a/n: i don't have a lot to say here, though i'm sure i'll be defending myself a lot by the next author's note.


Absolution
Part 1/3

two months after Bespin.


Leia's nightmares about him were endless, relentless; she woke violently, frequently, from the smoke-filled, blistering hot specter of Bespin, dizzy and blind and choking on her grief – and for a short time, that is what she attributed her unsettled stomach to – grief, stress, trauma.

She missed him, and she wanted him back so badly, and she felt so alone, and hollow, and lost.

It did not take her very long to discern that the nausea was not a product of the nightmares, not a physical after effect of waking up afraid and devastated, but a separate thing, stemming from its own root; being a relatively intelligent woman, she understood, in a terrible moment of clarity, what ailed her – more accurately, plagued her – and she felt only terror; she felt miniscule, drowning in an enormous world that sought to crush her.

She felt young, and scared, and stupid – and she felt robbed, and gutted, and abandoned, because the one person she could turn to when she needed bravery and strength was gone, beyond her reach, frozen – and this would likely terrify him anyhow.

Han, she thought, staring at herself in the tiny scrap of a mirror in her quarters, fixated on her own reflected gaze as she gingerly brushed her teeth, willing herself to keep the nothingness in her stomach down.

She spit the sour, rotten taste out of her mouth and rinsed and brushed again, struggling to feel clean and fresh – she only felt tired, and sore, and worried – and her stomach lurched as she straightened back up; she took a few deep breaths, her head spinning.

Leia ached to go back to bed, shut off the lights, hide, curl up under her Alliance issue blanket and see if sheer desperate wishing could change this, make it go away –

She had appearances to keep up, though; she had a job to do, she always had a job to do, and for now, she prayed that would keep her going like it always had.

Alderaan obliterated? – think about it later; there's work to do. Falling in love – don't you dare, ignore it, there's a war to fight.

She couldn't let her stamina come crashing to a halt now; she just needed some time to figure out what she was going to do – not what; how to do what she needed to do – and she was filled with dread as she braced herself day after day to act normal, comport herself with the grace and dignity they expected from her –

- but that was so impossible to do when she kept having to take sick leave – and she had to, it wasn't a matter of feeling so-so, or being unwilling to face them, she was so sick sometimes it was impossible to move without flinging herself over a sink or a sani, and they were already watching her like a hawk, questioning her sanity – Where were you and Han Solo for over a month? – they demanded answers about Lando – Is he a traitor or not? – they wanted her evaluated, they wanted to help her focus herself –

She'd been seen in medical when they first arrived back at the rendezvous point, but everyone had been so focused on Luke, his missing appendage, and Leia had fought off medical attention – I don't need it, no one touched me; no one hurt me – she insisted, cool and calm – you can't give me an antibiotic that would cure the mental scars – they had made her watch them torture Han, but there was no tangible medical cute for injury to the soul.

Leia moved slowly this morning, keeping her lips pressed closed; periodically taking sips of cold water and holding mints under her tongue – mint always settles the stomach, her mother had told her once, and Leia's eyes stung at thoughts of her; she wanted her mother, or any female, any woman to talk to who was closer than a mere friendly acquaintance.

She felt stuck, in a manner of speaking; she knew what was wrong with her, she knew she had to act, but she kept taking life day by day, compartmentalizing – she tried not to think about the personal diagnostic she'd run on herself two days ago; it only confirmed a feeling, anyway; and she silenced the voice of the human physician she'd spoken with after hours last night – Yes, the woman said in a clipped, private tone, I saw the indication on your charts; I thought you knew.

They took her blood when they treated her for shock, dehydration, and exhaustion after Bespin, and not a single medic, droid or flesh-and-blood, thought to pull her aside, and quietly tell her. She had to figure it out herself, day by day realization dawning, until the realization that she was getting sick, and she wasn't bleeding hit her over the head like an asteroid.

Leia brushed at her hair, fastening her braids to her scalp, steadying her hands – thought I knew? With such a tone of disapproval, too – as if I planned this, invited this; it isn't fair, I was protected, it was protocol, this is your fault - !

She drew the line at blaming others, though, and paused to stare at herself again in the mirror. She was so pale – so pale, and thin, which wasn't good, though it didn't matter; she wasn't concerned about her health, because there was only one way for this to go, and it didn't require good health on her part.

She put her hands on her neck and held on to herself for a moment – go back to bed, tell them you're sick again – a little voice in her head pleaded with her, and she refused it, eyes on herself; she was going to have to face someone at some point – she was going to have to tell High Command at some point.

It was only that – it was almost like – as long as she kept it to herself, and played her part, it wouldn't be true; it wouldn't be real.


She shouldn't have left her room; shouldn't have gone to the meeting – it was a vitally important discussion, that much was inarguable, but she forced her own hand. It was for the best, perhaps, but at the price of being humiliated - ?

