Your Worship
Your Worshipfulness
Your Highnessness
Your Royalness
Your Most Annoyingness
The briefest of cursory glances at the parchment in her hands left little doubt in her mind that the list was about her. Also — who used paper anymore? She bit back a smile, even though she was alone — Han was definitely showing his age here.
She'd been looking for him —Han— before she'd made herself comfortable in the galley where she found it, wedged and crumpled between the cushions around the dejarik table — on a matter of business. Obviously, despite the rumors, there was nothing going on between the two of them.
When she'd first come looking for him, using the code he'd given her to open the ramp ("Let yourself in anytime, Sweetheart," he said when he'd given it to her, with just the barest hint of a leer), she'd found him sleeping in the cockpit, slumped in the captain's chair at an odd angle with his head resting on the console. There were panels missing from it, revealing the mess of tangled wires usually hidden within. A manual in a language unrecognizable to Leia propped open in the oversized co-pilot's chair. The fact that he was using a manual at all amused her more than she would care to admit.
Whatever was wrong with the Falcon (if, she thought wryly, there was actually anything wrong at all besides Han's inability to sit still) he'd obviously fallen asleep before he could finish fixing it.
She didn't for even a moment consider waking him — he clearly needed the rest… and besides, there was something about Han's face in sleep that was endearing. Free from the confidence and snark she so often found there.
She knew it was just a cover — a mask, not dissimilar to the one she wore herself… but still, his face in unconsciousness — so peaceful, unguarded. Handsome.
She might have stood there staring at him for far longer than propriety deemed appropriate, if not for the sound of a soft Shyriiwook tune warbling from somewhere else in the ship jarring her from her straying thoughts.
"Good morning, Chewie." She said as she entered the galley, and with a quick look at the chrono strapped to her wrist realized exactly how early it actually was. "I hope I didn't wake you," she said in apology, sinking down into the cushioned bench at the table.
Chewie woofed a reply, which she took to mean he'd already been awake, and then held a pot of kaffe questioningly in her direction.
"Please." She said, rubbing the heels of her hands against her eyes. The mere thought of kaffe alerting her to how tired she really was.
He poured cream into the mug with the blue polka-dots and the chip in the side — the one that over the last few years she'd started to think of as hers, then woofed something else.
"I'm sorry, Chewie. Can you repeat that?"
Internally, she cursed her inability to fully understand the language for what must have been the thousandth time since she'd met the Wookiee. She'd even downloaded a Shyriiwook learning program to her data-pad to study in her (what little she had) free time to supplement what she'd picked up from the he and Han — but so far it hadn't helped very much. She still felt like she was only grasping the tiniest fraction of the things he said, though that was admittedly more than most on the base could say.
[You… look… tired.] He growled slowly, dragging the syllables out so she could understand, and clearly shortening what he'd said to just the basic meaning.
"Ah. Maybe a little… but I'm fine, really," she insisted — but the truth was, she had been working too hard, and sleeping too little — but if she told Chewie it would get back to Han, and she didn't want Han to know. She refused to examine too closely why.
Chewie rolled his eyes in response, as he set the steaming mug he'd prepared in front of her.
Han often complained to his co-pilot that Leia worked too hard. Somehow, Han had found out that Leia been to the infirmary six times since they'd been stationed on Hoth seeking extra caffeine patches, and he'd still been livid as hell when he told Chewie about it later that same day — though he shut up real quick when Chewie shot back [I thought you didn't care?]
Didn't shut him up for long, though — nothing ever did. "I don't care! Who said I care?" He'd pointed a finger accusingly at Chewie, a habit he had of doing when he felt he was losing an argument, "I don't care. But if her Royal 'I'm fine-ness' drops dead of exhaustion there won't be anybody else around here to negotiate my contracts with this doomed cause."
[Now say it like you mean it.] He'd replied knowingly.
Chewie was certain Han's least favorite words these days were I'm fine, and he was starting to agree.
Leia took a long sip of the kaffe, eying Chewie seated across from her through the steam, "so, was there actually anything wrong with the Falcon, or was Captain Solo just getting restless?" She said teasingly, setting her mug back on the table.
Chewie shrugged noncommittally, taking a large gulp of his black-as-night kaffe.
She smiled, leaning her head against the back of the seat and closing her eyes. "That's what I thought."
She tapped her nails against the side of her mug, eyes still closed, exhaustion creeping up on her despite herself; It always did these days — if she stopped working, stopped fighting, if she for even one moment allowed herself to be still. "It's always so warm in here," she murmured under her breath tiredly.
She opened her eyes when Chewie's warm paw covered her hand, bringing the soft clink clink of her nails against the mug to a halt. There was a tenderness in his eyes as he regarded her —
[You… need… sleep.]
She sighed, the genuine concern in his face breaking her tenuous resolve. "I… can't sleep, Chewie," she confessed, head thumping back against the seat — and somehow, saying it out loud seemed to make the exhaustion worse, more real.
It was this damn icy wasteland, as Han was fond of calling it (and that was the nicest thing he'd called it). She couldn't get warm; she couldn't sleep — the nightmares here somehow worse than they'd ever been before. The cold Hoth air chilling her to the bone — reminding her of Vader's lifeless black eyes, and her cell on the Death Star — of the emptiness she felt slowly creeping up inside herself day after day — and of all the things she tried desperately not to think about.
