UNEXPECTED
I hate being wrong.
Earlier, I laughed in Han's face when he suggested that I couldn't pull my weight around the ship. I grabbed the power tool out of his hands and flounced off in the opposite direction, intent on proving him wrong. Now, 3 hours and 4 weld-burn later, I can't even turn the damn thing.
I hate being wrong.
THIS is what they should teach in finishing school- how to weld a souped-up ship, not how to balance holo-vid readers on your head. It'd be a lot more interesting, and a LOT more useful…
Dammit! My finger catches underneath the pale metal of the lever, and I wince as pain flares through my hand. Sith. Lever-1, Leia-0.
Cool arms encircle me from behind, hands covering mine where they rest on the metal. At the touch, I feel my body stiffen with shock, and I lash out instinctively, my mind a panic. I've had too many surprised, too many times when I was vulnerable when I shouldn't have been. Dammit, how could I have let someone sneak up on me like that? The arms release me, and a smooth voice interrupts my thoughts.
"Hey…your worship, I'm only trying to help."
Han. Sith. I can feel my fear rapidly dissolving into relief. Normally, I'd be angry, but at the moment I'm just too relieved to argue. All of a sudden, I'm tired…exhausted by our incessant fighting. What's the point? What could we possibly hope to accomplish with all this bickering? We're on the same side now, like it or not.
I sigh. "Would you please stop calling me that?"
My voice sounds quiet, defeated. Definitely not how I meant to sound. Han must have noticed the change, though, because he softens his tone, too.
"Sure, Leia."
God. LEIA. I don't think I've ever heard him say my name before…and I have to admit I like it. Oddly embarrassed by this thought, I shake my head, smiling wryly.
"You make things so difficult sometimes…"
I give the handle one last half-hearted turn, but it still refuses to budge. Oh, well. I release it, and rub my aching hand, casting a shy glance over my shoulder to get a glimpse of Han. He nods, agreeing with my statement, and then smiles back at me. Wow. I realize that I've never truly seen him smile before, either. How many things is this man hiding from us? He's an enigma, a mystery…intrigued, I watch him, eyes lowered slightly. He's got a nice smile, just the faintest lift of his mouth, but still full of warmth and humor. I find myself grinning back at him without even meaning to. Catching my grin, he presses the advantage and quirks an eyebrow at me.
"I do, I really do."
Han Solo, admitting defeat? You've got to be kidding me.
"You could be a little /nicer/ about it, though…" Ah. So that's the catch. He continues. "C'mon, admit it, sometimes you think I'm alright."
Just 'alright'? Oh, boy, you've got another think coming. I tilt my head, smirking inwardly. Game, set…match.
"Occasionally…maybe…when you aren't acting like a scoundrel."
In one swift movement, he reaches out and takes my sore hand between the both of his, giving me a wounded look in response to my words. The ease and informality with which he does this suggests that it's commonplace to him, as if his fingers caressing mine is an everyday occurrence. As for me...? With that one, simple movement, it seems that he has rendered all common sense, all thought process, useless. I'm having a hard time focusing… I can't believe that he's affected me like this. I struggle to regain my composure.
Han shakes his head as if he can't quite believe what he's just heard, and takes a step towards me.
"Scoundrel?"
I nod, feeling my courage falter with the increased proximity, but determined to appear nonchalant. It's hard. He's getting a bit too close for my comfort.
He squints at me, repeating my words: "Scoundrel?"
Now his voice sounds amused. I can feel myself becoming angry again- who does he think he is to mock me? I try to speak, to rebuke him, but it's just /so/ hard to think with his hands caressing mine. I have a newfound respect for all those starfighter pilots who have to concentrate under pressure…. Attempting to regain control of myself, I tear my eyes away from our hands, but they come to rest on his face, god, his eyes! which helps little.
"I like the sound of that."
His voice is huskier now, openly suggestive. Dammit. This is too much for my already-frazzled brain to handle. I try to wrench my hand out of his grasp, but it appears that my muscles are no longer listening to me. Great, just great. Overcome, I use the only weapon left to me- words.