Leia leaned against the sloping wall outside the grand conference room, her eyes closed lightly. She pressed both hands behind her into the cool metal, her head bowed forward tiredly. She swallowed slowly, very carefully, and squeezed her eyes closed, and then she took a deep breath, and reopened them hesitantly.

She lifted her head a little, wary of moving too quickly. Her vision swam threateningly, dizzily, and she carefully tilted her head back until it rested gently against the wall. The chill of the metal on the back of her neck was only the barest of comforts, but she reveled in it. She wished she'd thought to bring some of her mints – and her mouth watered, in that way that was metallic and miserable.

She should have bowed out of the briefing – but again, how could she? There was no way to keep up a charade if she wasn't present to act in it; absenting herself from this briefing would make it the third one she'd missed this week, and that would cause too much concern, too much attention. She'd be scrutinized and fawned over, and she wanted to be left alone, to think, and to cope, so she could confront this firmly.

She stared upwards, her lips forming a solitary word – Han.

She didn't know if he would make this any better, any easier, if he were here; she didn't know how he would react at all, and that almost killed her. She had felt so close to him, so like she was a part of him, and he a part of her, and something like this, hanging over her head, drove home the point that a month of intimacy was nothing, a miniscule second in the grand scheme of time, and she wondered if they really knew each other at all.

Leia clutched her ribs, digging her thumb into her side tightly, wincing. Her mouth was slick and watery, and she clinched her teeth tightly.

"Princess?"

The word was soft, concerned, and Leia blinked, her throat tightening. She was afraid to move her head for a moment; she still felt like vomiting. She drew in a slow breath and set her shoulders back, lowering her head to face the voice.

Mon Mothma's calm, grey eyes stared back at her, and General Rieekan was at her side. His arms were folded across his chest, one hand pressed flat against his shoulder, and he looked grim, though not in a disapproving way – grim like he dreaded the coming conversation.

"Are you feeling alright?" Mon Mothma asked gently.

It was a courtesy question, polite; she knew damn well Leia was ill, it was obvious from her countenance, the way she held herself, her absences of late, and the way she'd excused herself from the meeting.

Leia compressed her lips tightly. She lifted her shoulders in a silent shrug – there was no point in lying, or lip service; it was so clear that she wasn't feeling well.

"I think I should have taken the morning," Leia said neutrally, her voice straned.

She closed her eyes and swayed on her feet. When she stuck out her hand instinctively to steady her balance, Rieekan reached out and took her elbow gently, tilting his head with a small frown. He glanced at Mon Mothma for a split second.

"That would be your third half day of leave this week," Mon Mothma said reflectively. She did not add that Leia had been late several additional mornings; she didn't need to. She tilted her head studiously. "I think you ought to be seen in the Medical bay," the Alliance commander said calmly. "Carlist, will you escort her?"

Rieekan nodded – he knew she'd already been seen by medical, when she and Luke returned from Bespin without Han, with a traitor, and with multiple injuries and fried droids to tend to; there was obviously something more deeply embedded bothering her – Rieekan could only imagine; the stress of the past months since the Hoth evacuation, the shock of losing Han Solo – he knew she cared for him deeply, whether she admitted it to herself or not.

Leia took a step forward shakily.

"And Leia," Mon Mothma said, her expression unreadable. "I'd like to see you in my office, when you're feeling up to it," she told her mildly. "Today." The last word was an order, though cloaked in polite kindness.

Leia did not meet the other woman's eyes - she looked past her, and nodded, her hand pressing anxiously into her ribs; her stomach twisted queasily.

Mon Mothma turned, and began to glide away, and Leia leaned back. She bolted forward sharply.

"Carlist," she said weakly – she covered her mouth tightly.

He looked around him desperately for something to give her, came up short, and decided to pull her quickly into the conference room they'd just emerged from. Jan Dodonna was still in there, gathering up a couple of classified datapads.

He looked surprised to see Rieekan return, and even more surprised to see Leia, but that was nothing compared to how startled he was when she flung Rieekan's arm away from her and turned towards the wall, ultimately losing her battle with this bout of nausea. She didn't have enough in her stomach to make a real mess, but having an audience and no sani was enough to make her sick a second time.

"Princess!" Dodonna exclaimed – she heard the alarm in his tone, but her nose and eyes burned, and she found herself coughing painfully, so she did not hear what Rieekan said in response to Jan's outburst.

She felt him put his hand on the back of her shoulder, keeping a respectful distance. Her shoulders trembled, and Dodonna caught his bearings, venturing over to help.

Leia side-stepped the mess and slumped against the wall, pressing her forehead into it, her back to them. She should have taken the morning – it would have been better than this; their speculating about what was wrong with her would be better than them witnessing this. She knew she'd have to speak with Mon Mothma eventually – she'd only wanted to set her head straight first; she was still embroiled in panic, instead of composure.

