Leia found herself standing outside the Falcon in the middle of the night, and she couldn't really explain what she was doing there. She shifted uncomfortably from foot-to-foot, debating the pros and cons of entering the code Han had given her to use any time she wanted, day or night. She had no excuse to be here. Well, not one that she found at all reasonable, anyway.
All she really knew was that she'd shot up in a blind panic, still half asleep, her heart rushing loudly in her ears, and a deep feeling of dread and worry in the pit of her stomach — the sudden gnawing fear that something truly horrible had just befallen Han while away on his supply run.
It wasn't until she was standing in the middle of the freezing cold of the flight hangar barely fifteen minutes later, lingering under the shadow of the Falcon, that she had even remembered that Han wasn't gone on a supply run at all — he and Chewie had been back for nearly twenty-four hours.
She'd seen that they were alive and well with her own two eyes immediately upon their arrival — where she'd stood, waiting in the flight hangar, as ever, with a data-pad clutched in her hands, ready to get down to the task of inventorying what he and Chewie had brought back. You know, Alliance business.
She was sure that she wasn't fooling anybody one bit with that act. She'd barely taken any pains to conceal her true motives, and she in no way made a habit of greeting any of the other contractors that the Alliance employed upon their landing — but she couldn't help herself. She worried about him when he was gone. When any of them were gone.
Han, Luke, Chewie, and herself — they'd become a kind of family. Admittedly, something of a weird kind, to be sure — but still a family — and she'd lost so much else in her life already that she couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to them — of losing them. She hated to admit it — but she needed them, desperately, for her survival — like water. Like air.
They'd wormed their way in so deep now, that she honestly wasn't sure how she would be able to go on without them.
She breathed into her cupped, gloveless hands in front if her face, trying to imbue some heat into her icy fingers. It was only as she stood there that she realized she'd rushed out of her bunkroom half dressed — wearing only thick, white, thermal pajamas, boots, and a thin, blue robe. It was slightly warmer in her room than it was out here, and she was seriously beginning to regret whatever impulse had propelled her out of bed and down the halls toward the Falcon in the first place.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered under her breath at herself, chastising. What an ill-advised thing this was to do. What was she even doing here? She turned away from the ship, wrapping her robe tighter around her frame and balling her hands up in fists, tucking them under her arms for warmth.
She'd barely taken a single step when she heard the quiet hiss of the Falcon's door opening, its ramp lowering to the ground behind her.
She seriously considered running away then — just bolting — right back to her bunkroom. All the while her feet remained in juxtaposition, betraying her wishes, frozen to the ground.
Goddess, she swore silently, what is he going to think of me just standing here outside his ship in the middle of the damn night?
She held her breath, feeling foolish, and wishing desperately that she could just disappear, as she heard his footsteps padding softly down the ramp behind her.
"Leia?" He asked quietly, sounding worried but mostly unsurprised. "What are you doing out here?"
She turned around, finally facing him, and released the breath she'd been holding. "I don't know," she said with a sigh — totally honest, and wondering silently how in the hells he'd known she was out here. It was like he had some sixth sense, but only about her.
"Kriff, Princess." He muttered after a long minute, his eyes finally adjusting to the darkness, when he realized she was only in her nightclothes, "you're going to freeze to death out here."
He was by her side in just a few, quick strides. "Whatever it is," he said, "we can talk about it inside." His arm went around her back instinctively, hand wrapped loosely around her opposite shoulder, guiding her towards the Falcon.
He led her up the ramp and down the wide, circular hallway, stopping only briefly to tap the controls, the door sealing shut behind them.
They paused halfway around the ship, as he grabbed a large, green blanket from a shelf so high she was unlikely to have ever noticed it otherwise, wrapping it around her shoulders, and then leading her to the cockpit.
As he settled her into the over-sized copilot's seat, her eyes fell to the wind-screen, and its unobstructed view of the hallway entrance into the hangar. She wanted to laugh at herself and the foolish, ridiculous notion that Han had some sort of extrasensory intuition specifically regarding her, when she realized that he must have just been working in the cockpit — a habit he had of doing when he was unable to sleep — and simply seen her come in.
With sudden clarity, she realized how much she was actually putting on him. Were her expectations too high — did she ask too much of him? Always seeming to find her way to him — and his comforting presence — when she needed somebody to lean on. Counting on the feelings she knew he held for her to not turn her away, and never able to offer anything to him in return.
She sighed, stewing in her mixed-up thoughts in silence — and she was surprised when she realized that several minutes had passed and Han had uncharacteristically still said nothing.
She turned, unexpectedly letting out a very unprincess-like snort at the sight of him. He had been fiddling with the Falcon's controls apparently all this time, part of the dash had a panel removed, revealing the mess of wires usually hidden within it. He had several of those wires in one hand, all of which he had apparently severed for gods-only-knew what reason — and she watched in slightly fascinated, comical horror as he stripped the rubber off of the edge of one of them with his teeth, before spitting the rubber bit on the floor, and then repeating the process on another one.
She snorted again, "why aren't you using wire-strippers?" She asked.
He shrugged, pulling the wire out of his mouth to answer, "lost em."
