to light the way the average person had felt towards Vader, and Luke was grappling with how to integrate that into his own personal peace with his fallen and redeemed father.

It was like hearing Leia's perspective on a grand scale, and Luke could see how his forgiveness of his father might twist and turn into making him an apologist for Vader, and that was a dark, unsteady path to take, a bad one for him to navigate, and for Leia, as well –

"She isn't the only one affected," Mara broke into his thoughts suddenly, curt, and loud. "Luke, everything you do is not an extension of what Leia wants – "

"It isn't that," Luke said sharply. "Leia and I have different interests, different ideas about making the galaxy a better place. I don't have a place in the political apparatus; she does. In some respects, her part in this particular issue is more important – she can do good for this galaxy, and I don't want to see her torn down, or devastated."

"Fair," Mara agreed. "Understandable – Leia Organa runs the galaxy," she said flippantly. "You aren't obligated to be at her command with this – to put me on hold, your work with the Force, and finding sensitives – "

Luke sighed shortly, growing slightly frustrated.

"You came back; you were with her for the press conference. It's her circus now," Mara said coolly.

"Mara, my sister's important to me. You can't be so dismissive."

"I take no issue with your sister," she said coolly. "I think her profession is useless. I think there's an element of selfish ego to her pronouncement."

Luke grit his teeth.

"What I'm saying is – I know it seems, when we're off together, like I exist in a Jedi vacuum but – I do have family, and a place in the Republic, and they're important to me."

He paused, and then said again –

"They're important to me. Leia, Han – the Organas, the Naberries; they're all important to me. I want to be here for them. It might be easier to – run off with you and shut it all out," he shook his head: "but I'm not a coward. Leia has to face the brunt of this and I, in some respects," he sighed. "I need a healthy dose of hearing the stories of what my father did to this world. Perspective."

Perspective – it was one of Mara's favorite words – and sometimes, because of that, Luke wished Ben would show his face once in a while, to share that camaraderie with her – what I said is true, from a certain point of view.

Mara was contemplative, and then she nodded. Her expression was hard to decipher, and she leaned closer, touching Luke's jaw with her cool hand, running her thumb along his cheek affectionately.

"I want to stay here," she said simply. "I want to see how this world treats you," she seemed skeptical, but receptive. "I want to see if you're right – if it's hope, rather than foolishness."

"You can stay here," Luke murmured. "Here."

He hesitated.

"It would be – I'd like to introduce you to Leia and Han – "

Mara made a grumbling noise, and Luke smiled wryly.

"You and Han will get along, at least," he said – deep down, he wasn't very confident in Leia and Mara having a good relationship, and that held him back a little. "He feels about the same way as you about Leia's profession – "

"That guy," Mara said dismissively. "Solo - he seems like a bore."

"He's gotten a little better; he can use the right fork now, and he doesn't swear at dignitaries – "

"I mean boring, not – ah, swine," Mara sniffed. "I never see him doing anything but staring at her."

Luke gave her an indulgent look, and then shook his head.

"Mara," he sighed. "I hate to break this to you, but you've been staring at me for the better part of an hour."

The redhead gave a short sniff, tilting her head fetchingly.

"I suppose I'm your scoundrel, Lu," she said in a quiet, husky tease.

Luke smirked a little. He reached up and ran his fingers through her dark, tangled hair, drifting back to the place in his mind that let him be grateful for the weight of her on his lap – and recklessly, he leaned forward to take another kiss, though his hands stayed put near her neck, committed as he was to taking it no further right now –

The coming days seemed a little less dark, a little less unbearable, when he gave himself the luxury of something – something like this, waiting when the storm was through.

Despite his granddaughter's involvement in the Imperial Senate, Ruwee Naberrie had not set foot on Coruscant since the fall of the Republic.

Coruscant was dangerous, Coruscant was – painful. Though the circumstances surrounding her death had been murky, Ruwee had always assumed Coruscant to be the planet where his youngest daughter spent her last tragic hours. He knew now that Padmé had died on the remote outpost haven of Polis Massa; nevertheless, he associated this urban jungle world with the fear and betrayal of her last days – and considering what he had learned about her fate, and the fate of those she loved, the heavy sadness that struck him when he stared out the windows of Pooja's neat, luxurious quarters was only deepened, rather than assuaged, by knowledge.

The last time he'd seen a Coruscant sunset – smoky and choking with smog and pollution – he and Jobal had been visiting for a benefit in Padmé's honor, celebrating a peace she'd helped secure in the unstable days before the Clone Wars began.

He watched darkness fall now, listening to the frantic buzz of traffic, listening to Pooja chatter animatedly with her sister via holo just inside the next room – and he grappled with how he felt about being here again.

He felt a complex mixture of sorrow, and hope – he lamented the past, and felt dragged back into it, what with all of these blood politics his rediscovered twin grandchildren were getting into; yet he also felt on the verge of a cleansing peace – Padmé's legacy could be restored, and even though she hadn't survived the fights, he might live to see the healed and whole galaxy she died for.

He'd like to see that, for her – and that's a thought he held on to, as he gazed over the befouled city atmosphere, and as he gazed beyond, at the yet unseen horizons of the next few weeks, anticipating the eventual breaking point of shock, animosity, and vitriol – personal, and political.

Occasionally, he tried to tell himself he was being too pessimistic – alas, he knew he wasn't, and even if he'd entertained a sense of positivity regarding this public declaration of genealogy, Leia herself would have stamped it out. The young woman – brave, or foolish, depending on who was asked – certainly had no illusions about the public, or its propensity for faithlessness; she prepared for the worst – and rightly so.

Ruwee was unsure if Leia had been lulled into a false sense of security by the relative silence that had ensued, in the first couple of days following her unprecedented press conference – he doubted it, though he was afraid that Pooja had let herself be buoyed a little too much by the hush.

The storms brewed now, though; the winds started to howl – and those affected, the Organas, the Naberries, the Skywalkers – battened down the hatches, and turned to their carefully laid plans, statements, and – in Ruwee's case – fortresses.

He had said his piece about Padmé, spoken for himself, and for his wife – for Sola, and for their elder granddaughter and all the –in law members of his family, and now he passed the mantle to Pooja, and he remained, to support her – and to cautiously keep forging those bonds with Luke and Leia.

"Gran-Papa," Pooja called from the next room. "I've told Ryoo you're sulking upwards of ten times; will you come in here and tell her hello?"

Pooja paused, and giggled –

"If you don't make an appearance, she insists she'll tell Gran-Mama you've taken off to an exotic dancing bar with Han and Luke."

Ruwee rolled his eyes and abandoned the enclosed sunroom he'd been lingering in, waving his hand over a sensor so that silk curtains closed around the glass viewports. He made his way into Pooja's cozy den, and folded his arms, giving her an austere look.

"You wouldn't find three men less likely to be in a dancing bar, Pooja," he said sternly.

Pooja rested her elbow on her knee, and her chin on her palm. She arched her brows.

"Bail Organa," she suggested pointedly – less likely than Ruwee, Han, and Luke – and Pooja suspected Han had easily been in many a dancing bar, without even half a second thought to it. Not since marrying Leia, sure, but –

"Yes, I suppose Bail is a prude," Ruwee said, giving a long-suffering sigh and coming around to sit with Pooja near the table.

Her holo was set up there, and Ryoo's face was projected on it.

"Who are you to call anyone a prude, Gran-Papa?" Ryoo asked, laughing brightly. "You damn near had a heart attack when Pooja bared her midriff at the Gungan Ballet."

"She was barely eighteen," Ruwee said stiffly.

"Of marrying age on at least forty systems," Pooja said solemnly. She turned her head and looked wryly at her grandfather. "You and Bail have much more in common than you think," she chided.

"Hmm," grumbled Ruwee vaguely. "Yes, a tendency to be ruled by the women in our family."

Pooja grinned, and shared a tongue-in-cheek smirk with Ryoo, neither of the sisters saying anything for a moment – and in the silence, Ruwee sighed, rubbing his forehead. He mustered a smile for Ryoo, peering closer.

"How are you?" he asked, looking at her closely. "I don't believe we've spoken – really spoken – since the announcement."

Ryoo nodded. She sighed, shrugging, and held up her hands a little aimlessly.

"I was just telling Pooja – it's hard to say – I'm not as politically minded as the two of you, but even so, following the Holos – Naboo doesn't seem as demonized in the whole thing; or rather, not yet," Ryoo said slowly. "Our family name has had its resurgence, and there are older folks here remembering Padmé suddenly like a spell has been lifted – I don't know if they don't believe the parts about Vader, or if they simply don't care – " she trailed off, shaking her head.

"I can't quite get a handle on it either," Pooja agreed, sharing a look between them. She sighed. "I'm having difficulty getting a hand on all of it, truth be told," she confessed. "It's erratic. The response is … not uniform. Not that I expected it to be, but I expected more – "

"Questions?" Ryoo suggested.

Pooja nodded.

There was another silence and then Ruwee said –

"It's early."

His pronouncement was a little dull; full of anticipation.

"It sucks you into a hope that no one will care," Pooja said softly. "Ah, but I know they will – I know they do, and Leia's already – well, there's even mistrust directed at Luke."

Pooja frowned – the maelstrom was just burgeoning, gaining steam, and she felt powerless as she watched – connected as she was, she still wasn't the undeniable progeny of Darth Vader; her family was part of this story, but not by blood, by happenstance, brought in by the choice of one woman, not the unbreakable bonds of chromosomes.

She'd seen her cousins spit on, she'd seen Leia's schedule empty as their colleagues withdrew contact with her to evaluate the response, bide their time – Leia plowed forward, headstrong and outwardly unshakeable, but Pooja knew she was worried; she saw the stress in Leia's eyes when they all sat down in their private meetings to continually assess the situation – and all of Leia's worry seemed to stem from her love of her brother, her husband, her adoptive family and the Naberries – and the worry she had for her career was selfless, because she was the same Leia who had stood up to Imperial bullies.

