This story borrows a character and an important detail from Claudia Gray's Bloodline novel, but the story takes place much earlier in the post-ROTJ timeline and does not follow Disney canon. Originally posted to Tumblr for Scoundress Saturday and inspired by Garth Brooks' "Friends in Low Places."
Blame it All on My Roots
"What in the stars are you doing?" Leia asked, as she pulled a sheer black stocking over her knee. "Did you lose something?"
Han was darting from spot to spot in the apartment, opening drawers and cupboards, then quickly closing them and moving on. "Looking for a place to stash the Whyren's," he said. "Antilles is on to the old location." He spent a minute frowning at their towels, then shut the linen closet and turned back to her. "You didn't tip 'im off, did you?"
Leia regarded him with a raised eyebrow, pulling on her other stocking. "In what universe do I want the Rogues drinking all our good whiskey?" she asked. She smoothed the tops of her stockings and stood up. "Hide it in Chewie's room. They're afraid to go in there."
Han grinned at that suggestion, then did a slight double take when he actually noticed what Leia was wearing. Abandoning the whiskey for a moment, he came over and placed his hands at her waist.
"I like this," he said, smoothing over the sides of her black satin bustier. He bent down to kiss her. "'S it new?"
She kissed him back, then put a hand on his chest, putting a bit of space between them. "Han," she chided gently, "I'm not even dressed yet."
"Clearly I do not have a problem with that." He kissed her again.
She lingered in the kiss for a moment, then pulled back again. "Han. The Rogues will be here in fifteen minutes. You need to hide that," she said, indicating the liquor, "and I need to have clothes on."
He gave her a last kiss, then reluctantly pulled away, picking up the bottle. "Alright. But remind me again why they're playin' sabacc in our apartment, while we go to this…thing?"
"It's Luke's turn to host. And you've seen Luke's apartment."
Han had. Luke's place was…spare, to say the least. Minimalist. There was a distinct lack of couches. And whiskey. And high-level security, though Han had helped them step that up a bit in the wake of the recent, uh, heightened interest in the lives of the Skywalker/Organa twins.
And Han knew that hosting tonight was partly a favor to Luke, but partly Leia's way of showing her appreciation for the Rogues' loyalty over the last month. With a few exceptions, most of their Rebellion friends had been fairly supportive after the Vader news had come out, but the Rogues had made it clear that for them, nothing had changed as far as Luke and Leia were concerned. That meant a lot.
Han still wasn't letting them drink all the good whiskey. He left Leia in the bedroom and headed to Chewie's room.
"Damn, Solo," commented Hobbie as Han greeted them at the door. "Didn't even think you owned a formal uniform."
"Eh, fuck off," Han said good-naturedly, ushering them into the apartment. He didn't put on the official uniform often, but he figured this event was worth following the rules for, for once. Hells, maybe the shock of him showing up in an actual Alliance uniform rather than a slightly dressier version of his spacer's garb would distract everyone enough to take some heat off of Leia.
Janson gave a wolf-whistle, and Han turned to see Leia emerging from the bedroom.
No, nothing I could do would distract people from her, he decided. Not even if I arrived naked.
Leia was in a jet black shimmersilk gown, strapless, with a top that wasn't all that far off from the bustier undergarment Han had seen earlier. The skirt hugged her hips, dipped in at the knees, and widened into a graceful pool of fabric at the floor. She was wearing long black fingerless gloves, her nails painted a deep red. Her hair was piled on top of her head in an elaborate updo, and her makeup was a bit more dramatic than usual as well—dark eyes and red mouth.
That much alone would have been enough to stop traffic, but Leia was also fastening the jeweled clasp of a sheer black cloak around her neck. The reference was clear.
The men in the room were struck silent for a full minute.
"Holy shit, Commander," said Wedge, finally. He didn't sound flirtatious for once, just impressed.
Luke was grinning. "You look…familiar," he joked, greeting his sister with a careful hug so as to avoid disturbing her outfit.
Leia laughed. "Well, if they're going to call me Lady Vader, I might as well look the part," she said. She turned to Han. "We'd better get going."
He gave her his arm, then pointed at Luke and the Rogues. "Have fun. Don't break anything." And they were off.
Han didn't need the Force to sense Leia's anxiety rising as the speeder approached the hotel where the ball was taking place. Despite her defiant outfit and attitude, he knew that the reactions to her biological parentage had been hard on her, especially in the diplomatic realm in which she'd worked for years.