She pressed her lips together, unsuccessfully trying to suppress a smile — lost them? — and eating it seemed like the best substitute option?
"Tell me, captain," she asked, "exactly how many times have you been electrocuted?" She was suddenly sure that the answer must be at least in the double digits.
"Ain't never been electrocuted, princess," he retorted with mostly feigned offense, between disgusting, rubber bites.
She highly doubted the truthfulness of that statement, until he said, "this wouldn't electrocute me anyway — just be a shock."
She smirked at him, biting the tip of her thumb around a smile, "Semantics, Han."
"Okay," he admitted, "maybe I been shocked a few times, but that ain't the same thing as bein' electrocuted."
"Mmm-hmm," was her only response, but she felt the sarcastic 'if you say so'was clear.
They sat in comfortable silence. Leia, with her boots on the floor and legs curled up in the copilot's seat, blanket wrapped loosely around her shoulders and chin resting in her cupped palm, watching Han as he worked.
Han, his busy hands cutting and stripping wires, before twisting them together, seemed to be trying to project an air of nonchalance — but the worry he was unable to hide in his eyes every time he casually glanced over at her told a different story.
"You haven't asked me again what I'm doing here," she pointed out eventually, after several more moments of silence had passed, "outside your ship — in the middle of the night."
He didn't take the bate. "Yeah," he agreed.
"Why?" She pressed.
"Figured if you wanted to talk about it, you would when you're ready." He shrugged, as though that were obvious.
She felt suddenly guilty, because she realized it really should have been obvious. Nearly three years of hanging around with the rebels — working with the Alliance, taking jobs that she knew sometimes barely even covered the cost of fuel, much less made him a profit. Always around when she needed him — a shoulder to cry on, a sounding board, a friend.
He was so much different than the man she thought he was when they'd first met — cocky, rude, and self-absorbed she'd assumed him. Brave, sure, but also selfish.
Time though — all this time she'd spent in his presence had shown her the cracks in his armor — revealing a deeper truth: that underneath that veneer hid someone who'd been hurt — and who was deeply afraid of it happening again. Someone who cared more about his friends than he did about himself, and who never pushed unless she really needed it — shoving her out of the line of fire, usually — both literally and metaphorically. She could admit now, after all this time, that they were far more alike than they were different.
She should have known he wouldn't pressure her — not now. Sure, he fought with her; Loud, angry, shouting matches in the hallways — the Rogue Squadron taking bets on which would emerge victorious — the tally had the score now split 60/40, in her favor. But he knew her too well — she should have known he wasn't going to push her — he never pushed when she was vulnerable.
"Do you want to talk about it, Princess?" He asked softly, abandoning his Falcon work and swiveling his seat so that he was fully facing her — his legs so long that one of his knees just lightly brushed one of her thighs. Even through the blanket, robe, and thermal-pants, the tiny point of contact seemed to burn much hotter than any other part of her body.
"Maybe," she admitted then sighed, deciding to be more honest, "yes."
Isn't that really why she came here?
"Nightmare?" He guessed. It wasn't much of a leap, this wouldn't be the first time she'd found herself on the Falcon after a nightmare in the middle of the night — though it was the first time that nightmare had been specifically about Han.
She sighed, twisting her fingers together in a nervous gesture that she used to be far more adept at suppressing. A sixteen-year-old princess, and Rebel spy in the Imperial Senate — oh, she used to be so good at appearing stronger, braver, and more unshakable than she ever really felt (she wondered if anyone could truly stare down the Emperor free of fear). What was it about Han Solo that turned all those abilities to dust — made them vanish into nothingness? She found herself far more vulnerable in his presence than in anybody else's. The person in the universe who she wanted least to have any cause to look at her like she was broken, was the same person she seemed to be constantly breaking down in front of. Gods, she hated that.
"Leia," he whispered, "you know you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."
"I know," she said, breaking her gaze from his, turning instead back to the wind-screen, eyes staring into the darkness of the hangar, her fingers pushing non-existent stray hairs behind her ears.
"It was about you." She admitted finally. "It was—" she broke off, the details suddenly rushing back to her like a dam had burst — and god, how she wished they hadn't, "—not good," she finished lamely.
The weight of his warm hand suddenly atop hers stilled her nervous fingers, which were twisting in her lap. He gave them a comforting squeeze but did not let up.
"I'm right here, Leia, and I'm fine." He said reassuringly.
"I know—" her voice broke embarrassingly, "I know." Unexpectedly, she felt Han's other hand on her cheek, thumb brushing softly — she was horrified to realize that she was crying.
"I'm a mess," she sniffed with a halfway embarrassed laugh, still facing the wind-screen — but then with just the barest hint of pressure on her cheek from him, she turned to face him, and he brought up his other hand, cradling her face in the V of his palms — her face burning pleasantly between them. And even with his face swimming in her wet vision, she could clearly make out the slightly helpless look on his face. She felt her heart break a tiny bit more than ever with the the sudden unwavering conviction that he would do absolutely anything in his power to make this better for her — mend her broken soul — but that he was at a complete loss as to how to do that.