Pooja knew Leia feared for her power not because she craved dominion over others, but because she knew the genteel use of power could help her see her progressive ideals flourish, and that was the spirit Pooja had admired for years; that was the spirit that had made Leia a powerhouse during the war –

Pooja only hoped, she made herself have faith, that even if the aftermath of all this was full of anger and confusion, when it all settled, the galaxy would remember that Leia – and Luke, too – were good; they were still the heroes they had always been.

Just as Pooja did her absolute best, tried her absolute damndest, to be the custodian of her late aunt's legacy, to keep Padmé alive in Nubian, and galactic, history, as a beacon of justice – even now, as whispers started to reach her ears that some thought all this must mean Naboo was always in collusion with Palpatine – surely, if the favorite daughter of the planet had been taken in by a Sith Lord, she had helped hand them all over to the wrath of the Empire –

Pooja blanched, but set her jaw – those whispers were still quiet now, yet they would gain traction, just as the varying whispers about Leia, and Luke, and the Organa's motivation, would gain traction and get louder, and then – as with any scandal – fade to manageable levels –

"What about the kids?" Ruwee asked, his brow furrowing. "Any trouble at school – negative reactions?

Ryoo snorted.

"Well, that's interesting – now that you ask, ahhhm, well," she paused, frowning. "You know Indy; he's smart for his age. He's more solemn than he should be, in truth – introspective, asks me lots of good questions – I'll start sending him to you two, because I frankly don't know how to answer inquiries about how this will affect the Imperial remnant's view of Leia," she laughed dryly, and Pooja smiled radiantly, always proud of her little prodigy nephew.

Ryoo sighed dramatically.

"However," she began, arching a brow. "Maiah and Iver, in their hysterical excitement over both learning that they're related to Luke and Leia, and being allowed to talk about it, have managed to confuse everything, and two days ago Maiah told her entire class that Darth Vader was her father."

Pooja nearly choked on her tongue.

"What?" she gasped, while her grandfather sat up a little straighter, his face going pale.

Ryoo nodded.

"Whyler went to pick her up and walked in on a bunch of five-year-old faces looking quite terrified and suspicious. One of them asked where his black cape was."

Ruwee closed his eyes slowly, a miserable crease tightening his forehead. Ryoo gave him a sympathetic look, and sighed –

"Gran-Papa, it's alright," she sighed. "There's no real harm – explaining a misunderstanding on a small scale, with some children and a teacher – it was as easy as catching flutterbys with sweetwater."

Ruwee still looked a little ill, and Pooja leaned forward curiously.

"On a local level though, Ryoo – what did her teachers think? How did they – what did you say?"

Ryoo shrugged.

"I spit out what Leia's written for us, nothing more," she said, clearing her throat. "That – the Empire destroyed records and redacted history, and recent discoveries tell us that Padmé married Anakin Skywalker, who became Darth Vader, and Luke and Leia were a product of that – simple. It gets through."

Ryoo shrugged again.

"It's so abstract, in many ways, Pooja," she said, a little dismissive. "It's as it is with all things – for some, it's a game changer, and for others, it's not necessarily more shocking than hearing she married a commoner."

"It is more shocking," Ruwee said flatly, his mind wandering as he thought of his home planet, and the citizens there – he and Pooja were now the main contacts for the Naboo aspect of things, the custodians of Padmé's legacy, and he couldn't bear it being mishandled, or his beloved daughter' becoming – some caricature of who she really was.

Pooja made a derisive noise in her throat.

"Former Imperial cadet," she quoted, scowling. "That's what some holos have started to call Han – and Leia's worried it will catch on."

Ryoo tilted her head.

"Isn't he?" she asked simply. "Han was removed from an Academy, was he not?"

"Yes," Pooja started –

"Yes," Ruwee said shortly, "but it's the semantics of the matter – as much of a rogue as Han's always been, the press has liked him with Princess Leia, to an extent – it's his looks, mostly," Ruwee said dryly, "he's always been rather charming, even when he's swearing at someone –

Pooja laughed lightly, and Ruwee continued, for Ryoo's benefit –

"The change is troubling," he said heavily. "Smuggler, turned hero of the Rebellion? That's a good narrative, even if they're calling him common – constantly referring to him as former Imperial – any kind of Imperial – underscores Leia's connection to Vader, to the Empire," Ruwee trailed off. "It isn't good."

Ryoo sighed, and leaned forward, rubbing her head.

"You politicians," she said. "Your world of snakes in the garden."

Her sister and grandfather looked back at her heavily, and Ryoo turned her head, mustering a bright smile.

"Kids," she called. "Come say hello – and goodbye – to Pooja and Wu-ree!"

Ruwee glared at her – he'd been cursed with the name Wu-ree since Indy was a toddler, unable to properly pronounce his name, and already calling Darred Gran-Papa.

"Ryoo," Pooja said earnestly, leaning in before the children dashed in. "Leia wants me to remind you – really, if you start to get too much attention, or you feel unsafe, she wants you to go to her place on Corellia – "

"I know, Pooja, I know," Ryoo said with a laugh. "She's called twice to remind me, and Han even called once – we're fine. We're okay," she said earnestly. "Look, even if it is going to get worse, we're not running from this. I've run from a lot in my life. I won't run from this. Not in front of my kids," she said firmly, and a smile broke over her face as one of the children in question scrambled into her lap.

Maiah's face burst into the image, and she raised her hand.

"Pooja!" she wailed, as her twin brother bounced at Ryoo's knee, waving. Indy stood behind Ryoo's chair, a look of practiced boredom on his face – he had a tendency to try to look aloof and uninterested – growing up, Ryoo called it; being a little ass, Whyler called it, under his breath.

"Is Lee-Lee there?" Maiah gasped.

"Is Han?" Iver piped up.

Pooja grinned, and shared a look with Ruwee.

"We're so uninteresting," she said wryly. She turned back to the children – "No, no luck, dear," she said, pursing her lips at Maiah. "Lee-Lee's at her own house tonight."

Maiah responded to that revelation with an exaggerated pout, and Ryoo kissed the top of her head.

"I've told you we'll go see them in a few months, when things settle," she placated. "And, we'll all go to Yavin for the consecration of the Alderaan Haven."

"But that might not be for years," Indy piped up.

Maiah shrieked, and Ryoo shot him an annoyed look. Iver peered forward, waving at Pooja and Ruwee.

"Tell them we say hi," he asked. "And we love them, still," he said seriously. "In my class, in my class one kid said, he said Lee-Lee and Luke are bastards."

Ryoo turned her head sharply.

"What? Who said that?" she asked rapidly, narrowing her eyes. "That's not true by – any definition of the word," she corrected.

"What's a ba-ssss-tard?" Maiah asked seriously.

"I am," Indy responded matter-of-factly. "It's when – "

"Indy!" Ryoo broke in, alarmed. "Where did you hear – enough; all right," looking frazzled suddenly. She rolled her eyes and hugged Maiah in her lap, looking over the little girl's head at her sister and grandfather. "As you can tell, it is time for me to go do some mothering," she said dryly.

Pooja nodded, grinning sympathetically, and Ruwee gave a wince at the idea of the impending conversation. Ryoo gave them both a look that was both tired, and upbeat –

"We'll all keep checking in," she encouraged. "Hang in there."

"You as well," Ruwee answered gruffly, echoing the sentiment – and not much else was said, as Ryoo wrestled her children, and managed to end the transmission at the same time – leaving Ruwee to fall into silent reflection for a moment with his granddaughter, both of them staring at the empty air where Ryoo's shimmery blue image had glittered moments before.

Ruwee was the first to sit back, resting his arm on the back of the sofa. He shook his head, rubbing his brow, and Pooja turned, eying him silently.

"Are your headaches bothering you?" she asked. "I can make some tea – "

Her grandfather shook his head, looking at her with tired eyes.

"We're often delicate with the less politically astute members of our family, aren't we?" he asked, though the question was mostly rhetorical. "What is this really shaping up to be?"

Pooja's shoulders sagged, and she threw herself back, shrugging helplessly.

"I don't know – I can't analyze it, Gran-Papa, I mean it when I say that," she sighed. "I can speak to certain instances, the same as you; I understand as well as Leia and Bail and Winter the nuances of referring to Han as a former Imperial, or the weight in a statement that associates Luke with the 'corrupt and defunct' Jedi Order – but as a whole, a grand scheme? I don't know where this is going."

She chewed her lip a moment, and then shrugged roughly.

"I don't know if it will wear off in an instant and the galaxy will be furious at anyone who ever doubted Leia, or if they'll all relish hating her," she looked up at the ceiling – her ornate ceiling, decorated with ancient, Nubian runes sparkling in gold foil and silver tinsel.

"It's difficult to gauge when – there's significant silence from the Alderaanian Diaspora," she confessed softly.

"That, I truly think is more related to shock, to – coping – than it is to a rejection of Leia," Ruwee said, finding confidence in his feelings there. "The Alderaanians have always been eons ahead of most cultures when it comes to enlightenment and lack of prejudice – shocked they may be, but I doubt even deception such as this will be enough to erase the years they've loved Princess Leia – and besides," he noted seriously, "Bail has done an impeccable job of shouldering the full blame for the deception – whether or not Media outlets choose to listen, the Viceroy has loudly declared that Leia knew nothing of this."

Pooja smiled a little wryly.

"I know how difficult it is for you to compliment him," she teased.

"I give credit when and where it is due," Ruwee said stiffly.

His brow creased.

"These kindling whispers about Padmé being in league with Palpatine all along," he began, his words heavy.

"I know," Pooja said. "Gran-Papa, you and I will work against that – Luke will pour his heart into working against that; you know they both will," she said earnestly. She swallowed hard. "It's just the tip of the conspiracies that will come out," she said, rubbing her jaw.

Ruwee nodded.

"Yes," he agreed, quietly, grimly. He was silent for a moment, and then looked over at Pooja. "I heard – I was unsure if I interpreted it right, but I thought I heard a statement from the Minister of Kalzeron that suggested – "

"That in the coming days, they'll call for a vote of no confidence in Leia?" supplied Pooja quietly. "Revoke her ambassadorship indefinitely and hold a grand jury inquisition?"

Ruwee pressed his lips into a thin line, and nodded. Pooja pressed her tongue against her teeth for a moment, gritting them.