"Leia?" Rieekan asked quietly.

She took a deep breath, and stepped back, shaking her head.

"I don't need to go to Medical," she said hoarsely. "I'll speak with Mon now."

Rieekan nodded, his hand warm on her shoulder.

"I'll go with you," he began, but she only shook her head again.

"No," she said quietly.

Rieekan hesitated, and then squeezed he shoulder very lightly, moving away to give her space.

Leia set her shoulders back, murmuring a diplomatic apology to Dodonna – and he merely looked at her warily, as if he felt trapped in a different universe; she heard Rieekan calling for a custodial droid, and she tried to craft sentences in her head, plan, script how this conversation was going to go.

Leaving the room, she heard their gruff exchange –

"What was that about?" Dodonna asked heavily, and Leia paused, her head tilted just slightly, waiting to hear Rieekan's response - s he knew him well enough that she could imagine him rubbing his jaw, shifting his weight stiffly, as he answered –

"I – I don't know, Jan," he muttered. He sighed. "I think Mon's right."

Leia found herself leaning against the wall like she had moments ago, when Mon had ordered her to her office in the first place, and she felt winded, all of the breath knocked out of her; was it that transparent – did they all know? Leia crossed her arms across her abdomen and bowed forward, squeezing her eyes shut.

It was punishment; retribution – divine karma, for thinking she could be happy after all the death she'd seen, and been responsible for; one month of bliss traded for blood, on her hands, as always.


Mon Mothma's office was impersonal, but that was to be expected; bases were transient locations, and there was little time to decorate, or feel at home. Their particular location now was so scattered and uncertain – most of the leadership convened on this dilapidated, hijacked Mon Calamari cruiser, hidden near Sullust, the rank and file scattered, scrambling still to recover from Hoth –

She asked Leia to sit in a chair in front of her desk, and then, in an effort to appear congenial – an effort that did nothing to soothe Leia, or fool her, she sat on the edge of her desk, facing Leia, one leg crossed neatly over the other.

"You are sure you don't want to spend a moment with a physician?" she asked.

Leia shook her head slowly.

"You're feeling better?"

Leia said nothing.

Mon Mothma took that as a signal to dispense with the small talk. She sighed, her shoulders slouching for a moment, rubbed her forehead, and lifted her chin.

"Leia, we need to have a conversation," she said.

She was grim, and she dropped Leia's title as she often did when they spoke privately. It was a tactic that was less – amicable and friendly, and more of a subtle reminder that Mon had known Leia since she was a child, had known her father – and it struck Leia with a rush of shame that she stubbornly tried to abolish.

"Yes," Leia agreed simply.

Mon Mothma picked up a slim datapad and tapped her finger on it, clearing her throat.

"I want to give you the chance to tell your own story," she said quietly.

Leia felt small again, tinier than she'd ever felt – and she'd stood in front of Emperors, Sith Lords, and Kings.

That sense of shame flared in her again, but so, too, did a rush of anger at Mon Mothma's faux gentility – you think you're doing me a favor, Mon? Leia grit her teeth – well tell me this; how can you possibly already know?

She had no confidants, she'd made no references to any personal relationships she may or may not have had – Mon Mothma was smart; the High Command was stocked with unnaturally intelligent people, and yet a few half-day absences, some late mornings – it never should have resulted in this assumption, necessarily, not when Leia was, for all public appearances, completely unattached, and even assumed to be celibate

"Why do I get the feeling you already know?" Leia asked, her tone clipped, full of steel.

Mon Mothma looked up from her datapad, holding it on her knees bracingly.

"Are you pregnant?" she asked bluntly.

Leia exhaled quietly; it was like a hit directly to the gut, drawing strength out of her – it was a hard, damning word, somehow, one she'd been careful not to say out loud: pregnant; so many rough consonants, and every one of them falling on her ears like a condemnation.

Still, she took care not to flinch; she made her face blank.

"Yes."

Her answer was flat, and admission to herself, a confession to her supervisor – and the two women looked at each other for a long stretch of silence, while Leia's head and heart pounded with – barely controlled anxiety, and fear, and grief, still, the ever-present grief.

Han. Han, Han, Han -!

"How long have you been aware?" Mon Mothma asked quietly.

"I could ask you the same," Leia said sharply. She narrowed her eyes at the datapad in Mon Mothma's lap, and Mon's fingers curled around the edges of it.

"I was given your medical report immediately," she answered honestly. "Our head physician alerted me."

Leia's blood burned, and seethed. She sat forward, her expression dark – violated; angry.

"That is private," she hissed, metered rage. "You had no right."

"I had every right," Mon Mothma said, neutral, and calm. "You know I did; you agreed to it. You ratified the same standard operating procedures that I did specific to High Command: any medical ailment, mental or physical, that impedes a leader's ability to serve must be disclosed to members of the council with haste. Medical notified me immediately."