"You still look fine to me," he said seriously, and she thought that he probably really meant it, but still she couldn't help the strangled laugh. "Fine?" she joked, "just what every girl wants to hear."
His lips twitched up just slightly as he said, eyes locked on hers, still totally serious, "you always look beautiful to me, Leia."
She knew he meant for it to make her feel better, and under normal circumstances it may have even done so — but instead all it did was remind her how much he cared about her — how much she cared about him —and how much she'd come to rely on him — couldn't bear the thought of losing him.
She pulled away from him suddenly, burying her face in her hands with a sob — as his fell from her face and hung loosely, uselessly across his legs.
Han was a very tactile person, so she was unsurprised when, barely a minute later, she felt the warmth of his hand on her shoulder, giving a gentle and reassuring squeeze.
I'm still here.
She felt so foolish — she knew that it had only been a dream — but still she was haunted by the sound of Han's screams, echoing in her mind. Couldn't stop picturing him — and his sad, accepting gaze — as he was marched away from her and towards his execution.
"Don't die, Han," she said seriously — pleading — the words muffled into her tear stained hands.
"Hey, hey, hey," he said, "nobody's dyin' here, Princess," he promised.
She dropped her hands incredulously to her lap, turning her sorrowful gaze on him, suddenly not caring how awful she must look. "Han," she said, voice raspy but filled with forceful conviction, "look around us!" she waved her hand, gesturing at the wind-screen, and all that lie beyond it. An army of people ready to give up their lives for a cause greater than them — all of whom lived every single day with the constant knowledge that at any moment the Empire could come knocking — death inevitably following in their wake. Dying was practically in the job description. Did any of them truly believe they would see the other side of this war?
"Nothing is goin' to happen to me, Leia."
"You don't know that! Nobody knows that," she cried.
"Leia! Stop." He said, reaching out suddenly and turning the copilot's seat so that she was fully facing him — forcing her to look at him — desperate to get through to her. She took a deep calming breath, and wondered whether she was on the edge of some kind of nervous breakdown; she felt like she hadn't had a full nights sleep in so long — and she was deeply tired, down to her bones. It was more than just a physical exhaustion, she knew — she was tired of death and of war, tired of acting like she was alright — and so, so tried of pretending that she that she didn't know what was going on here: hanging in the space between her and Han, as they continuously circled one another, growing infinitesimally closer at every pass.
She was just… tired.
"Tell me about this nightmare," he asked softly as he placed his hands out in front of him, palms up, inviting — offering, as always, acceptance and comfort — and so much more — more that she wasn't sure she was ready for. Wasn't sure she would ever be ready for.
She slipped her trembling hands into his outstretched palms, fingers curling around his as his thumbs stroked the back of her hands tenderly.
She pressed her eyes shut tightly, giving his hands a squeeze — she imagined she was drawing some of his strength into herself through their connected palms.
"It was Vader," she said, voice so quiet he could barely hear her. "He—" she paused to take a calming breath, "he was torturing you, and he—"
"I'm right here, Leia." He whispered.
"He kept saying he would stop if I…" she trailed off, unsure if she could go on — her throat feeling like it was going to close up.
"He told you he would stop if you gave up the Rebel base?" He guessed, understanding.
She nodded, "…but I didn't," she said eventually, "I couldn't — and then finally he stopped, but troopers took you away, and they… executed you… right in front of me."
"It's going to be fine," he said, "I'm going to be fine."
"How can you be sure?" She asked.
"I have too much to live for," he said, voice thick with emotion.
"Hold me?" She whispered desperately.
He swallowed down a sudden wave of nervousness. "Of course, Princess," he said softly, as he tugged lightly on her wrists, pulling her into him. She curled up in his lap in the captain's chair, his arms wrapped tightly around her, the side of her head resting against his shoulder, nose practically buried in his neck.
One of his hands came up, stroking the back of her head lightly, fingers running through her loosely braided hair — and she felt his head turn down a fraction, lips pressing a chaste kiss at her hairline.
"Don't go back to Jabba," she whispered into his neck. "Please."
"Leia," he sighed sadly.
"Stay with the Alliance, Han. Please. I… need you."
"Alright, Princess," he agreed — unsure if he would have ever been able to make himself go anyway. "Alright."
They stayed like that till morning — Leia sleeping soundly for the first time in a long time, head resting comfortably against Han's shoulder.
It was the morning shift outside of the Falcon — the shield doors opening, early morning light streaming in, glowing a blinding white off of the snow outside — that had woken Han.
But It was the feel of Han's fingers, running up and down her back — a soft, undemanding caress — that brought her gently back to wakefulness. Her eyelashes fluttering confusedly against his neck, as she momentarily tried to remember where she was.
She turned her head up, bleary brown eyes meeting his soft but alert gaze — he'd clearly been awake for some time — but had been content to stay that way, even with the slight ache in his back, crick growing in his neck — enjoying the warmth of her pressed against him.
"You can't be comfortable like that," she said, taking in the way he was awkwardly hunched in his seat, neck bent at an odd angle.
He pulled her in closer to him, dropping another kiss to the crown of her head. "I'm perfect just like this, Leia." He said.
And he meant it.