"I'm not so sure that statement carried any power behind it," she said grudgingly, "but Kalzeron thrived under the Empire, and the Minister used to wear a grey uniform," she said, a sour look on her face.

Pooja sat forward, frustrated.

"It's a blasted infinite realm of threats out there," she said hotly. "That's an Imperial faction that – from what I'd guess, would want to shake the faith in Leia, since she's a beloved figurehead that helps hold this Republic together, while it's still deepening roots, but then there are others that might go the route of sowing discord between Leia and her old colleagues, planting seeds of distrust, trying to turn her," Pooja shook her head.

Ruwee grimaced.

"That's an impossible task – relentless torment from Vader and Sidious himself, and Luke refused to turn; there's not a chance Leia would be turned by mere mortals."

"Well, I agree," Pooja said. "But it can't just be Alderaan that backs Leia, there has to be a chorus of systems that – well, that accept this, and move on; I don't mean overlook it, I mean refuse to judge her on it. I have to impress upon the Queen the necessity of Naboo's support."

"The most prominent criticism – and it might be what takes her down," Ruwee analyzed heavily, "will be that she's kept this hidden until she secured her place in an extreme position of power – the worst of it is the cover up, or the illusion of one."

"She didn't cover it up," Pooja argued.

"Pooja, Leia was as innocent as you or I in the orchestration of this, but ultimately it is one of the largest cover-ups in galactic history – and Bail Organa is the only living conspirator to answer for it," Ruwee said calmly.

He sat forward.

"A significant benefit is that her current position is an appointed one," he said carefully. "She cannot be accused of falsely garnering votes. Not in the sense that the ordinary person was lied to – it's a small victory, but a good one."

"Yes, appointed," Pooja said bitterly. "Appointed, and the woman who appointed her has said nothing."

Ruwee grimaced again, and Pooja scowled – the Chief of State was silent on the issue, utterly silent. Mon Mothma had made no comment on the matter, and the lack of such was almost louder than any generic pacification she might have come out with –

Leia had a cool amount of patience with the issue, though Pooja – and Han, for that matter, and Carlist Rieekan, and Bail Organa – raged over it. Mon Mothma had been briefed on the pending announcement, she had had time, and yet –

Leia reminded her councilors, and her loved ones, that Mon Mothma's position was as fragile as her own; she was a woman charged with holding together a thriving, but still neophyte, New Republic together, without sowing discord, without allowing tensions to burst into flame – she had to bide her time in a different way than Leia did.

Ah – Leia was intelligent in her reserved comments on Mon Mothma's silence, yes, but Pooja wondered if in her private hours, at home in her apartment, she was hurt by her one-time mentor's silence.

Then again – perhaps Leia had burned more bridges with Mon Mothma than Pooja realized, back when she had married Han. The Chief of State had always seemed to prefer Leia make a political match.

"All in all," Ruwee said, his voice soft, sympathetic. "I think more of my sympathy – and this isn't to devalue Leia's hurdles in anyway – lies with Luke," he said.

Pooja watched him, and Ruwee shook his head.

"That boy has no interest in the limelight, and he's got an inspiringly positive view of sentient beings," Ruwee said. "He wants his view of Jedi piety embodied – and I think, if anyone could do it, Luke could re-establish the glory of the Jedi, of what they were always supposed to be – and I can't stand to see him disheartened by this, as things go on."

Ruwee swallowed heavily.

"There is so much hatred for Vader, Pooja," he said raggedly. "So much hatred that Luke – forgets, because he's a soul composed of the will to forgive."

Ruwee closed his eyes.

"Hatred is a destructive thing."

He was quiet in a moment.

"A force in itself," he murmured hoarsely. "Succumbing to it doesn't automatically make one a Sith, but it's so easy to lose the kind of reformist ferocity he's got."

Pooja watched her grandfather's profile, and then leaned forward to take his hand, pressing it between hers tightly.

"You're right, Grandfather," she said, dropping more affectionate diminutives in light of the gravity of the moment. "But he won't lose that. Luke won't."

Ruwee was silent, and looked down at her hand, drawing strength from it – drawing strength from her youth, and her as-of-yet un-tarnished ideals, because despite the trials of his past, and the many times his faith and his passion for progress had been ruined, he wanted this generation to succeed – he wanted Pooja to succeed, he wanted to see Padmé's legacy solidified by these young warriors in his family.

And he wanted to say he'd believed in it all along – so he held his head up higher, and held on to Pooja's bravery.

Politics, and everything concerning it, left a bad taste in Han's mouth: that was nothing new. Diplomacy, statecraft, government – whatever the word being used was, it all meant the same to him, and it wasn't his specialty – it wasn't his battlefield.

Savvy as she was with a blaster – or any improvised weapon she needed to survive – Leia's remarkable talents, and her ultimate passions, rested in affairs of state, and that was likely why Han found himself grappling more with the repercussions of the infamous press conference than she seemed to be.

Despite the efforts that had gone in to prepping him for the galactic to response to the revelation, he was shaken – if not to the core, then significantly enough to trigger the more brash and violent traits in him that he'd thought were mellowed in the years since he'd come to love Leia and her crusade.

His mood seemed to balance on a hair trigger, ready to ignite at the barest provocation. He had always had a slight handicap when it came to his ego, a minor tendency to bristle at things that threatened his honor or reputation – though others who knew him would likely refer to it a more massive character flaw – but in this whirlwind of brewing gossip and Media lunacy following Luke and Leia's announcement, he realized acutely how much his need to protect his good name extended to Leia, and her good name – and her reputation.

He had always been protective – he still was protective, increasingly so every day – and that had always been more a product of his fear that he would have Leia taken for him than it was a belief she couldn't handle herself and her own affairs. He'd never thought her so weak that she needed him at her side; rather, he thought her valuable – singularly, the most important thing in his life, and for that reason alone he was always prepared to fight on her behalf, and he was constantly vigilant of threats against her.

Threats whispered now – threats mounted, from all sides it seemed. Verbal threats, physical threats – violent, abstract, personal, political. The aggressive response she had prepared for was starting to rear its ugly head, and the more Han heard sinister things said, the more probing, derogatory questions he heard asked – the more disturbing or opportunistic headlines he read – the angrier he felt.

He was gripped, almost, with paranoia, and that was a nauseating, haunting feeling he hadn't dealt with regularly for years, not since the Hutt syndicate had lost interest in him, and his name was stricken from Imperial hit-lists when the Empire became a moot point.

He was alienated from Leia's strict, calculating political world; he operated on brute facts, a rigidly Corellian code of ethics that abhorred shadowy dealings – his military duties, at least, afforded him respite, as the males and females under his command, and in most military units, were following the headlines, but preoccupied with their specific responsibilities, regardless of who was in charge with the elite – as it was in any regime.

Han did his best to toe the line he'd been asked to toe – grit his teeth, performed his work with the rest of the commissioned Generals, and tried to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear on the chatter around him –

Yet the impossibility of that was staggering –

Bail and Rouge were adamant that he make no comment; Leia constantly impressed upon him the need for them all to remain calm, to take the high road –

But when he took a lunch break in the sprawling open-air cafeteria near the Market Pavilion at the old Imperial Palace, and overheard someone refer to his wife as Sith-spawn – Vader bitch –

On the Falcon, Han closed his eyes tightly, until white spots burst in his vision and his head gave a throb of protest. He leaned forward on his bunk, jamming his elbows onto his knees, dropping his face into his palms.

He had a hard time fathoming half the bantha shit he'd overheard, seen in the news –

Suggestions that Leia was fabricating such a history in order to make her life story seem even more tragic, as if – as if she needed to do such a thing; similar suggestions that the fabrication was to draw in some of the Imperial Remnant, charm them, and help her ultimately consolidate power –

Accusations of corruption were beginning to crop up – she lied – she obfuscated the truth to gain power – she would turn out to be evil like him –

Most of it – almost all of it – exactly the sorts of things Leia, Bail, Pooja, and all of the other political experts involved in the pre-announcement analysis had assumed would be said – Winter herself had played the devil's advocate and frequently assaulted Leia with questions that she ought to anticipate from the press –

Still, still though; despite all that, despite how Han had been warned, he took it all like an unexpected sucker punch; he was yanked backwards, nearly pulled to his knees, by the debilitating, unfamiliar surge of naïveté that engulfed him when it started to turn out exactly as Leia had predicted it would – when in his eyes, the galaxy shouldn't give a damn who her father was, whether it was Darth Vader, Bail Organa, or anything in between.

Han Solo had never been a naïve man – he had never even been a naïve boy; his life had never allowed for that, and so it was a cold shock to his system to find himself on the less hardened side of things.

He watched Leia barely flinch at a slur thrown at her when she left her office, and yet he struggled not to draw his blaster when he saw a HoloNet station air a caricature of her that showed her sipping blood red wine at Vader's side, her hand perched girlishly on her hip, both of them carelessly watching Alderaan meet its end.

Sitting here now, he hadn't yet quelled the rage that coursed through him when he saw that – he wasn't even sure if Leia herself had seen it yet; she was doing a painfully good job of avoiding paying superfluous attention to the Media; she filtered it through a system of people who analyzed what was necessary and what was salacious, and as of now, she was still not making official statements, still biding her time –

But the caricature haunted Han, and so did the anger that was starting to seep into the political commentary.

He hated the weak mindedness of the masses, visiting the sins of another on her, and he hated to imagine what she must feel to have any being, any news outlet, associate her with Imperial brutality.

[Han?]

Chewbacca's low, curious growl echoed through the ship, and Han rubbed his forehead harshly, looking up. He grimaced and sat up a little, clearing his throat.

"'M in my bunk," he grunted, loudly enough to be heard by Wookiee ears.

He reached up and tugged at the wrinkled collar of his uniform, loosening it even more – he hadn't bothered to change; he'd retreated to the Falcon swiftly, hell-bent on calming down. He shook his head grimly, a muscle in his temple jumping erratically – Leia, he thought distractedly – I want them to leave you alone –

Kriff, he hated the politics, hated it, but that hatred never overpowered his feelings for Leia, and his faith in what she could do for the galaxy if it would just let her - !