"Stop that," I snap, training taking the place of instinct. Imperceptibly, he draws closer, undettered by my words.
"Stop what?" He raises an eyebrow, an innocent expression on his face. As if he didn't know… I glare at him, panicked. He's too close, too warm, too solid against me. I struggle to maintain control of my words.
"Stop /that/." I try to pull my hand away, grasping for an excuse. "My hands are dirty."
He chuckles, and I blush, aware of how feeble that sounded. His hands rub softly over mine, the velvet calluses on his palms jump-starting my nerves. Dammit. He leans closer, his voice soft.
"My hands are dirty, too, what are you afraid of?"
That's it. I snap my head back from his, attempting to keep my voice steady.
"Afraid?" The words were meant to scoff, but they come out a lot weaker than I intended. How dare he suggest..?
He inclines his head towards me, using the movement to propel his shoulder closer. His arm brushes mine, and I flinch, almost violently. Whoa. Way too close.
"You're trembling…"
Almost on instinct, I shake my head, the action only serving to emphasize my shivering. I raise my chin, defiantly.
"I'm not trembling."
Like hell I'm not! Why do I always insist on having the last word, even when the situation is obviously not what I'm saying? I look like a fool… There is a heavy silence and then he speaks again, his voice steady despite the rapidly-closing distance between us. Dammit, how is he doing that? For me, it's a struggle just to keep breathing… He tilts his head, a knowing gleam in his eye, and rests a hand casually on my waist. An involuntary spasm ripples through my body, but luckily, he doesn't seem to notice.
"I think you like me *because* I'm a scoundrel," he says softly, his voice as calm and steady as if he were relating the current sabaac scores, "I think there aren't enough scoundrels in your life."
He may be right, but that's no reason to let him have the last word, is it?
"I happen to like nice men…"
He grins, his face mere inches from mine, and brushes away my words.
"I'm 'nice men'."
'Nice men'? At this moment, that's the last thing I want him to be. My mind a mass of confusion, I press a hand to the back of his neck. Whoa, hold on a minute- his neck? Since when have my arms been around his NECK? I don't even remember doing that, although I must have. My mind spasms: Dangerous territory, Leia, dangerous territory… I ignore it.
My voice is a whisper. …why are we still carrying on this conversation? From where I'm standing, the outcome is inevitable, the foreplay now a mere formality… His words echo in my head, teasing me. 'I'm nice men', 'I'm nice men', 'I'm nice men'…
"No, you're not, you're…"
The hard slant of his lips across mine cuts off any further conversation. Or brain function, for that matter. I can't believe that this is happening. Han wraps his arms tighter around me, pressing my body against him. Oh, SITH. Involuntarily, my hands snake up to cradle his head, fingers twining with the silky strands of his hair, and I rock up onto my toes to get a better angle. He molds one palm to the small of my back, steadying my balance, and leans into-
"Sir! Sir! I've isolated the reverse power flux coupling!"
/Sith Lords/. One of these days I'm going to dismantle that jabbering scrap heap. Almost reluctantly, Han draws away, keeping his arms around me until the last possible second. Then he turns slowly around and fixes Threepio with one of his patented glares. Whoa. I've been on the receiving end of that glare more times then I can count- in this instant, I almost feel sorry for the droid. Hmph. Almost. Instead, I stay behind Han, flustered. Threepio is merely a distraction…what happens when Han turns back to me? What do I do now? What do I say? All of a sudden, I feel shy, timid…definitely not ready to face this man. I do the only thing I can think of- turn and flee down the passageway, brushing pipes and cords out of my face in my haste to get away. What am I running from? What am I afraid of? Afraid that this man, the one thing I could count on to fight me every step of the way, may have cracked, may have let someone through his protective armor? Afraid that someone might care about me? After Alderaan, after losing…everything…you'd think that I'd want someone to care about me, that I'd crave it. Instead, it's just the opposite…I'm terrified to let someone in again.
A conversation that I had with Luke rises, unbidden, into my mind. //Your friend is quite a mercenary- I wonder if he truly cares about anything…or anyone.//
Oooh…I hate being wrong. Although, in this instance, I could get used to it.