She struggled with the immature desire to protest – but not when it's my medical ailment! Her face flushed, and she grit her teeth.

"This is different," she said flatly. "You think it will impede my ability to serve – "

"Am I to understand you don't?" Mon interrupted, her tone takin on a coarse edge.

She looked at Leia with quiet disbelief, and anger – and disappointment. Leia's lips moved soundlessly, an she bit back her words, her hands shaking. She twisted them together in her lap.

"I waited for you to bring this to me," Mon said, softening her tone again.

"I wasn't told," Leia snapped. "I had no reason to suspect, until – well I didn't – I was blindsided myself!"

Her words started to break down, and she bit her tongue, holding back again. Had she ever sounded so stupid and inexperienced in her life? She didn't think so – no; she was trained better than this, she was pure skill and efficiency and grace – except perhaps with Han.

Mon Mothma seemed to hesitate.

"I don't want to – disturb you, Leia, but, considering your conflict with Imperials on Bespin," she said. "Were you raped?"

Leia reared back, as if she'd been slapped, her face flushing. Her neck felt hot, and she narrowed her eyes, grinding her teeth, jaw setting.

"No," she retorted emphatically.

She leaned to the side, rubbing her temple. She shook her head.

"No," she said, even softer.

"Were you taken advantage of?" Mon Mothma pressed.

Leia straightened up, her eyes hardening coldly.

"If you want to ask who I've been fucking, Mon, then do it," she said flatly. "I'm more than capable of making a sexual decision without it being by force."

Mon Mothma gave her a pinched look, but inclined her head.

"I want to understand what happened between Hoth, and here, that put you in this position."

Leia licked her lips. She turned her head to the side, touching her bottom lip with her thumb.

"Han," she said tiredly. "It's Han. I've been with Han."

"Han Solo did this?"

Leia closed her eyes heavily – why did she have to make it sound like a crime, a criminal act? I fell in love, I can't help it, I'm a woman – I'm not a machine.

She turned her head, and said dryly –

"I do not think it was his explicit intention."

Mon Mothma sighed, and there was something like sympathy on her face, something like – an attempt at understanding, and sadness even, and she shook her head.

"Leia, how could you be so reckless?" she asked.

Leia's heart nearly stopped.

"Reckless?" she gasped. She sat forward stiffly, pressing a hand to her ribs. "Reckless – Mon, I abide by the same protocols as every other woman in this militia, I had a hormonal implant that I didn't even need – until I did, until I relied on it to do its job, and it failed," she shook her head, her eyes stinging, "it didn't work, Mon – so who has failed me?"

Mon Mothma bowed her head, and Leia wondered if she was rolling her eyes, thinking, well, you ought to have stayed chaste, Leia, we needed your virginity for a treaty, anyway.

Leia stood up, crossing her arms over herself. She paced the office, swallowing hard a few times, and regained herself – she had no interest in accusations, excuses; there was only action to be taken – as much as it felt like physical torture to have this conversation, she could breathe a little easier, because she was unstuck – she had to go forward, now.

Behind her, she heard Mon Mothma sigh again, and move around. When Leia turned, the other woman was standing behind her desk, her palms flat, shuffling among holo-Maps, flimsy data read-outs. She put a hand to her head.

"There isn't a lot of recourse for us," she said.

Leia stood before the desk, watching her silently.

Mon Mothma placed her fingertip on a map.

"I think the best option is to send you into the safe house network," she murmured. "Vader knows you weren't killed on Bespin, so it won't be the best sort of hiding – though we could engender rumors that you've been killed," she paused. "You aren't required to tell anyone."

Listening, Leia stepped forward a bit, the words sinking in – word by word, they hit her skin, and she was confused, and then taken aback, and she opened her mouth, asking –

"What are you talking about?"

Mon looked up, matter-of-fact.

"This puts you out of commission, Leia. I don't care what you think," she said sharply. "You can't fight. I have no idea what you might do when you come to term, though I'm sure you do not turn your nose up at adoption – "

"Mon," Leia cut in quietly, a strange expression on her face. "I'm not going to have it."

She said it with such surety, surety she wasn't even sure she felt - but with disbelief, too, that Mon would entertain the idea, that she would assume, that in the midst of all this, Leia's obvious course of action would be to – with a civil war raging, and Han perhaps lost forever, and no home, no family, no friends – when she was one of the Empire's most wanted, and setting foot in civilized systems without a disguise guaranteed bounty hunters descended on her?

She stared at her counterpart, and Mon looked at a loss for a moment.

She cleared her throat, and then sat down gingerly, folding her arms.

"I thought," she began delicately, "with Alderaan's – customs," she hesitated.

Leia tightened her jaw, and shook her head.