Chewbacca poked his head in cautiously, peering around the corner, and Han sat back, waving his hand lazily –

"S'just me," he muttered. He gave a cursory look around – his bunk was fairly clean, for the time being.

Chewbacca folded his arms, his massive paws resting lightly on his elbows. He tilted his head curiously, expression patient. Han reached up to scratch his jaw, running his palm over some barely-discernable stubble. The Wookiee stared at him for a long time, and then lowered his gaze.

[Today was – troubling] he remarked carefully.

Han's expression darkened, and he nodded – by far, today had been the worst in terms of reactions. Day by day, the abject shock seemed to wear off more and more, and as hesitance evaporated, everything else exploded – except this was not a rabid press interested in a social mismatched romance; it was a Media juggernaut with the possible power to make or break Leia's career.

And – arrogant as it may be on her behalf, Han quietly wondered if the New Republic would survive without her.

Couldn't these people see past the prejudices of the past and understand that if not for Leia, if not for her goodness despite her connection to Vader, they'd all be lost?

Han swallowed hard, a sour line crossing his forehead.

"Did you see the cartoon?"

Chewbacca nodded solemnly.

Han looked up tiredly.

"You know if Leia has?"

[You haven't spoken to her? Seen her?]

Han shook his head. He ran his knuckles over his jaw, and shrugged stiffly.

"She doesn't want me lurking around the office," he said tensely, quoting her words. "She's – she wants, uh, everyone to go on, y'know, not be pushed around by the backlash," he explained.

Chewbacca nodded sagely.

"Less chance of me sayin' somethin' that causes trouble if I keep my nose in work, or stay here – "

[Hiding] Chewbacca supplied mildly, though not in an unfriendly way.

Han bristled, his lips drawing back in a snarl, but he said nothing. His first instinct was to challenge that accusation, insist he wasn't hiding – but in some respects he was, and in some respects Leia was asking him to hide.

I can do this, Han – I was raised for this.

He grit his teeth again, thinking – Sweetheart, you can't ask me to stand back and watch them maul you forever.

Unable to stop himself, he looked up to Chewbacca for answers, questions bursting out –

"Drinking wine with Vader?" he hissed. "While Alderaan burns?" He clenched a fist. "Why would – why the fuck would anyone think to draw that?" he demanded. "She's a human; that hurts – that hurts her. That will hurt her."

Chewbacca bowed his head for a moment, shifting his weight.

[The person – or being – who produced such a thing – has their own anger; likely their own sense of betrayal] he answered in a slow warble. [I have seen…many times before, how your species cares first and foremost for their own emotions, and the feelings of others be damned].

Han shook his head stiffly.

"She fought, though – she led the Rebellion, there's no – there's no reason for this stuff," he growled. "And – now there's one rumor or, story or – somethin' out there that – Vader's death is a hoax, that Luke and Leia are conspiring to gain control and put the Empire back," Han faltered, his head throbbing at the mental gymnastics of it – he wasn't sure he had the capacity to understand some of the escalating conspiracy theories.

Chewbacca nodded – he felt the same as Han did. He had never viewed Leia as dangerous based on something as coincidental as her genetics; he had worked with her for years, trusted her for years, and seen her strengths and vulnerabilities – yet he knew how the galaxy could be.

He studied his friend with sympathy, well aware that Han was experiencing the exact internal conflict – anger and disbelief – that Leia had warned him he would. He sought to calm some of that instability, and so redirected the conversation away from Han's furious contention with the political system.

[How is Leia?] Chewie asked gently. [In the grand scheme. She seems composed, even as this gets worse].

Han compressed his lips, and then nodded – the nod was somewhat grudging, not towards Leia, towards himself, as if he was admitting that she was doing well, even as he waited for a breaking point.

"She was prepared," Han admitted dryly. "She knew what was coming and – she was right," he muttered. He paused, hesitated – he furrowed his brow. "Almost makes it harder to watch it happen," he growled.

It would have been such a stunning, welcome twist if Leia's announcement had been met with uninterested silence – if all of her bracing for the worst had been pointless, because the galaxy treated her as she deserved to be treated.

Han leaned forward again, elbows on his knees.

"Dansra said from what she can tell, the Alderaanians are reeling, but they're still fiercely supportive of Leia – and she has good contacts. She's got a good pulse on the people – damn problem is, Leia's their mouthpiece, or Evaan's their mouthpiece – and if they try to speak for Alderaan, now they're gettin' accused of forcing the Diaspora to support a princess who isn't of the blood, who lied," Han shook his head – "Looks bad for 'em, but the Alderaanians are important to Leia having a strong base – but she can't keep 'em without looking tyrannical."

Han paused, scowling.

"That's what Dansra and Winter rambled on about when I asked 'em why all the Alderaanian outlets are silent – 'cause we fund them and direct them, Winter said – 'cause Alderaanians have to start independently speaking, or it looks like the Organa's strong-armed them – 'cept the Alderaanians won't speak without a directive from the royal family, because they're too respectful."

Chewbacca tilted his head.

[Wouldn't it be a simple matter of Miss Verlaine issuing a blanket invitation for all Alderaanians to publicly speak on their feelings, whatever they may be?]

"Yeah, you'd think," Han said bitterly. "Winter says they got to wait, or it still looks manipulative."

[I understand that point of view.]

"I sure as hell don't," Han snapped.

Chewbacca gave a soft rumble of laughter.

[The political long game at stake - ]

"I'm sick of hearin' about the damn political long game – Leia, Bail, Winter, Luke – all of 'em need to tell the galaxy to take a fuckin' leap through the nine Corellian hells."

Chewbacca pulled back his lips in a smile – he understood that point of view, as well. Patience, however, was a virtue in politics; and Leia was indeed playing a long game that Han was still too worked up to align himself with.

Han pointed to himself, his eyes flashing.

"What I don't get, is why does Leia have to keep takin' hits for these people? Why do I have to be handled, and get told to calm down – I get it that she's got to be an angel, she's the princess, but she didn't marry into another high class family for a reason – they ought to cut me loose – I can get in the dirt where she can't," he trailed off, grumbling, and Chewbacca leaned back against a rack of drawers, contemplating Han's tirade.

"I'm the muscle," Han groused, and Chewbacca smirked.

[You hate being handled.]

"Hate it? 'Course I hate it – Bail and Rouge act like if anything goes wrong, it'll for damn sure be my fault, 'cause I ran my mouth or stepped out of line – and I don't know how any of these people can keep a nice, polite little expression on their face when someone spits at Leia – spits at her, Chewie," Han raged, standing up – "she's been spit on more than once in the past few days – someone grabbed her the other day, reached for her throat – Chewie," Han snapped, "I got asked if she's ever turned Vader's little choking trick on me in the bedroom," he hissed, his eyes narrowing – his fingers flexed; he still commended himself for walking away from that one.

He reached up and rubbed his knuckles on his temple again, shaking his head – he breathed out, relaxing a little, now that he had Chewbacca to vent some frustration to –

"Leia's efficient. She's strong – you know that," he said, and pointed to himself, "I know that – she's gettin' a little cold, though," he confessed warily. "I think – I know – it makes it easier for her to work, sometimes, when she bottles things up, but no matter how strong she is, all of this," he gestured wildly, "is gonna take its toll."

Chewbacca made a soft, thoughtful noise.

[She knows it's easier for you to keep your cool if she appears unaffected].

"I know," Han said bitterly. "I know, and I'm trying." He scowled, taking a few paces forward, and then turning, his back to Chewbacca. He stared down at his wrinkled bunk, leaned against it, and then turned around, looking back at the Wookiee grimly. "I don't want to make it worse for her," he said hollowly. "I'm not good at this shit."

He kept getting the haunting feeling that this sort of thing was what they – the ubiquitous, undefined they – had meant when they said he and Leia would never work – was it Mon Mothma, Jan Dodonna, who said Han killed her prestige, made her political ambitions difficult?

He frowned, and Chewbacca gave him a sharp look, and a sharper growl.

[She didn't marry you for 'this shit'] he quoted simply. [Why did she marry you, Han?]

Han was silent. He gave his friend a look of grudging thanks, for reminding him so quickly, so firmly – of course; Leia had never wanted him for power, or for leverage, or any sort of fine addition to a collection of political tools – she loved him as he was, and she had never wanted him different, and Han sat back down heavily.

After a long silence, Chewbacca ventured –

[Is the directive from Onderon bothering you?]

Han flinched at the mention of it, and groaned hoarsely, running his hands back through his hair. He gripped at the back of his neck for a moment, his spine crawling, and nodded harshly –

Onderon, a planet that had hosted one of the Rebellion's most ruthless sects, and was still yet a hotbed of radical Imperial hatred, had issued a scathing commentary on Leia's bloodline –

She will be a rallying point for Imperial sympathizers whether she likes it or not – removal from office is a must – and at that, any Princess of a Royal House should know her lessons well; that when a regime is changed by force, no rallying point should be left intact.

It was a chilling, public denunciation of Leia from a New Republic world – coldly political, not even necessarily a commentary on her personally, but on what she might stand for to an opposition – and Han had been made aware of it only because Carlist Rieekan brought it to his attention and informed him that he, as well as many of Leia's security team, were considering it to be a veiled death threat.

She receives threats frequently – Rieekan had said matter-of-factly – but this is from – a recognized New Republic planet – it's serious; Luke is in danger, as well –

Han had left the office shortly after, retreating to the refuge of his ship while Leia carried on, bold and brave at her office, though she could scarcely keep a meeting these days while her colleagues and opponents scrambled – she worked on Alderaan, she worked on the Haven, on her more specialized projects –

"That's something they tried to keep from me," Han said in a low voice. "Carlist ignored them."

[No one wants to alarm you - ] Chewie started.

Han bared his teeth, silencing his friend's pacifications – he was still angry that no one had seen fit to tell him Leia had received a threat like that – he was still angry, in fact, that no one had seen fit to tell him she received numerous albeit rarely credible, death threats a day, even before the Vader reveal.

He figured he'd been foolish to assume that stopped when the Empire died.

