Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own Star Wars.

Author's Note: Well, it was only a matter of time until I wrote a Dying!Somebody fic. Welcome to Leia's maybe death scene. Each part is a drabble from my 100 fic challenge.

Sixth Sense.

Before I know anything else, before I know who I am, I know he's here with me. It's the same feeling that told me to find Luke when we were escaping from Bespin, and I find it oddly disturbing I can sense things in this way now.

I don't remember what happened, but I know it's bad. I know that because he knows it, and I feel his fear.

I try to reach him, but it's like hitting a brick wall. For the first time I'm sad because he doesn't share my gift. If he did, I might comfort him.

Smell.

Gradually I become aware of something physical. Anyone who's been in a trash compactor knows smells can hit you the same way a stun bolt can. It's nothing you can touch, but it is very real.

His smell hits me all at once, and with it, all the memories I have piled up of him. Mostly I remember the places we were, the planets we've seen together. The Falcon. I can't think of one without the other, now.

Today I smell too many things to count. I don't even try to sort through them.

He smells perfect. That is enough.

Sound.

It hurts. I hurt, all the way down my body, but the noise rings its way into my head and it's worse than all the pain I half-feel from the slices and bruises and cracked ribs.

"It's going to be all right, princess. Just hang on until your brother gets here."

His voice hurts me, every syllable clanging around my empty head. He stops. Maybe I winced. I'd rather have the pain of hearing than have him silent like I'm already dead.

I work my throat, trying to get enough air to force it out again.

"Please. Don't stop talking."

Touch.

I am not safe, but I feel safe, because he is holding me. I know exactly how he holds me, my head braced against his chest, his knees supporting my back, his legs around mine. His arms are folded around my shoulders and chest. We have been here before, folded up like this. This is a cruel mockery of that restful pose.

He is trying to control his breathing because it's a way of praying it will help mine. I'm concentrating on his fingers, which trace circles on my arms. I keep feeling his lips trace words into my hair.

Taste.

The blood is salty and thick in the back of my throat. It is probably one of the reasons I choke and shudder every time I try to breathe. It tickles me and I wonder if I have a nosebleed. It is a ridiculous thing to wonder, because even if I did, it will be my other injuries that kill me.

I should be thinking of better things. Memories of him, memories of exasperation I always suspected I'd miss if things went wrong. After all, these will be my last thoughts unless we somehow come up with another miracle today.

Sight.

Another hand grabs mine. I focus on it, recognizing the wires beneath the charred skin surface. Luke should take better care of himself.

I tilt my head back to center, ignoring the pounding in my ears from moving my head, feeling arms tighten around my body.

I see Luke frowning down at me, mouthing to me to be still, not to worry. I almost see the lines he's drawing around my body in the Force, but I'm fading, and I sink into darkness. It's not Luke I see last, though, but Han, brushing away one last hair from my eyes.