It didn't matter what Alderaan's customs were. Alderaan was dust and debris, and Leia had nothing, and no one, to rely on. She felt drained, and she felt uncertain, but none of that mattered – on top of everything else, she couldn't do it, she wasn't ready, there was no – there was no real choice here.

Mon Mothma put her hands to her face and massaged her temples, thinking.

"Well," she began, pushing aside some things on her desk. She steepled her fingers together, and pointed. "Sit down, Leia."

Leia sat – tensely, on the edge of the chair.

"You're talking about a procedure we're not fully equipped to perform," Mon Mothma said carefully. "We put our facilities together on scraps as it is. The medical bay is focused on trauma. War injuries – "

"I know," Leia said flatly.

"It won't be chemical," Mon said. "I don't think we are stocked in the pills."

Leia gave her a cold look.

"That seems incredibly stupid," she remarked mildly. "You're running a co-ed intergalactic insurgency and you don't think accidents happen?"

"The hormonal implant requirement precludes accidents," Mon said quietly.

Leia gestured to herself, without a word; nothing else needed to be said.

She turned her head and shrugged jerkily, as if trying to silently throw off her fear, and her worry, and the hundred other emotions that were vying for dominance inside of her.

"I don't have any other option," Leia said curtly.

Mon said nothing to her. She was quiet for a long time, and then she pulled a datapad towards her.

"I'll schedule you personally," she said.

Leia turned to look at her, and she noticed Mon looked pale, suddenly – exhausted, and worn. Leia was irritated by that, for some reason; as if Mon had no right to feel put upon when this was just a personnel hiccup to her, but to Leia, to Leia it was –

"You'll at least a week of recovery, light duty only – if any duty at all," she murmured, concise, controlled. "You'll also have to undergo a new medical clearance for service."

Leia listened, betraying no emotion.

Mon Mothma set her file aside, and leaned forward, resting on her arms heavily.

"And I'll order a demotion," she said.

Leia blinked – she was startled, and then a part of her was not startled, and that grim, sneaking sense of shame bit at her once more, though again, she shoved it down, tried to stamp it out. She felt targeted, and a sharp stab of pain cut through her – she couldn't lose her distraction, she couldn't lose her work, not when she'd lost Han, and everything else –

"Why?" she asked coldly.

"You won't lose your place on the High Command," Mon said calmly. "You'll receive a reduction in rank on the military side."

Leia's eyes still asked the same question, and Mon was cool in her answer –

"Your priorities have not been appropriately placed since your return from Bespin."

Leia grit her teeth so hard she was afraid they would crack, and she felt as if she would start screaming, or burst into tears – the accusation was so shallow, such a thinly veiled attempt to punish her for daring to act selfishly, and emotionally, instead of like the unwavering martyr they wanted her to be for the cause – of course I am shaken, my best friend is maimed, Han is gonethey ripped my heart from my chest and left a gaping, bleeding wound, and I have to have my mistake, the physical reminder, scraped out of me -

The soldier in her took over, and she stood, with only a short nod.

"I understand," she said coolly.

"The High Command will be informed of the issue, Leia," Mon Mothma warned.

"Fine."

Mon Mothma looked up and met her eyes. She parted her lips in hesitation, pausing to think – and she bit her lip.

"I promised your father I'd look after you," she said.

Leia gave a hard shrug.

"You didn't have anything to do with this."

Save it, Mon – you have no idea what this is like.

"You may go," Mon Mothma said gently.

Leia inclined her head, departing the room.

She found the nearest 'fresher, and ducked into it, locking the door tightly behind her. She gripped the edges of a sink, and waited, her head spinning, until she was sick, her throat, nose, and eyes burning again, and this time, she thought, the nausea was a byproduct of the stress she was under.

She sank to the floor and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, tucking her head down into her knees – and she tried not to cry, and she struggled to find a way to detach herself.


The sterile environment of the medical bay made her feel raw and vulnerable, and for what felt like the hundredth time, Leia felt impossibly small in the bed. Tucked behind a curtain, IV in her arm, she leaned back against the smooth metal headboard, avoiding looking at Luke beside her.

She could have kept it from him, but in the end he was the only person around here who meant something to her on a personal level, and her loneliness got the best of her. He wasn't a woman, so there would be an undeniable gap of camaraderie, but he was her friend, and above all else, Luke was kind, and understanding.

He picked at frayed strings on the knit blanket near her feet, the movement of his false hand still new to him, and hard to manage.

He hadn't reacted much at all; his brows just knit with concern, overwhelmed confusion – I'm not sick, Luke; I got pregnant – he just looked at her worriedly, listening; Oh. Leia, what does that…what are you going to do? – Leia swallowed thickly, and he was the first person she said it out loud to – Have an abortion – Mon Mothma had told the council, and authorized the procedure, but Leia told Luke, and he sat with her, his hand near hers – Okay, he murmured. Are you alright?