"Chewie," Han sighed seriously. "You know I don't like givin' you orders. I never liked this Life Debt stuff," he began.

The Wookiee gave an extremely human roll of his large, expressive eyes, stiffening is brow in annoyance – and he never liked it when Han confused the honored tradition of his people with the human equivalent of slavery.

Han swallowed hard, well aware of what Leia would think of his next directive.

"I want you attached to her hip," he said hoarsely. "I'm serious, pal. Don't let her out of your sight until this blows over."

[Leia is not going to take that favorably] Chewie mused, though his expression was acquiescing – he seemed to be offended Han thought he even had to ask.

"Leia's getting death threats!" Han snapped. His voice nearly cracked with stress. "You got to be on her," he insisted. "She's with you, or me, or she's at home."

He knew he sounded radical – and he knew Leia was, for the most part, unlikely to comply with any rigid demands he put on her schedule. He just – didn't want her safety in anyone else's hands. He knew the women she kept on her detail, and he knew she was able to defend herself, but if the whole galaxy ended up turning against her, as it seemed it might –

He thought he'd experienced media uproar before - but the quaint attention they had paid to Leia's affair with him had never come close to this.

"I can't lose her," Han said. He shook his head. "It's not even - it's not just physical," he stopped, clenching his fist – he hated the idea of seeing Leia through another downward spiral when everything had been going so well – and he fluctuated between thinking she was as composed and in control as she seemed about this, and thinking she was withdrawing into the way she'd been back on Hoth, or just after Endor.

He swallowed hard.

"Can't lose her," he murmured again.

Chewbacca knew that the Princess could take care of herself, and in many ways, was more prepared for all of this than Han was – but he understood his friend's fear, and his promise to follow through with his order of protection was sincere.

[You know I will take care of her,] Chewbacca said steadily. [You and she are one and the same now, in terms of how my culture views mates].

Han nodded heavily.

[Malla would skin my hair from my flesh if I allowed anything to happen to Leia.]

Han snorted hoarsely, and Chewbacca shared the quick laugh, hesitating only a moment, before going on.

[I think my presence with her will serve another purpose, as well,] he began slowly. [I am a well-known associate of hers via my Debt to you, but if I stand by her side physically, then there is a greater implication, considering my species was subjugated to the Empire].

Chewbacca was reflectively silent for a moment, before going on –

[It would…seem to symbolize that despite her connection to Vader, Kashyyyk is on her side.]

Han looked at Chewbacca neutrally for a moment, studying him. He swallowed hard.

"That's smart, pal," he said quietly. "That's somethin'," he added. He set his jaw, tilting his head as he thought for a moment. "Is Kashyyyk on her side?" he asked finally, an edge to his tone.

Chewbacca looked contemplative.

[I do not know much of politics on my planet,] he allowed gruffly, his growl low and even. [I was a soldier and a laborer before my Imperial servitude – Malla has told me that the elders have gathered a council to meditate on the matter].

Han seemed to bristle, and Chewbacca winced, bowing his head humbly.

[Cub – try to remember – Kashyyyk was enslaved; Vader had personal leadership in the dominion of it,] he answered. [The very idea of Vader and the Empire leaves such a vile impression in our minds - ]

"She's not Vader, Chewie!" Han said desperately. "She's not even close - !"

[I know. You must remember that I know her. I see her as she is. To many more she is a larger than life icon – a figurehead, an idol, a scapegoat. These things are complex, Cub,] Chewbacca implored.

He was quiet for a long moment, and then looked at Han confidently.

[Still, my people are fair, and wise. They will ultimately judge Leia on her virtues, particularly since she has no unsavory associates to account for.]

Han looked away tiredly, his head throbbing again. He closed his eyes, his expression dark – disheartened to hear that even Kashyyyk recoiled from Leia, but forcing himself to try to understand the multifaceted issues at play. He frowned, but gave a nod to reinforce himself – often, the only way he could begin to see how the people around Leia could react so unfairly was for him to remember how hard Leia had been on herself when she found out – it had certainly been a healing process to invigorate her confidence; to make her believe she wasn't destined for darkness –

He still fought that battle with her sometimes, in their mild, intermittent conversations in which they touched base about children –

How do you feel about it today, Sweetheart? – And lately, more often than not, she'd say – I like the idea of you as a father – but I have too much fear to take that step.

Han directed himself to think of this whole mess as Leia's personal struggles, on a larger scale – though of course, he had been a key player in helping Leia see herself in the best way, and now Leia stepped into his role with the galaxy.

He swallowed hard, rubbing his jaw and looking back at Chewbacca.

"No unsavory associates, eh?" he quoted, roughly dragging himself out of his mood – beginning to rebuild himself, so when he went home tonight, if Leia had seen that caricature, or if she was nervous about that threat, he'd have a charming smile, and a tight, safe hug for her –

He gestured to himself.

"'Cept me," he drawled, smirking.

Chewbacca gave a short, amused howl, wryly agreeing with the statement, and Han got up, running his hand through his hair. He stopped to give Chewbacca squeeze on the shoulder, a silent word of gratitude – and then he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out his comlink to check the time – he ought to check up on Luke, while Leia toughed out her last hour at work.

For the most part, Leia found the apartment she shared with Han to be a satisfying one – it was private, it was home; it was smaller than one might have expected, considering her status and her extensive wealth, but to her it was near perfect. It was the first place she and Han had settled together, it was her first permanent place in a post-War galaxy – and though it may be considered small by royal standards, even elite Coruscant standards, it was still large compared to what the average person lived in.

On this particular evening, though, she for the first time thought it a little – cramped, claustrophobic even. That was likely entirely due to the fact that she had been doing business in it – something she tried to avoid, or at least keep to the neat little office she kept near Chewbacca's room.

Leia's presence in her office had been erratic, lately, not necessarily through fault of her own – and today, after the completion of an Alderaanian Council meeting, she had chosen to return home to conduct last orders of business – and with her, she brought her assistant, her father, Rouge, Winter, Dansra Beezer, and Evaan Verlaine.

In some respects, that meant less security – she was safe here – but more stress, though much of that potential stress was relieved when she realized Han wasn't home yet.

He disliked having masses of people in their apartment more than she did.

That and – bearing in mind the intelligence that had just come to her attention via her assistant, it was best Han not be around to lose his mind, so to speak – not yet.

Touching her fingertips lightly to her forehead, moving them gently as if she could smooth out the constant creases there – Leia sighed, pinching the inside of her lip sharply with her teeth.

"You have credible reason to believe our address has been compromised?" she asked heavily, her eyes boring into Tavska's.

Ever poised, the Togruta nodded her head, her eyes solemn.

Dansra squinted at Tavska, and looked up, her eyes narrowing.

"I'd consider it nothing more than a minor nuisance, if it weren't for the numerous death threats you've received, Your Highness," she said tightly – "There are plenty of high profile politicians who have private addresses found out, and the worst they deal with is paparazzi, but with a target on your back – "

"I receive death threats all the time," Leia said tiredly. She lowered her hand, resting it against her shoulder and plucking at her collar. "I've had a proverbial target on my back since I was nineteen."

"Leia," Bail said, his expression worried. "Please take this seriously."

She turned slightly to look at him carefully.

"Father, I am taking it seriously," she placated. "You have to bear with me if I show little alarm at the idea of a death threat. I was the most expensive mark in the galaxy and," she spread her arms with a little smile, "here I am."

Bail hesitated, frowning uncomfortably – and in his moment of silence, Evaan stepped in.

"With all due respect, Your Highness – I'm not contradicting what you're saying, but we were underground during the war. We were constantly moving; we were often hidden extremely well," she listed, sharing a glance with Bail. "We aren't in that same situation anymore. You are constantly in the spotlight. You're visible, your associates are easily accessible, you're publicly available – in some respects, being an insurgent was safer than being the Ambassador."

Evaan arched up one of her brows, and Bail cleared his throat pointedly in agreement – Leia tapped her fingers against her shoulder, nodding.

"Noted," she murmured. She sighed shortly. "Of course, I am aware – I hope none of you would think me naïve of those facts, but it still stands that I don't find myself falling into a state of fear," she said dryly.

"Wouldn't expect you to," Winter said wryly. She leaned back on Leia's sofa, tilting her head at Tavska, and then looking back at Leia. "Threats at your office are one thing – security here – "

"This complex has adequate security measures," Leia said. "It's gated; there's limited access."

She paused, and looked around the room.

"I recognize the need for vigilance – where did this leak come from?" she asked.

"I can't be sure," Tavska said tightly. "It could have been a simple server hack, or it could have been one of your neighbors."

"Would you suspect any of your neighbors of announcing your private home address to the Media, Leia?" Rouge asked, a nasty look on her face at the idea of such – callous disregard for privacy –

Leia gave a small movement of her shoulders. She and Han had a unit with private access. They didn't use the lobby and it wasn't well known that they were the couple in one of the upper floor secluded units.

"You ought to come and stay at the Embassy for a while," Rouge said sharply. "It's fortified. A security detail is all well and good, but our Embassy withstood Imperial ransacking."

Leia tried not to physically react to that suggestion. She closed her eyes lightly for a moment, and held up a hand.

"Aunt Rouge – there's no need to overreact; at the moment, there's no indication that my home is unsafe."

"If you'll allow me to be pessimistic," Evaan said flatly, "these threats are going to get more violent, and more plausible."

"You don't know that," Dansra said, bristling. "These – animals – are a radically disgruntled few – an angry, shocked response is inevitable, and so are rumors and conspiracy theories, but significant violence against Princess Leia – "

"Is highly probably, Dansra," Evaan interrupted simply. She spread her hand out, gesturing with her palm up at Leia. "There was certainly no time wasted when it came to spitting on her."

Dansra looked hesitant, but skeptical. She sat back, rubbing her forehead.

"But it takes a significant mental leap to go from – humiliating someone to, ah – to contemplating actual violent attack – "

"For our people, perhaps," Winter said. "Not for some."

"She's right," Bail said heavily. "There are a multitude of reactions, and a thousand different thresholds at which point individuals turn violent – and some cultures believe very deeply in the importance of bloodlines, and blood vengeance."

He shook his head.