Every time she closed her eyes, it seemed, she was assaulted with the dark specters of her past — haunting her.
She felt as if she was walking on the edge of a knife — her balance precarious — always only seconds away from into the abyss.
[Why not?]
"It's too… cold." She said, just on the edge of the truth, all the while knowing how how superficial of a reason it really was.
Chewie had a skeptical look on his wise face, and Leia was overwhelmed with the sudden uncomfortable feeling that he could see right through her — she realized abruptly that she had no idea how old he was. She knew Wookies could live for hundreds of years, and what intuitive powers would one gain over such a long lifetime? Did he think she was foolish and idealistic the way Han did?
[You're… welcome… sleep… here] he said, respecting her obvious desire not to talk about it, nodding his head in the direction of the crew cabins, [cub… won't… mind].
She bit her lip to hold back a smile, momentarily glancing down at her mug in an uncharacteristic display of shyness before meeting Chewie's eyes, "I'm sure you're right about that."
Chewie chuckled softly under his breath, but gave no other reply.
Han was… she didn't know what Han was, or what to make of his relentless flirtation. He was unquestionably a distraction — one she wasn't sure she could afford.
She'd always had good intuition — or so she'd thought. She was a skilled problem solver — easily able to get to the root of things — able to understand people, what drove them to their actions, what made them tick, their likely next moves… but Han.
It was always but Han… She couldn't figure him out — or maybe, she would sometimes admit to herself in her cold, lonely bunk in the middle of the night — maybe she was just afraid to figure him out.
Afraid that he was far more serious than she had ever given him credit for.
She let out an exhausted sigh at the familiar turn of her thoughts; she'd been over it in her head more times than she could count, and always she found herself at the same conclusion: it didn't matter how serious he was if he wasn't planning to stay — she tilted her head back once again as she felt the tiredness seep into her bones.
She wasn't aware of closing her eyes, but realized she must have done when she heard Chewie rummaging around somewhere out of sight, no longer seated across from her.
There was a loud thunk from deep in the belly of the ship — a whirring sound, rushing air — and as the temperature slowly rose, Leia felt herself start to drift. All she was aware of was warmth — a comforting presence, a thick blanket tucked around her shoulders —
"Chewie?" She whispered softly, hanging onto the edge of consciousness.
[Yes?]
"How old are you?"
[Two-hundred-three.]
"Okay," came her quiet reply.
[Sleep now princess.] He growled softly, as he stroked the top of her head gently with his paw.
"Kay," she whispered, before drifting off into the first peaceful sleep she'd experienced in months.
She woke hours later, more rested than she could remember feeling in nearly three years. Judging by the silence on the ship she assumed she was alone, and a quick glance at her chrono confirmed her suspicion that it was the middle of the day — she'd missed a briefing — but she was so grateful for the uninterrupted sleep she couldn't find it in herself to care. Carlist had been all-but insisting for months that she take a break, so maybe this would appease him.
She neatly folded the blanket that Chewie had given her, corners perfectly aligned, and placed it on top of the dejarik table.
It was when she sat back down to tighten her snow boots that she found it, the corner of the paper just barely peeking out between two of the Nerf-skinned cushions.
She pulled it out, un-balling it — and she couldn't help the small, amused smile that overtook her face when her eyes scanned the yellowed, wrinkled parchment. Her fingers running softly over the slight indentions in the paper.
Some she'd heard, other's she could just imagine him saying — a few, she wanted to laugh, we're clearly never meant for her to know about at all.
She could picture Han, undoubtedly slightly drunk, she assumed from the handwriting, sitting right at this very table, trying to come up with ways to get under her skin.
She should have been annoyed by it, probably — instead, she found it weirdly endearing.
She worried sometimes, in her darker moments, as she felt herself growing increasingly more attached to Han despite herself, that he probably meant far more to her than she did to him.
You're just a distraction to him, she told herself. A meaningless flirtation. How serious can he be if he's planning to leave?
— but something about the thought of him, spending his spare time sitting around and thinking about her — thinking of ways to get to her — was comforting — reassuring.
— And besides, if she was being honest, she knew that despite everything, he was still here — flying in the face of all his proclamations that he was leaving, that the cause was hopeless. A suicide mission. Somehow, for some reason, he was still here. Always seemingly right where she needed him, even when she didn't know that she did — he was a hand on her shoulder, a punching bag, a warm embrace, a sounding board; he made her feel like a woman instead of a princess, treated like she was made of steel instead of glass… and when she was in the darkest of places — the depths of despair — sure that she would be unable to feel anything ever again, he would pick a fight, get a rise out of her, until she was yelling at him at the top of her lungs, suddenly, somehow, back to life.
She smiled fondly again at the paper in her hands, as she re-read the words she'd already memorized.
Your Worship
Your Worshipfulness
Your Highnessness
Your Royalness
Your Most Annoyingness
Little Princess
Princess Petite
Your Petiteness
Your Cuteness
Your Most Beautifulness
Sweetheart
She considered putting the list back in the cushions, right where she found it — but instead she smiled, folding it up and tucking it into her vest pocket.
And as she snuck out of the Falcon, going about her day — a meeting with Carlist, coordinated the medical supply inventory, had dinner with Luke — it stayed with her, tucked safely against her chest, reminding her that whatever else happened, for now, she wasn't alone.