Disclaimer: George Lucas owns Star Wars, and subsequently a good part of my imagination.
She smells of kaffe and Alqurian oranges.
And he hates her for it.
Because now he can't even make breakfast without thinking of her. Her and her ridiculous caffe addiction. Her and the ridiculous time and effort she puts into her ridiculous it's-not-even-a-real-profession body of work, which subsequently fuels her ridiculous caffe addiction. And, no, it's not even a real profession, he muses moodily. What kind of princess grows up to become leader of a rebellion? Ridiculous.
Languid strands of steam caress his cheek bones as he pours himself a third serving of caffe, his fingers automatically winding themselves around the chipped blue handle of the mug. He drops himself into the closest chair at the slightly sticky table and falls into a sulky silence, and as he watches the hot brown liquid swirl in his cup he finds himself thinking of cold brown eyes.
Chewie once told him that smell was the keenest form of recognition. He had said that certain smells attach to certain things, and as soon as that scent finds its way up your nose, images of that certain thing--or certain someone--will pop up in your head.
He remembers laughing. He had told Chewie that maybe that's how it worked for Wookiees, but on no uncertain terms did he attach smells, of all things, to people. What human in their right mind goes round identifying people by smell?
He shakes his head slowly, then springs from his chair with sudden, undirected enmity, because his mind had been straying hopefully towards Those-Thoughts-That-Should-Not-Be-Thought, concerning She-That-Cannot-Be-Thought-Of-Like-That. He casts a contemptuous glance at the kaffe that has sloshed over the rim of his mug, and is now pooling in murky splotches on his table. He glares at it for a moment, half-thinking he can almost see the molecules of caffeine swirling beneath the thin surface of all that liquid brown, and isn't that in some way reminiscent of barely concealed intensity hidden beneath a grainy frozen overlay in eyes belonging to--
He swears, dropping his mug to the table, and marches out of the kitchen as fast as his not quite purposeful strides will take him, scowling at nothing in particular--whatever happens to cross his line of vision--and wildly casting about for something to think of other than her. He settles for 'nothing' as he stalks, as best the small space will allow, into the cockpit of his ship, taking his seat in the captain's chair and examining the finer points of the blank white void his conscious mind has latched on to.
His fingers dance across the controls as he contemplates this 'nothing', letting muscle memory take over as he checks the systems' analysis: engines, hyperdrive, sensors, communication, navigation. His forehead creases as he watches his fingers press buttons with practiced expertise. If he stops to wonder why he's preparing for take-off, he'll remember he has both nowhere to run to and everywhere to run to; places to be and nothing to do when he gets there. And he hates it when that realization hits him.
The comforting thunk of the engines crawling to life causes him to pause. His hands are sticky with kaffe.
He nearly jumps out of his skin when Chewie sticks his disheveled, bleary-eyed head round the doorframe and growls the not entirely soft growl of a Wookiee woken up several hours earlier than he would have liked. He spins his chair to glower at his copilot.
"What?"
Chewie raises a hairy eyebrow, still managing an angry glare, and nods towards the blinking control panel.
"What does it look like I'm doing? We're leaving."
His copilot might have asked why, or he might have called him an idiot; the two phrases intermingle in his brain as the Wookiee's comment floats over his head. He blinks and realizes he didn't catch whatever it was his partner said, so he gives the answer he wants to hear himself speak aloud. Justification will clear his head, he hopes, halfheartedly.
"Because it's about time we got out of here." He shoots the Wookiee a warning glance, as if daring him to question his well-thought-out logic, and returns his attention to his ship. "'Sides," he mutters, punching random coordinates into the navicomputer, "I never signed up for this, did I?"
Chewie stares impassively at the back of his head, then rolls his eyes and grumbles that he's going back to bed, and to wake him when they come across whatever it is he's looking for, exactly.
His partner shuffles away and he examines at the readings churned out by the navicomputer. His head is aching and his eyes hurt and it's far, far too early and he wants another cup of kaffe. His head gives a particularly painful throb and he winces, running a hand through his hair and gazing through the slightly frosted canopy out into the dimly lit docking bay. He sits in silence for a moment before his eyes catch on the sealed shield doors at the opposite end of the hanger. He snorts in disgust, and barely notices the tightness in his chest ease ever so slightly.
Settling back in his chair, he can almost feel the ship around him humming with excitement, the controls blinking invitingly. He eyes the comm system. Clearance for take-off would be easy to attain. A press of a button would be all it would take to rocket him light-years away from alarmingly alluring cold brown eyes. Not to suggest, of course, that he's running away from anything in particular.
His fingers are at his lips in thought. He can taste the kaffe on them. Sweet and sour and somehow essential. It's disgustingly early, and he's not a poetic man, and there's no connection between the two, anyway. But he pulls his sleeve over his hand all the same. He's never liked inferences unless they're on his terms.
One hour later and it's barely dawn. The earliest of early morning activity has begun to stir round the base, and as he sits in his chair, feet propped up on the no longer blinking control board, he watches the extremely dedicated and the extremely unlucky filter sleepily through the hanger on their way to the first morning shift. He swirls the dregs of his fifth cup of kaffe as he watches Wedge Antilles and Hobbie Kilvian--looking suspiciously chipper--rummage through a messy cabinet containing grimy sets of broken tools.