"I think you need to consider Rouge's suggestion," he said.

Leia blinked.

"Taking shelter at the Embassy for a while?" she clarified.

"Yes, Leia," Bail said emphatically. "It's Alderaanian soil, it is heavily fortified – for defense, in keeping with our pacifist nature – at least take refuge on Alderaan, proverbially," he said, his face haggard. "It's strategic in that way, as well."

Leia looked at him quietly for a long moment, hesitating.

"Dad," she said dryly, "do you think Han is going to take well to that idea? Living with his in-laws?"

Bail gave a small smile, but before he could answer –

"Han doesn't have to come," Rouge said breezily. Her brow furrowed lightly. "He's not in any danger. He can stay here," she waved her hand, "have it be a – bachelor pad – for a while."

Leia turned her head to look at her aunt very slowly, her eyes only slightly narrowing.

"Aunt Rouge, do you truly think I would move out of my apartment indefinitely and leave my husband behind?" she asked pointedly.

Rouge blinked, her eyes wide.

"Well, it's not as if you'd be moving to a different planet, dear," she answered obliviously. "You aren't leaving him."

"Let's not speak of this as if it's been settled," Leia said warily. "I do not feel unsafe in this apartment – a believe that my safety has been compromised is not the same as a certainty – and Rouge, Han is in danger. All anyone has to do to cripple me is go after him."

Rouge compressed her lips, and nodded, and Winter smirked.

"What's she's saying is, she's sure as hell not going Goddess-knows-how-long without getting laid," she snorted.

"Winter," Bail said, with a resigned, dull shake of his head.

Winter shrugged, and Leia shared a look with her quietly – that was technically true, though Leia's concern for Han's safety, and their privacy – what was left of it – actually did outweigh inconveniences in her sex life.

"Your Highness," Tavska said quietly. "I will continue to monitor this situation, and I'll consult with Lausta," she paused – Lausta was in charge of Leia's security at her office, and in public events. "However, I suggest you do consider vacating this apartment for a while. If only for peace of mind."

Leia's hand moved back to her temple, where she absently smoothed her fingertips against her skin again – a heavy feeling of dread settled in her stomach. Dread, not fear, as she considered more disruption in her life – in Han's life, in Luke's life – she had meant what she said when she told Han that she was prepared for this, and she could handle it, but every day new hurdles popped up that left her reeling – more often than not, only because she knew how badly it was affecting people like Han – the Naberries –

She nodded, acknowledging that she would consider it.

"As for Han," Bail said mildly, resting his elbow on his knee. He flicked his wrist a casually. "He won't take any convincing if he finds out you're in trouble."

"You're right on that count," Leia said stiffly. "If anything, I should drag us to the Embassy for his sake – if a stranger comes near this apartment he's likely to shoot without asking any questions, and imagine what a Media nightmare that would be, amidst everything else."

She stepped forward from her position near the wall, resting her hands on the sofa. Leaning back, Winter looked up at her, a supportive, sympathetic little smile on her face – and Leia gave a silent shrug, communicating with her wordlessly.

"You've always got Alderaan behind you," Winter murmured.

Leia smiled tightly.

"I ask too much of Alderaan," Leia answered warily. She glanced from Winter to the others – not so much Rouge and her father, but Evaan and Dansra, and her jaw tightened. "Your loyalty is – appreciated," she said, struggling to find a more meaningful word.

She paused for a moment, and offered them words of thanks in their native language – and their responses kept with their personalities; Evaan bowed her head respectfully, accepting gracefully, and then giving a small wave of her hand that indicated the thanks were unnecessary, and Dansra straightened her shoulders, giving a toss of her blonde head.

"You have never asked too much of Alderaan," Dansra said sternly.

Leia tried to smile, but merely grimaced, glancing away for a moment.

"Leia, if you're thinking of that caricature – " Bail began.

Leia's lashes fluttered, and again she said nothing.

"That heinous thing," Winter growled, nostrils flaring. She jerked her chin at the viceroy. "It's just debased mockery," she snapped. "Anyone in their right minds ought to accuse him," she nodded at Bail again, "for any alleged collusion, anyway – Leia didn't know about this until recently."

Winter pursed her lips.

"No offense, Pasha," she said brightly, tilting her head at Bail.

"Hmpf," Bail grunted dryly, giving her a look.

"It is not the first, and it will not be the last," Evaan said, a frown creasing her lips. She looked down to her datapad. "I keep tabs on the emotional pulse of the Diaspora when it comes to this," she said. "There's confusion. There's shock. There's very little hatred. Even the Vengeance Brigade – they hate the Empire. They don't hate you."

Leia looked at Evaan thoughtfully, and then gave her a short, clipped shake of the head.

"We'll see how things progress," she said carefully. "If these suggestions that I've taken on the role of a young Palpatine, orchestrating both sides of a war, take hold," she gave a bitter smirk, "I may end up in prison, rather than just under inquiry."

Rouge looked over sharply.

"What's this about?" she asked – and then she looked to Bail, her eyes hawkish, wary – "You told me there was nothing to worry about in regards to her Ambassadorship," she accused.

Bail sighed heavily.

"There's only been a motion, Rouge," he said grudgingly, looking to Leia apologetically. "It wasn't seconded."

Leia grimaced – a representative from Onderon had raised a motion this morning that Leia be suspended from office pending a Supreme Court inquiry into her political practices, associates, et cetera. She stood accused – by many – of withholding this information until after she secured an incredibly powerful position within the New Republic. That had not necessarily been her intention – Leia's struggles with Vader were entirely personal, prior to her confirmation as Ambassador – in perhaps her first verbal gaffe since the announcement, Leia had attempted to combat that accusation by stating that she sought to square away her familial matters before making the Vader connection public, and that her honest representation now was in order to equip voters with all information should she run for office in the future.

The statement was futile, in a way – she was still called deceptive, a liar – they suggested that she manipulated the information either way –

"It wasn't seconded in today's session," Leia noted tersely. "Onderon took the first step in an actual political denunciation of me, and that gave the galaxy pause – which I," she paused tiredly, "I have to interpret as a good thing. That no one leapt up immediately to second the motion and censure me," she paused again, swallowing hard – "it indicates I am still respectable in the eyes of some."

"As you should be," Winter said mildly. She shook her head. "And I agree, that's encouraging – I thought the minister from Kalzeron would go for it, but even he was silent."

"The political factions need time to assess and plan," Bail muttered.

"Nevertheless," Leia said stiffly. "I may acquiesce to an inquiry, in an effort to explicitly reinforce my attempt at transparency – conspiracy theories are inevitable, but I have nothing to hide in my personal or political documents – no financial issues, no corruption," Leia spread her hands out. "They can investigate me, and they'll find a clean slate."

"There will always be something to find," Evaan said heavily. "Even if it's something as simple as you – perhaps influencing Han's military orders, once or twice."

She gave the example lightly, but Leia's conscience twitched and jolted suddenly – she had done such a thing, back when her father was first rediscovered. Her involvement was justified, but of course, in this political climate – it wouldn't matter.

Dansra nodded.

"Your Highness, I wouldn't agree to an inquisition just yet," she said hollowly. "They could go after Pooja, Han, and Luke – by extension."

Leia nodded vaguely – she turned her head at the mention of Han, staring out the balcony window. She so wanted Han to be left alone – and Luke, too, though there was little chance of that. She worried less about Pooja; her cousins' political acumen was impressive – but still, the other peripheral members of her family.

"Leia?" her father asked, when her silence had gone on for too long.

She took a breath, and returned to them, blinking steadily a few times.

"I'm alright," she said softly. Her brow furrowed. "Tavska, have you heard from Han?" she asked abruptly. "He never works this late. He certainly never works this late on the last day of the week."

Tavska tilted her head.

"I have not," she said slowly. "Would you like me to check his schedule?"

Leia shook her head.

"He doesn't update it," she muttered.

"Han's been doing well," Rouge remarked unexpectedly. Her tone was mild – clearly shy of giving a compliment, but her expression was sincere. "I expected fisticuffs the first time someone challenged his ego."

"I still maintain that we should allow Han fisticuffs," Winter said loudly.

Rouge gave her a pinched look, and Dansra laughed.

"He takes it out on the recruits," she snickered, grinning wryly. "Oh, what was it that someone said the other day – that simpering bitch on HoloNet Eight? Ah, she made that comment about how we're all supposed to cry for poor Princess Leia again? Han made the new mechanics run laps around the hangar."

Winter laughed gleefully, and Leia shook her head, smiling only half-heartedly – she was worried, almost to distraction, about Han, and she knew her worry nettled him. It was a – peculiar time for them both, what with Han out of his element with the politics, and with Leia's apparent calm acceptance of it all, and Leia unsure how to assuage his fears and his anger at the world.

There were only so many platitudes she could offer him – and she couldn't imagine how restless and temperamental he'd get if the threats against her worsened – he had already told her he wanted Chewbacca attached to her hip –

"Has anyone touched base with Luke today?" Dansra asked.

"I have," Bail and Winter said in unison.

Winter cleared her throat.

"He was in meditation for most of the day," she said. "Old Jedi Temple."

"A pilot he's always gotten along with tried to provoke him into a fight this morning," Bail said heavily. "The man's family had been slaughtered at the hands of Vader – Luke defused the situation but," he paused. "He's shaken."

Leia nodded, a little crestfallen – but the news was hardly revolutionary; Luke was being disillusioned in different ways than Han, but disillusioned all the same – and it meant such unsavory things for his Jedi quests.

"I ought to tell him to go off planet," she murmured.

"He won't," Winter said matter-of-factly. "This is hard for him but – he has that drive to – redeem Vader."

Leia's expression darkened for a moment.

"Winter, that might be precisely why he needs to remove himself – Luke cannot start waxing philosophical about forgiveness – not publicly, not about this man. Not now, possibly not ever," she said sharply. "His efforts interpersonally, with me – that is vastly different than insulting the feelings of an entire galaxy by asking them to forgive what Vader and the Empire he served has done to this galaxy."

Winter tilted her head, her eyes softly.

"Leia, he knows that," she said. "I've never seen anyone so cruelly awakened to that realization."