He twisted one of his prosthetic fingers around a thread and broke it, examining it.

"So," he said, looking up. He put his chin in his palm. "You and Han?"

Leia drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. She was careful about the IV in her arm – only fluids, and pre-emptive antibiotics. She rested her cheek on her knee, facing Luke, and nodded wordlessly.

When she closed her eyes, tears spilled down her cheeks.

"I only just got used to loving him," she whispered.

She had forgotten, in the blur of weeks since the return from Bespin, that Luke had been none the wiser about her evolved relationship with Han; he'd been elsewhere, his head buried in caves, and swamps, and ancient Jedi lore.

He seemed to take it well, considering she'd always known him to be interested in her – or perhaps she had been mistaken, and arrogantly taken friendship for romantic inclinations.

"Well, the rest of us were getting kind of tired of it," Luke quipped, offering a little smile – like he hoped he might make her feel a little better, but didn't want to make light of her.

Leia wiped at her face swiftly, returning the smile.

"You know Fett will take him to Jabba for the bounty," Luke said slowly. "We'll keep an ear to the ground to find out what Jabba does to him, and we'll go from there. He was alive, Leia," he reminded her.

Leia said nothing – she was afraid Jabba would kill him, she was afraid she'd never see him again – and she wanted to see him again, so badly. She missed his scent, his voice, the warmth of his skin against hers, the sound of his heart, the way he breathed when he was asleep –

Luke reached out and touched her shoulder gently, and the warmth of his fingertips through her thin gown told her it was his real hand. He held the other in his lap, his blue eyes searching hers.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked – without judgment, but with very real concern. His voice wavered a little.

She looked at him for a long time.

"I don't know," she said hoarsely. "It is what I am going to do."

That she said with conviction, but until Luke asked her, she had never admitted that she had doubts, that her first thought in the back of her heart, in the bottom of her soul, was not that she wanted to do this – she thought, but I love Han, and I might want this – I never thought I'd have this.

She was so cared though, and so unprepared, and the idea was ludicrous; she wanted the idea, maybe, in the abstract – she licked her lips, and shrugged at Luke.

"What else is there?" she asked, half-rhetorical.

Luke looked helpless.

"We're trying to find Han," he said. "You don't want to give up on that, do you?"

She shook her head, wiping her eyes.

"You might get him back, and he…Han's a good man," Luke said, faltering.

Leia compressed her lips, and shook her head.

"I know he's good," she said shakily.

She tilted her head up to the ceiling.

"Luke, I can't handle this," she admitted.

He nodded.

It was all too much – there were too many factors, too many uncertainties; Mon Mothma illustrated how insane a concept it was to try and hide, and what bothered Leia more was – she didn't want to be alone, she didn't want to do this alone. In all her life, when she thought about children – and in recent years, she hadn't even known if she would ever want them – she had never envisioned it like this.

Han could end up dead, lost forever – she feared the heartbreak she'd suffer, if she lost him, and her work, lost her place with the Rebellion, and thus was hidden with only a singular reminder of Han relying on her and needing protection; that she didn't think she could do – but even more, she feared finding Han, having him back, and presenting him with an irreversible truth – their relationship was so fresh, so new, when he was ripped away from her, and if she – if he came back and she – it would be a shock, perhaps even a trap, and it just wasn't how she wanted her relationship to go –

"I couldn't do that to Han," she said.

Those words, though, engendered more guilt, more stress – what if he hated her for this? What if he thought she'd made a choice for him, stolen something - she had no idea where Han's head would be if he were here.

She could barely get a handle on herself, barely control her grief over losing him; there was no healthy way for her to take on the responsibility of –

"I can't have a baby, Luke," she said hoarsely.

Luke nodded again.

"It's dangerous," he said. "I get it, Leia. I understand."

She wasn't sure he did, if only because he'd never be able to empathize, really put himself in her shoes, and she kept catching herself desperately wishing Han was here, but that desire conflicted with a simultaneous dread of what Han would think about this, what he would want, how he would process it –

That was the ultimate, painful truth, though, the core of her storm of emotions: she was alone, entirely alone; it was all on her – the choice, the strain, the aftermath, any possible fallout.

"I don't know what to say to make you feel better," Luke ventured finally, an earnest look on his face.

"There isn't anything," she said quietly. "It's okay."

Luke took a deep breath.

"For what it's worth, I think Han really loves you, Leia," he said quietly. "I know he kind of, um, isn't eloquent about it, but I think he does. Love you."

Leia couldn't quite put into words how much she appreciated the use of present tense – and unexpectedly, a soft smile touched her lips, painful as it was to smile, and she said, hoarsely –

"I know."

Luke turned his head at a movement behind him, glancing back at Leia warily as a physician moved around the stiff metal curtain. The human doctor only stood there, gravely, her eyes on Leia, and Luke cleared his throat, standing up, put keeping his hand on Leia's shoulder.

