Worlds Under Sky

By Hold-out Trout

Disclaimer: Oh KR, why did you start me on Star Wars again? I don't own it, yet here I am, writing stories I don't get paid for. Sigh.

Author's note: This takes place after A New Hope, but events have been tweaked. Most of the changes should be pretty obvious or completely pointless to this story, but I'll address questions as they come up. Basic idea? Han, Leia, and Luke took care of Jabba much earlier, although it probably wasn't the smartest way to go about it. I might write that story next, if all goes well with this one.

This story is dedicated to KnightedRogue.

Chapter One: In which it really isn't Han's fault.
Han leaned against a bulkhead and watched Leia open the Falcon's access ramp with an uncustomary sense of trepidation. She looked calm and collected, her hair pulled back neatly into braids held close to her head, her white (a color that only looked good on her, thought Han) trousers, shirt, and vest crisp and clean.

In short, she was a far cry from the shell-shocked, unresponsive princess he had carried on board when he rescued her from the Death Star. When they had opened her cell, she had seemed almost unfazed by her circumstances, not to mention the destruction of her home planet. She had taken charge and led them out of her own prison. She only collapsed once they reached the hanger bay and saw his ship.

Han took the insult for what it was worth and had teased her about it later, when it looked like she could use a laugh and was conscious enough to understand it.

Currently, Han watched her check her gear and appearance one last time before setting off to her meeting with the latest underground leader. She showed no signs of being exhausted, although Han knew she had to be, having heard her mutter and cry out all night with her nightmares. That wouldn't be that unusual, except he knew she hadn't slept the last three nights previous, either.

Han Solo was worried, but since he did not know of anything he could say to her, he decided to keep quiet and keep watching.

He stood up and sauntered over to the hatch. "Ready to go, your highness?" He saw her sigh, and turn.

Han exaggerated a frown. "You didn't think you could leave me behind by getting up a little early, did you?" It was three hours before the local dawn. "I'm hurt. It takes a lot more than an early wake-up call to lose me."

Leia's eyes reflected her annoyance. "Captain Solo. I just thought, since I was up, I might as well get this over with." She tried to finish diplomatically with a shrug. "I didn't want to disturb you."

Han grinned. "So you do care."

She clenched her jaw briefly. Han had been assigned to "escort" her on this latest jaunt. He was taking the concept a little too seriously and refused to let her step on-planet without him. The combination of Han, Leia, planets—or maybe that should be Han, Leia, and bars, since that was where they met most of their contacts—seemed to be a troubled one.

The last trip they had made on turned out to be a spectacular disaster, and Leia just knew Han was fishing for an argument from her. She was tempted to give it to him, just on principle.

Han was still grinning, and Leia gave up. Sometimes the Corellian was impossible to manage. Besides, she was too tired to watch her own back properly, and definitely too tired to argue with the pilot.

"All right, flyboy. Let's get moving."

The current planet, Sunara, was one of the nicer places Han had been the past year. It was a lush planet (or at least the main port cities were) with vegetation-lined streets and fountains at many of the intersections. It also happened to be one of those places that never slept, albeit in a quiet way, due to the large spaceport that brought in beings from all over the galaxy at all hours of the day, local time.

Thus, Han and Leia made their way to a small, upscale bar (Leia sighed as she thought about all the things that could go wrong in such a place), noting the very real yet unobtrusive presence of the city's police as they wound around other early-morning/late night couples.

The bar was situated in the corner of a small square, notable for the delicate-looking statue of a local goddess whose main feature was a pair of small, dripping wings. Even at this hour, about half the tables were full and a low-level buzz filled the warm, intimate air inside.

Leia relaxed as they found a table and ordered. She glanced at Han, who did not look as shabby as he normally did. She realized he had made a conscious effort to blend in.

He caught her eyes and grinned again. "Like what you see?"

Leia blushed, embarrassed he had caught her staring.

She said, "It's just that…you look nice."

He leaned back in his chair. "Hey, princess, I do have some sense of propriety."

She retorted, "It would help if you showed it a little more often."

Han leaned forward again, and raised his hands. "Calisk was not my fault. Those people are impossible. They deliberately misunderstand everything you say."

Leia rolled her eyes. "Han, they have no concept of hyperbole or figurative speech. When you say your ship is the 'fastest hunk of junk in the galaxy,' they think you mean it literally."

"Exactly."

And just like that, Leia had lost the argument. She remembered—again—why she found the man so infuriating. She did not even try to bring up the trouble their side trip to Tatooine had brought them on their last mission.

Their drinks arrived, and Leia set out the datapad that would clue their contacts in to their presence. With a look at each other—Han's was entirely too cheerful—they settled in for a long wait.

An hour and a half (and two drinks) later, they were interrupted by a splash from the square outside, and a few screams. Han and Leia rushed out with the rest of the bar's occupants to find a body lying half in the fountain.

Leia glanced at Han. "Look at his coat," she whispered. It was dark green with a distinctive yellow pattern on the sleeves. "That's our contact."