"I'm not trying to demean Luke," Leia fired back. "I know he's – suffering through this. I have to – I'm struggling with myself to maintain empathy with him, but I've got the politics to control, as well and – his mere mention of Vader's return to the light at the press conference damn near ruined relations with Ryloth," Leia said hoarsely, thinking of the tongue-lashing she'd gotten from an enraged Twi'lek minister – If you think for a second, Your Highness, that my world will support a government that reforms Vader's brutality into some self-sacrificing bantha shit –

Leia shivered, and she swallowed hard, her mouth dry.

Winter sighed, grimacing at the fine line they were walking, and Leia felt weighed down with guilt – her militaristic, cool handling of the politics was starkly at odds with her ability to sensitively care about the people closest to her, and she fought every moment of the day to try to balance the two.

She knew every time she mentioned politics, it seemed as if she ruthlessly cared only for her career – yet it was hard for her to vocalize that she wanted to do good in the world, and if her power was not preserved right now – she'd be helpless to continue fighting for the progress she sacrificed her youth for.

She knew – that she was not duty-bound to atone for Vader's wrath upon the galaxy, but she felt a calling to be better, to be good – to be Alderaan's values on a larger scale, so that the tyranny of Vader was banished to the shadows, and the Skywalker legacy was that of his two rebellious children – she wanted that, not for Vader's sake, not for the sake of his soul - but for Luke's sake, for the Naberries' sake, and for the sake of –

Leia swallowed hard.

Her children, perhaps. For the sake of hers.

"We are all balanced on – such a fragile precipice, for the time being," Leia began softly – only to be interrupted by noise in the hall; the sound of Han coming home – and he was swearing.

She turned her head with a cautiously alarmed purse of her lips, her brows knitting as his swearing faded, picked up once – got louder as he got closer –

"Sweetheart," he snapped, and Leia identified a defensive, angry edge to his voice that immediately alerted her to a problem – "Don't jump down my throat."

She grit her teeth at that, moving from her position, intent on intercepting Han before he came into the sitting room and was faced with an apartment full of people he hadn't anticipated –

She failed in her quest, however – she was at the edge of the couch, the warning on her lips, when Han came around the corner into the room – his head was bowed, and he was wiping his hand across his face, so it was only when he lifted his head to look for her – and stopped dead in his tracks, at the sight of Leia's Alderaanian inner circle– that she realized he was half-covered in blood.

It appeared to be – flowing from either his nose, or perhaps a – formidable gash on his brow – and when he straightened up, bristling, no doubt gearing for a fight when he saw all the people he was confronted with – Leia noticed he was favoring his shoulder.

Her heart stuttered in her chest at the sight of him.

Leia was bombarded with such an intense scramble of emotions that she barely avoided falling back on the volatile temper of her broken princess days - her lips were parted, eyes sharp, tongue on the verge of letting loose a tense rebuke – she almost choked on the words that threatened to fly out of her mouth – Han, please don't tell me you've attacked someone – no, Han – no! –

But the sour look on Han's face stopped her, and Rouge's little prissy, scandalized squawk reigned her in – the moment she heard her aunt make that noise, she swallowed her words, despite how stuck in politician mode she was at the moment.

She was aware suddenly, acutely, of her father's vibrant disapproval, his sharp political concern; it emanated off of him, though she did not even look his way to see his expression – of course Rouge's scandalized reaction was visceral, opposed as she was to violence and brawling – and to think, she had just praised Han's restraint.

Oooh, oh Han, you let them get the best of you – she thought, frantically sorting herself out – she knew how important it was to soothe him, support him, be united, and never admonish him in front of her family – not like this - and yet she had impressed upon him the need for control.

Two parts of her engaged in battle: the pristine diplomat wanted to screamed at him in fury, but the wife who loved him was stricken by the blossoming bruise she noticed on his neck, and the crusted blood she saw staining his knuckles.

"Han," Rouge snapped tensely, "to think, I was just beginning to believe you had been tamed."

Ignoring Rouge's remark, Leia swept forward quickly, her hands flying up to Han's neck – behind her, she heard Winter clear her throat softly, give the hushed suggestion that they ought to leave.

Focusing herself on Han, Leia gave him a quick, quiet look, touching his throat softly – thinking in soft whispers to herself - I'm so mad at you; I'm so mad at you –

Yet he was hurt, and her anger was gentle, and conflicting – she sucked in her breath, dizzy for a moment – what had happened, what had – ahhh, but that was the thing, she didn't know what had happened, and she had no right to begin berating him.

She rubbed the pads of her fingers over the bruise and tilted her head, wordlessly indicating he should follow her out of the living room.

"Leia," he started in a low growl.

She gave a small shake of her head, batting her lashes pointedly – and with that wordless communication, indicated they would wait to talk. Her hands slid down to his shoulders, and she squeezed tightly, nodding her head. Han nodded curtly, and moved past her, stubbornly looking away from the others – she listened to his footsteps fade, noted he'd gone towards their bedroom, and turned to the gathering.

"If you'll leave us," she requested simply.

Winter was the first to nod, standing and taking control. She began ushering everyone to the door – Tavska led them, ever respectful of Leia's private life; fiercely protective of it, even. While Winter placated Rouge, Bail lingered, his expression wary.

"He looked like he needed a medic," he said, and Leia was a little taken aback – surprised, but heartened that Bail's first comment had been about Han's injuries, rather than – a potential problem.

"If he does, I'll get him one," Leia said quietly. "He's tough," she said, smiling a distracted smile. "I'll take care of him."

She would reach out later and brief her father on what had happened, once she got Han's story – though she suspected, with dread, that it was likely already on the Holos.

"Winter," she began, as her father turned to go – and Winter caught her eye with an astute nod; she would begin monitoring the press immediately, and drafting potential statements – if one was needed at all.

Leia saw them out – and then she swallowed hard, bracing herself. She stood at the door for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. Her head started to throb, and her eyes stung, burning with tears – tears of stress, and nothing more.

She turned, and went down the hall to find him. He had shut himself in the 'fresher – pulled a med kit out from under the sink and was pawing through it a little blindly. Leia slipped under his arm and took a clean cloth from the medicine cabinet, wetting it with cool water.

"Sit down," she told him softly, without turning to look at him.

She thought Han was going to fight her – but after a few seconds of stiff silence, he backed away and sat down on the edge of the 'fresher basin, grimacing in discomfort. Leia wrung out the cloth so it wouldn't drip too much, and went to him, bending forward at the waist and tilting his head up.

She began with his temple, applying pressure for a few moments to stem the trickle of blood, and then gently cleaning out the gash. Gingerly, she moved to his nose – it was bleeding, but it didn't look broken – and then to his mouth. While she silently wiped the worst of the blood from him, he lifted his hand and curved it around her hip, holding on loosely.

"Leia," he said gruffly, speaking into the cloth – she moved it, pulling back to look at him. "I wasn't anglin' for a fight," he said, his jaw tensing.

He reared his head back from the cloth.

"Is it on the Holos?" Leia asked calmly.

Han shrugged roughly, bitterly. He scowled, and nodded angrily, reaching up to take the cloth from her. He ran it over his knuckles, his lips drawing back in a snarl –

"Yeah, authorities tried to drag me to lock-up, 'cept then they realized I was who I said I was."

She tilted her head and touched the bruise on his neck – darkening by the minute, and she felt a surge of violent anger that was by no means directed at Han. There was little that made her feel as sick and scared as she felt when Han was injured.

Leia compressed her lips.

"What happened?" she asked.

"You've got to hear me out, Leia – " he began, raising his voice on instinct. "It doesn't have anything to do with my ego – " he spat, his eyes narrowing at the memory of Rouge's comment.

"Han," she started.

"'M doin' what you asked – but there's a line, there's a fucking line, and if it gets crossed – "

"Han," Leia interrupted, gentle but firm. "I want to hear your side."

She took a step back, and sat down on the sani, pulling the med kit into her lap. Calmly, she reached for his hand, and pulled it towards her, drawing out some bacta gel for the busted knuckles, and some tape to cover the open wounds with.

"What happened?" she repeated.

Han's hand flexed in her grip, and he leaned forward, his other fist clenching against his knee.

"Lost a contract," he muttered. "S'why I was so late – Rieekan needed a replacement quick, so I was tryin' to get something through Lando since this – since I lost one."

"A contract for what?" Leia asked.

Han didn't answer right away.

"Engines, for the new fleet," he muttered evasively. "The Mon Calamari were going to build – got a damn good deal, specialized water-based fuel," he trailed off, grimacing. "Withdrew last minute, and Ackbar couldn't get 'em to come back."

Leia paused in the silence, staring at his injured knuckles. She closed her eyes, her lips trembling.

"Wasn't 'cause of you," Han said tersely. "Wasn't a Vader thing."

Leia opened her eyes, clearing her throat softly – speaking matter-of-factly.

"It was," she corrected, "or you wouldn't have said that without me asking."

Han grit his teeth, shrugged, and Leia looked up at him with a grim smile.

"They must think there is truth to the theory that I've aimed to usurp Palpatine all along."

Han scowled, swore under his breath.

"If anyone thinks that of you – " he started, and Leia just shook her head. She turned back to his hands, and inclined her head.

"You were pissed already," she said slowly, touching his knuckles. "You – heard someone slur me?"

Han wrenched his hand away, his muscles stiffening.

"No – that's not it," he snapped harshly, and Leia leaned forward, her eyes on his earnestly. "'M tamer than that," he said sardonically, using Rouge's words again. "I didn't just haul off and beat some guy."

Han leaned forward, swallowing hard, the cold cloth clenched tightly in his hand.

"I noticed someone followin' me, from Headquarters – saw 'im again, after I checked on the Falcon. I've had more'n one death mark on me, Leia – I know when I'm bein' followed."

He paused, and sat up straighter, holding out his palm aggressively and talking with his hands.

"I turn around and confront the bastard – big guy, muscular, had a couple faded Black Sun tattoos – ask 'im what kind of problem he's got with me. He says," Han's face contorted bitterly, "he says he's got no problem with me, but he's got a couple friends who'd like my wife's head on a stick."