"Do you," he started, awkward, and uncertain if it was even appropriate to offer, "want me to stay with you?"

Leia thought about it a moment, her throat locking up – she was touched at the offer, but knowing what the procedure entailed – violated, invaded, laid bare – she shook her head abruptly, struggling to keep her voice steady.

"No," she said hoarsely. "I want to be alone."

Luke nodded, and on a whim, bent over to kiss the top of her head. He left slowly, with a last wary look at the physician. Leia loosened her grip on her legs and eased them down a little, her hands falling into her lap.

The physician started to speak – mild, local anesthetic, we'll make it as comfortable as possible – are you aware of potential complications, side effects - -Leia listened, her hand pressed absently to her abdomen, and she steadied herself by breathing slowly, focusing on logic, duty.

There was a part of her that hurt, and ached – Han, I really need you; Han, what should I do – and a part of her that was restless for this to be over – get rid of it, get it over with, I can't think straight, I feel so sick and powerless –


When she opened the door to her quarters, and found General Rieekan standing there, she saw the shock on his face, and it gave her some amusement, a flicker of laughter – for she realized he had likely never seen her dressed so casually.

She had assumed it would be Luke, and so she didn't bother to change quickly; clearly, she was wrong. Standing there in cotton shorts, loose around the waist, and an Alliance-issue undershirt with their emblem on the right shoulder, she hesitated, and then nodded her head, stepping back.

"Carlist," she murmured.

"I don't want to disturb you," Rieekan said swiftly.

"Come in," she said, her only answer.

Her hair was twisted in a loose braid, and knotted at the back of her neck. He looked about the small quarters she had been assigned, and noticed a personal datapad on her desk, along with masses of official work, battle plans, attack proposals –

She shut the door behind him, and crossed her arms across herself – fortifying her stance, and protective her personal space.

He noticed she still looked pale, and she had dark circles under her eyes.

Carlist turned to her, his uniform cap tucked under his arm. He cleared his throat, standing with his feet apart, and considered her hesitantly.

"Mon told me you are set to return to work tomorrow," he said gruffly.

Leia nodded.

"I came by to ask if you need more time," he said bluntly.

Her face did not change for a moment. She looked at him without blinking, and then turned, striding over to her bunk and sitting down on the edge of it, her back straight. She hadn't been sleeping well, and that was nothing new to her, but the only way she knew how to recover from heartache – to survive, through heartache – was to throw herself into some project, some fight, something meaningful, and every day of rest, and recuperation, was worsening her outlook, and deepening her fears, and her stress.

"Time will not do me any good," she answered levelly.

She cleared her throat.

"I'm fine, Carlist," she lied.

Ah – it wasn't too much of a lie. She was handling herself, she was surviving. Physically, she was hurting; she felt raw, and sore, and drained – emotionally hollow, all the time.

There was restlessness in her, though; she needed to move, she needed to do something – anything to alleviate dwelling on what she'd done, on a weight that was somehow lifted from, and at the same time heavy on, her shoulders.

He took a few steps forward, and placed his hand on the back of her desk chair. Thoughtfully, he pulled it out, and sat down on it, setting his cap aside. He leaned forward slowly, lifting his head to look her in the eye. He felt a lot of sorrow for her, and purely sympathetic sorrow, nothing that resembled pity, which was what he felt some of the others directed at her, and certainly not wariness, or disappointment.

He knew there was nothing really he could have done; things just happened, things like this especially, but he wanted to be there for her, if she'd let him; if it was appropriate. He still wasn't sure he'd recovered from the absurd shock he'd felt when he mentioned that he was worried about Leia's state of mind, when she was so out of sorts and withdrawn those weeks after Bespin, and Mon Mothma had said to him, quite coolly – That girl is pregnant, Carlist, and I can't imagine what we're going to do about it.

Pregnant? - he'd thought – what the - ? It hadn't been a leap of the imagination, though, and then he'd felt a strange sense of relief for her, knowing she must have finally let herself feel this obvious thing there was between herself and Captain Solo – and his heart sank, heavy, to fully realize how much it must have gutted her to come back without him, and then this –

"Princess Leia," he said quietly. "When you joined the Rebellion, I swore to your father that I would keep you safe," he said.

Leia gave him a placid, almost patronizing look, as Mon Mothma's words echoed in her head – her father was so frequently mentioned to her, and she wondered if they tried to imply he would be ashamed, angry – well; she had no idea what her father would think of his, she only had thoughts for her mother, in these aftermath days.

"That hasn't changed," Rieekan said, enunciating very carefully.

He paused, and lifted his brows slightly.

"I do not care if High Command has seen fit to demote you," he said firmly. "I've told them blatantly I disagree with the decision."