He took her hand in his. "Y'know, we don't have to do this. Could ditch the ball, get Corellian food and have our own party back at the Falcon," he suggested.
She squeezed it and smiled. "Would be fun," she allowed. "But I want to do this. I want them to know they didn't break me." It sounded so much like their conversation last year about the war crimes tribunals that Han winced.
"You're not broken, Sweetheart," he said quietly. "Never were, never will be."
"I know," she said, squeezing his hand again.
They'd definitely made an entrance, if the hush that followed them around was any indication. Han had originally planned to stick closely to Leia's side for the evening, but after a few conversations in which his main role was attempting not to fidget excessively, she nudged him toward the bar.
"Stop babysitting me," she complained mildly. "Go get a drink, I'll be fine."
So he obeyed, and went back to his usual tactic during these kinds of events—hanging out by the bar and watching Leia work her magic from afar.
Things seemed to go nominally well for a while. The conversations were shorter, and there seemed to be fewer of them, but nothing too out of the ordinary. Then Han saw a face that had become all too familiar—and to him, despised—over the last few weeks. Lady Carise Sindian.
He'd forgotten what the hell muckety-muck title she actually had, just that she was pretty important with the Elder Houses. She'd been a major part of blowing up the news that Princess Leia Organa and Jedi Knight Luke Skywalker were "the spawn of Vader," as her emissaries liked to put it, and really seemed to have it in for Leia in particular. Apparently Leia was in front of her in the line of succession for some governorship, which was a moot point anyway since the current governor was like thirty and unlikely to die anytime soon. So Lady Carise had tried to influence the Alderaanians to strip Leia of her Princess title.
That had hurt. Luckily, most of the Alderaanians had rejected that idea outright, but the mere suggestion had been harder to take than Leia had wanted to admit. And now Lady Carise was here, making a beeline for Leia.
Han ordered another whiskey and prepared for a rescue operation.
"Leia," Lady Carise simpered, deliberately leaving off any titles or honorifics, "I must admit to some surprise at seeing you tonight."
Leia's mask was fully in place. "Of course. I couldn't miss it. Such an important cause, such an important evening for the Elder Houses."
Lady Carise made a prim-sounding "Hmm," then said,"but you don't think it's too distracting?"
Leia blinked demurely. "Distracting? How?"
A small crowd had begun to gather on the edges of their conversation. Han pushed through them and moved towards Leia. She made a slight gesture that he recognized from their combat days—hold there, I've got this—and he remained on the edges, though still close by.
Lady Carise gave an obviously fake chuckle. "Oh, my dear Leia. This—" she gestured towards Leia's outfit—"affront to the dignity of House Organa. Your paramour—" here she spoke as if she'd tasted something rotten, gesturing to Han—"whom you insist upon parading around with wanton pride. Your false claim on an ancient line…"
Leia held up her hand, and for a split second Han thought she was going to slap Lady Carise. Which, frankly, was a lot kinder than Han felt like being right now.
But she didn't. Instead, she took the glass of sparkling wine right out of Lady Carise's hand and lifted it up in a toast.
"My mother—Queen Breha Organa, I know you remember her—had an infinite kindness. She was especially kind to those who were filled with hate, because she believed they needed it the most. But her kindness never made her soft. And so I toast you in her name, and I thank you for my freedom," she said, downing the wine in one gulp.
She handed the glass back to a stunned Lady Carise, and continued. "We may be through, but you'll never hear me complain." Han stepped closer, and she took his hand. "Now, if you'll excuse me, my paramour and I have to get home to our den of iniquity."
Then they were parting the crowd, on their way back to the speeder and to their friends.
They got out the good whiskey as soon as they got home. Leia's idea, but Han had wholeheartedly agreed. He'd gone to change out of his uniform, while Leia had elected to dive right into the game.
She'd obviously told them about the Lady Carise incident, because when he returned they were already making great sport of her insults.
"Hey!" yelled Janson. "It's your paramour!" The rest of the group roared in greeting as Han took his cards.
Wedge poured him a glass of whiskey, then held up his own glass. "A toast. To wanton pride!"
"The best kind!" said Tycho.
They played for hours, drank all the good whiskey, took turns trying on Leia's cloak, told terrible jokes, ordered Corellian food at 1 in the morning. Han watched Leia throughout, barefoot, laughing and drinking and giving all of them a run for their money. Gently teasing Luke, scolding Janson, joking and flirting with Wedge and Tycho, stealing random kisses from Han between hands. Far from her ivory tower, here with her friends.
She'll be okay, he thought, and smiled.