Leia winced slightly, hardly needing to see the remnants of Han's fight to understand why he'd been provoked.

"I told 'im to get lost," Han said roughly. "I figured he was – you know, you said they'd have people try to provoke me – he kept followin' me, Leia," Han said. His voice cracked. "Said – I'd have to go home some time, and then I'd lead 'im right to you," he said, "so I turn around to grab 'im, make myself a little more clear – "

He broke off, shaking his head.

"He was followin' me," he said aggressively. "There's – people tryin' to figure out where we live, Leia, trying to get at you!" he growled. "I'm not layin' down for that. That's a line I'm not lettin' anybody cross, and I don't give a damn – "

Leia touched his cheek to silence him, her eyes boring into his.

"Where is your blaster?" she asked softly.

Han looked down to his holster, and grabbed at it, his fingers slipping – she noticed it was slick with congealed blood.

"S'not my blood," he mumbled. "The guy tried to get my own blaster out on me," he growled. He shifted, wincing hard with the movement, and reached into his vest, rummaging around a bit until he untucked his shirt and pulled the blaster, locked on safe, out of his waistband. "I concealed it on the way back," he said grudgingly.

He leaned forward and placed it on the floor beside his foot. He rubbed his forehead gingerly, and swore hoarsely when it sent a burst of pain through his skull.

"This man," Leia asked. "Is he…?"

Han was quiet, and Leia held her breath – even in self-defense, if Han had killed someone – this wasn't Mos Eisley, this wasn't the lawless Rebellion, this was –

"In custody," Han snapped bitterly. "I set it to stun," he said, nodding jerkily at the blaster on the floor.

Leia reached for his hand, her fingertips barely brushing it – and Han jerked away, shaking his head. His lip shook violently as he looked up at her, his jaw tense, a vein throbbing in his temple.

"You've got me trained, alright," he said sourly. "Got me all trained up, a real political dream, actin' all nice and toeing the line," he went on icily. "That guy'll make bail easy, Sweetheart, and then what? Or what if it's someone else? I haven't been in a good fight in a while – is that what tame is, lettin' someone get to you, through me?"

Leia reached for his hand again, and this time she held it steady – she felt dizzy again, and her heart stuttered in fear. More than anything, Han's experience alarmed her – if she had minor concerns about the security of their home, they were now major.

"I know I keep putting you in a bad position," she began in a low voice.

"It's not that, Leia – I get that you're not supposed to be violent, and you've got to do your – stoic thing – and I probably – fucked things up for you – but I can't put up with this, I can't watch you put up with it," he grit his teeth, "some bastard damn got the drop on me because you want me turnin' the other cheek and being docile – and that ain't me."

Leia's eyes stung. She dipped her head for a moment, lifted it – and looked away. She wasn't upset because Han – fucked things up for her – she was upset because he'd been hurt; he'd felt threatened enough, seriously threatened enough, to physical respond, and that was a fair response.

She was bombarded again with her guilt – had she been foolish, selfish, to lay her family history bare on a public alter, all in the hopes that an unveiling of secrets would cleanse the galaxy, would allow her, and Luke, to embark on their goals for peace and justice with clear consciences?

She had once told Han she never expected him to start shouldering politics simply because he was married to her, and married to her status, and yet here she was, clearly making him feel either belittled or caged – no; caged was the wrong word – belittled was better – Han was not a stain on her, he wasn't a burden.

"Han," she began, her voice shaky. "You had every right," she said.

She bit her lip, took a deep breath, and pushed the med kit off her lap, shifting to her knees. She knelt between his legs, resting her elbows on his knees, and stretching up to pull his face down to hers, her wrist shaking slightly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, I – I thought this was best. I thought the truth was the best course of action."

"Maybe it wasn't," Han said bitterly.

Leia's face was pale, conflicted.

"Do you know how much worse it would have been if someone found out?" she asked hoarsely. Her words trembled as she forced them out. "I just want – to be in control of this. It's my story – "

Han turned his head, his lips brushing her palm. He closed his eyes tightly, and then nodded – he thought she was right, from her point of view – the political point of view - but from his –

Kriff, he just wanted them to leave her alone.

"I'll handle it," she assured him.

Han shrugged.

"Toss the blame on me," he muttered. "I don't regret it."

Her fingers slipped into his hair.

"I won't do that," she said simply. "You aren't my scapegoat," she said huskily. "You don't fuck things up for me," she said softly. "Han, it's going to get worse before it mellows out. You'll get used to it."

He shook his head, and she stroked his hair soothingly.

"You will," she said softly. "Hey, I can promise you that." She smiled a little wearily. "My first year in the Senate, an Imperial officer told me I'd get more done if I used my mouth for everything but talking," she told him calmly, "and I called my mother and I cried – and then I got used to that sort of thing."

Han turned back to look at her.

"Don't tell me that," he said hoarsely. "I don't want to get used to people saying these things about you."

He studied her intently for a long moment of silence.

"You okay?" he asked.

Leia compressed her lips.

"I can handle this, Han," she said, repeating a platitude she'd uttered a hundred times – generic, cool answer; that slightly mechanical attitude coming out, the one that worried him.

He didn't say anything; he bowed his head. When he looked back up, he seemed tired – defeated.

"Why don't we go to Corellia?" he asked dully. "Look, let's just – I know you've got to do your thing," he said grudgingly, "but for a few weeks, let's just go away. Get away from this. Wouldn't hurt."

She bit her lip, stroking his jaw – but it would hurt; it would look cowardly. And in her absence, there would be a vacuum, and it would be filled with whatever narrative anyone saw fit to insert – and she would lose this battle faster than she could blink.

"I have to stay," she said. "I want to stay. Han, the Empire didn't break me. I want the galaxy to see me take this in stride." She swallowed hard. "I didn't…go through all I went through, coming to terms with myself to – let them take it all away."

Han smiled a little at that, and Leia hesitated.

"If you," she began.

She sighed, and relaxed a little, dropping her arms to his legs. She rested them over his knees, her legs tucked under her on the floor, and looked at his chest a moment, before tilting her head up.

"If you want to go, you ought to," she said quietly. She nodded a little. "Go to the cabin and – tune it out. Invite Maiah and Iver. You are not obligated to – get hurt, because you're a proxy for me – and I do not want this stress on your shoulders – "

Han's brow furrowed angrily.

"Is it easier for your bureaucratic games if I leave?" he snapped.

Leia's eyes flashed.

"That is not what I just said," she snapped – right back; matched his tone, his force, everything, and Han heard it, and scaled back, appalled at himself for lashing out.

He wiped his hand across his mouth gingerly.

"You want me to leave, Leia?" he asked heavily.

He looked at her so tiredly for a moment, unsure what she wanted - did she want him to leave because she thought he couldn't behave, because she thought he was a political threat to her? Or did she honestly want him to take a step back because she knew he hated the politics, and she would be okay with him shirking away for this -

Leia looked up at him from the floor, her head tilted at the perfect angle to meet his eyes, see every wound on his face, from the cut above his eye, to the bruise on his neck.

She did not hesitate; she shook her head.

"No," she answered, her lashes heavy with tears. She choked out a laugh. "I want to go to Kashyyyk," she said, mustering up a joke lightly. "I want to have sex in a tree." She licked her lips. "I can't," she said softly. "I have to be here."

She shook her head again.

"Han, I just – don't want you to feel the way you're feeling – you're miserable."

He looked at her for a moment, and then shifted, moving off the edge of the 'fresher basin and sitting on the floor. He reached out and ran his hands down her sides, pulling her up a little, and closer to him – and now she was easily eye level, and he could feel how tense her muscles were underneath her skin – skin that was thick as steel, armor that she'd built up over the years.

He cupped her cheek in his hand.

"Not miserable," he muttered. "'M just…I hate 'em for giving a damn," he said hollowly. "You said it'd be bad. What gets me – is the good guys turnin' on you."

Han hated how unprepared he was for all of this – he'd never been someone who thought people were inherently good, or had much faith in anyone but himself – and still it baffled him that so many people looked at Leia different because of – an accident of birth.

"I warned you," Leia said softly.

"Guess I didn't listen."

She made a little face as if to say – typical, and Han pulled her face closer, pressing his lips against hers. She shifted her body, and curled up in between his legs, leaning into him heavily, relaxing.

She wrinkled her nose, and Han pulled back, reaching up to touch his lips. Leia nodded, making a face – when she parted her lips, Han saw blood on her teeth, and she sat back up a little.

"You're still bleeding," she noted, the coppery taste of blood coating her tongue – she sucked in her breath, considering, for a moment, making a vulgar comment that Winter would no doubt appreciate –

Han laughed dryly, wiping at his lip – he still had a cut near his gums that wasn't clotted, and that was the culprit – he grimaced lightly, and then winked at Leia.

"So, tell me, Princess, what tastes better, my blood or – "

Leia brought her hand down on his chest hard, smacking him once with her palm, then turning her hand over and smacking him with the back of her hand – her cheeks flushed, and she shrieked at him –

"Han!"

"Aw, you didn't think I'd pass that up –

"I-was going-to make-that-joke!" she protested, and he gave a startled laugh to hear that she was slapping him for stealing her thunder, rather than being crass.

He laughed again, deeper this time, and pulled her close for another kiss – this one well aware of this inconvenient injury, and carless of it – and even as she wrinkled her nose, and mumbled a few choice swear words at him for his vulgarity, she kissed him back – for quite a while, until the kiss had eased the tension on both of them, and she pulled away to look at him eye-to eye.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and put her arms around his neck, interlacing her fingers behind his head.

"I need to clean you up," she said softly, "and – we'll talk," she promised. "We'll talk more about – how we can get each other through this."

Han nodded firmly, relieved to hear her say that – as it stood now, it had only been – a handful of days, a week and a half – and going forward, they needed to establish a rhythm, a system for how to deal with their responses to this, and the pressures they were under – grudgingly, Han knew his altercation would probably mean an unleashing of the Kath hounds –

The shock had all but worn off, and now – open season.

So, the time frame of this first chapter is about 1 week - from announcement, to end of the next week (ish)

-Alexandra

story #358