Leia looked at him a little more clearly. She pulled her hands into her lap, and pressed them together, some of her tension easing – she wasn't sure what she had been expecting; Rieekan had always been a kind man, a fair, and understanding man, but she was sure she'd shocked him as much as the others, though he kept his distance, and showed concern.

She lifted her shoulders.

"It's done," she said simply.

Lieutenant, she thought bitterly.

Rieekan nodded heavily.

"I think you've shown incredible strength," he told her bluntly.

Leia turned her head away. She bit the inside of her lip, trying to keep herself steady – she'd felt so alienated, and so excommunicated, from the leadership, and his words meant more to her than she thought they would.

Her insecurities welled up in her, burning, and hurting.

"I don't feel strong," she said hoarsely, the words tumbling from her mouth in a guilty, difficult confession. "I feel, I feel," she said in a hushed tone. She put her hand towards her chest, curling her fingers in. "Empty."

"You must," Rieekan agreed honestly. "I know you must – and I'm sorry, Princess," he said sincerely. His voice quieted, an intent whisper: "I'm so sorry you went through this."

She nodded, and reached up to touch her eyes with both hands, pressing her fingertips against lightly closed eyelids.

She was sorry, too – an already devastating event was so poisoned. She felt like all of her good memories of Han were tainted; she felt suffocated by the weight of losing him, and having to handle the mess they made, and she felt relieved that she was past it, that she could consume herself with some other focus – kill the Empire, save him –

She told herself she never had to think about this again – she was free of it unless she was able to have Han back – until, she tried to tell herself, free of it until, - Lando's promises haunted her at night, lacing in and out of nightmares in which she reached for Han and he stared back at her, cemented in time – We'll find Han, Princess.

Then – tell him what?

What would he think?

She tried not to agonize over that because none of this, none of the brutality and heartache of this experience had changed her mind about him – she still wanted him back so badly, she didn't want to give up, on him, or on the fight – this was another sacrifice, another rough, miserable decision – casualty of war.

"I did what I had to," Leia said quietly.

She looked at Rieekan searchingly – I did, didn't I? She had so few people to talk to, so few avenues of support; her friendships were professional relationships, diplomatic and polite, and like a teenager, she found herself seeking approval – I don't need approval; there was nothing else to do.

Still, she gazed at General Rieekan.

He nodded, simply nodded.

Her eyes filled with tears, her face paling.

"I love him," she said, almost defensively. "I wasn't – I wasn't just," she broke off. She pointed both of her hands inward, at her stomach. "I love Han," she said hoarsely – that's what made it so much worse, the emotional attachment - she kept going back to Mon Mothma's crude inquiry, almost hopeful, like she hoped Leia hadn't been taken in by a smuggler – Were you raped?No, Mon, because if I had been, this would have been easy.

Rieekan blinked at her calmly.

"I do not look at you differently regardless," he said matter-of-factly.

Regardless of whether it was love, or a drunken indiscretion, a fling – he didn't care, and he didn't demand to know the details; the only concerns he had couldn't be answered while Han Solo was captive elsewhere – all he wanted to know, all Rieekan wanted to know, was if Leia needed anything, needed any help, and beyond that, if Han knew how much this woman hurt for him, how much she bled for them all; did he know how much her love was worth?

"It will be alright, Princess," he soothed quietly – it was almost an order, like he could force her to believe it, will her to have the confidence in it.

Leia brushed wisps of hair from her face, pushing her wrist against her cheeks to dry them.

"I don't need more time, Carlist," she said finally, taking a deep breath. "I have to put this behind me."

And I have to believe Han is there, somewhere, in front of me – I have to.

General Rieekan cleared his throat and stood, picking up his cap. He tucked it back under his arm.

"I saw to it that you fall in my line of command," he said gruffly. He grit his teeth, finding the next words distasteful: "Directly, you'll report to Crix Madine."

Leia smiled grimly – they had ranked her too low to report directly to Rieekan, and he was angry about it, she could tell by the tight pull of his jaw when he delivered her assignment. She nodded - -she would work as efficiently for Madine as she would work for anyone; any command now would be the same – there had been rumors about her absence, and her time in medical, already, and any cadre of troops would look at her with both intimidated eyes, and curious eyes.

He took a few steps back, inclining his head respectfully as he turned to go, and Leia watched him, remaining still until he was gone. She looked at her feet for a long time, bare, ankle resting against ankle, and then she got up, hugging herself, and moved slowly over to her desk, tapping lightly on her personal datapad.

Private transmission from Chewbacca – infiltration might work; there is too much risk in acting without a plan.

She felt like those words cut her to the core, meant something more to her, and she sat heavily down in the chair, pulling her arm tight around her middle, almost painfully tightly.

She laid her head down on the desk, supported on her arm, and turned her face into the crook of her elbow to cry, only a little, only softly, before she got up to steel herself, and to move on.


Part 1/3


-Alexandra

story #338

*this story contains no political statement. it's a story.