He's chewing on his cheek, resolutely avoiding the conversation he will eventually have with himself, regarding kaffe and citrus fruits and eyes and Maybe-You're-Not-Quite-the-Vagabond-You-Always-Thought-You-Were. Because ideas like that invariably lead him down roads he has no desire to follow--not that he knows this for a fact, because he's never been down those roads before. But certainly, he thinks, he has no business trying to trek them now.
With a stifled sigh, he gets to his feet and stretches his arms over his head. His hands brush the ceiling of the cockpit that was not made for Wookiees, nor for larger than life Corellians. Yet he's acclimated. He's kicked and thumped and cursed the walls, squeezed appropriately sized seating through inappropriately sized doors, and nearly wrecked the subspace radio making himself at home. Because this is his ship, gosh darn it, and he wasn't about to take no for an answer, nor be deterred by initial incongruity. A little adjusting on both sides--his and his ship's--and he'd found it was a perfect fit.
Abandoning his kaffe mug on the seat of his chair, he wanders first to his cabin to pull on his parka, then down the boarding ramp, his breathe materializing in crystal clouds before him as his boots hit the floor of the frigid hanger. He raises a hand listlessly as Wes Janson looks up from the cabinet he's digging in (evidently having taken over from Wedge and Hobbie) to hail him from down a line of X-Wings. He does a distracted double-take to stare at the pilot's hair, which is frozen into white spikes that shoot up from his head like icy bean sprouts. Wes turns to stick a hand back into a bucket of rusty tools, a grim expression spreading across his face as one of his hair-spikes droops mockingly to hang in front of his eyes.
If he wasn't sleep deprived and feeling alarmingly, inexplicably confused at his inability to request take-off clearance so many hours earlier, he would have laughed at the pilot's expression. As it is, he merely turns his attention to slipping smoothly through the hanger door, hearing it close behind him with a hiss.
After a moment's hesitation he heads in the direction of the mess hall, because he's come this far and realized he doesn't have any sort of plan as to where he's going or what he's looking for. He rounds a corner, musing that he could always catch up with Luke, or get himself another cup of kaffe, at the very least. Six cups before 0600 hours doesn't necessarily mean he's addicted.
So caught up is he in his exhausted brooding that he recognizes her voice before he remembers that he's in no mood to deal with her this morning. His vision clears as his eyes pull her into focus, and she's seen him before he can turn and skulk back down the corridor.
"Be sure to inform General Dodonna of the issue," she's saying, inching round a couple of tired looking Intelligence Officers to back towards him, "and he'll want to know the status of the repairs to the Marvel's life support system as well."
He's stopped dead behind her, frowning down at the top of her head as the two Intelligence Officers nod once, spare him glances of vague alarm, and hurry off in the other direction.
She turns, shooting him a dirty look as she takes a step back. "What is the matter with you?"
He opens his mouth but she cuts across him. "Never mind. Why are you up so early? Did you check the latest supply run lists? I think you're scheduled to leave for Jante tomorrow."
She sidesteps him smartly. "I have work to do. Luke was looking for you last--what?"
He's eyeing the Alqurian orange in her hands as if it has personally insulted him in some manner. She is halfway through peeling back the skin, her fingernails orange from her efforts, and shakes her head darkly when he doesn't respond.
"I don't know what you're doing up, but there's kaffe in the mess hall. You should get some, you look terrible."
He stares at her, and thinks he can very nearly see her almost fighting the smallest smidgen of a smirk. "You're not meant to be eating our food, you know, but I won't report you."
Turning quickly on her heel, she and her orange disappear in the opposite direction through a gaggle of slightly loopy soldiers returning from the graveyard shift, all clutching thermoses of kaffe.
He watches the steam rising from the tiny holes in their lids as they shuffle past him. The expression that bleeds up his face is not so much a smile as a grimace.
He determinedly retraces his steps through the icy corridors, making his way back to his ship with long, purposeful strides. He catches the faint sound of delightedly distraught shouting and running water down an adjoining hallway as he steps through the hanger door.
Stomping up the boarding ramp, he yanks down the zipper of his parka as the warm air engulfs him."Chewie!" he clatters into the kitchen, snatching the broken pieces of mug from the floor and tossing them into the sink, making as much noise as possible so as to drown out the thoughts tugging with wicked glee at the back of his brain.
"Chewie!" he yells again, straightening up to find his copilot leaning testily against the doorframe, watching him. The Wookiee growls as his partner frowns at him.
"No, we're not 'there'" he raises his arms as if to suggest that his parka should have made that painfully obvious. "We never left." He brushes past his copilot, thinking he'd very much like to fall back into bed.
Chewie's voice calls him back. "Sith, Chewie; yeah, we are. We're going to Jante tomorrow," he snaps over his shoulder. Another growl. "Yes, it's a supply run. Now will you just shut up?"
The door to his cabin slides shut behind him with a dull thump as he tosses his parka to the floor and drops thankfully to the bed. He sits for a moment, elbows on knees, prodding his closed eyelids with the pads of his fingers.
He hears Chewie approach his door; the lilt in the Wookiee's muffled question suggests that, had he the energy, he should be irritated with his partner for finding entertainment in his obvious spiral to insanity.
Deciding he'll address this mutinous amusement later, he murmurs into his hands. "Do I want you to clean up the spilled kaffe in the kitchen?" Would it make a difference? "Yes," he mumbles, "I guess you'd better."
A/N: Thoughts, for better or for worse? Those lovely enough to review are welcome to join Chewie in snickering behind Han's back. Alternatively, they may comfort the poor, confused man.