Contrary to the current situation and evidence at hand, Leia Organa is, in fact, not an idiot.
Passionate, yes; susceptible to desire where a certain smuggler is concerned, unfortunately so; even, Gods helps her, sometimes slightly reckless, but never- never – an idiot. Her current predicament has a lot to do with human nature, surpassed desires, and the realities of wartime; add to this mix two headstrong, fiery personalities, and you've got yourself a situation.
Leaving on Echo Base is hard, and cold – always cold- and entertainment is hard to come by. The heating system is constantly malfunctioning, so it is hardly surprising that the miserable rebels turn to other means to keep them warm; means such as sex and gossip.
Mostly gossip.
Every pilot worth his salt knows that the best way to enjoy gossip to its fullest is to try and make money off it; namely, place a sure bet.
And the surest bet of them all is the wager on Solo and the Princess and their bizarre take on romance.
The number of credits riding on the outcome of that pool could probably fund another rebellion, and the amount of proposed possibilities for the endgame surpass even the wildest fantasies of Holodrama writers. The most popular choices- the ones on which most of the eager participants bet- are, a: Leia finally has enough and shoots Han in the face (51 bets), b: Han kisses Leia in the middle of a war meeting (73 bets), c: Han and Leia decide to add Luke Skywalker to the party and become a trio (16 bets), and d: Han and Leia end up in bed together before the year is out (98 bets).
These scenarios are, of course, all wrong.
Because Han Solo and Princess Leia are, in fact, already sleeping with each other.
The first time they are together is after a botched up mission, where everything possible goes terribly wrong. They're both covered in blood, some of it theirs, and Leia figures – well, what's some more blood between her thighs. She cries out in pain in the moment of joining, and Han – bless his heart – rises slightly, full of apologies, afraid he pressed down on a bruise with the weight of his body. She embraces him, brings him closer to her, opens her thighs wider for him, and doesn't correct his misunderstanding. It burns, and it hurts, but the soft grunts and the tender nothings he sighs in her ear, make her heart thump wildly in her chest and her blood flow swiftly in her veins. It doesn't take long – the exhaustion of battle and the downfall of adrenaline finally catching up to them – and Han embraces her almost self-consciously; the look he's giving her is part amazement, part uneasy guilt.
"I'm sorry I didn't take care of you, sweetheart," he says sheepishly, and Leia blushes deeply at his implication, "I got, uh, carried away…"
"Han," she shakes her head, pushes slightly at his chest, "it's okay, I wasn't expecting- "
"It's not okay, Your Worship," he interrupts her, almost vehemently, and Leia's eyebrows rise at the fire behind his words, "and I promise I'll make it up to you."
She doesn't contradict him, doesn't admonish him about his assumption that there will ever be another opportunity for him to prove himself to her sexually. She doesn't say a word, in fact; only bites her lower lip and stares at the ceiling of the Falcon, feels the vibration of the engines beneath their bodies, as Han pulls her closer to him. Leia doesn't speak, because she knows – without a shadow of a doubt- that there will be a next time because once with this man is not enough; could never be enough.
After that first time, Leia finds that she has quite the appetite for carnal pleasure, and Han is always more than happy to satiate her needs; be it on Base, on the Falcon, or in a 'fresher of a seedy cantina on one of their mutual missions. He makes her feels good and alive, in a galaxy full of bad and dead. She does not call what they have between them 'love making' (though sometimes it sure feels that way) because this will imply that they are lovers, instead of just good friends who fight and fuck a lot.
It doesn't take much to ignite her desire; a touch of his fingers against her waist, the smell of his jacket, the motion of his hips as he walks towards his ship. The feeling of him against her body, skin on skin, is addicting, intoxicating; like spice, or alcohol – bad for you, but feels too good for words.
Their bodies meet in fire, and Leia can't imagine it being this good with anyone else, as Han moves within her with purpose and skill. She bites her lower lip when she comes - because this is secret – and sometimes there's blood on her tongue, and on his; when it's so good that she forgets how to breathe for a few precious moments. And sometimes Han's overcome as well, and forgets that no one must know, and he moans so deliciously in her ear that it breaks her and burns her and sends chills through her nerves. These are the times when the climaxes are so hard and so intense, that she fears she might faint in his arms.
Leia Organa is not an idiot, but –really – she ought to have known better.
When nagging, quite familiar pain sets in her lower abdomen, Leia sighs in relief and waits for the blood. When a few days pass, and it fails to appear, but the pain persists, panic begins to take hold in her chest and threatens to suffocate her. When the tenderness in her breasts comes together with belly clenching sickness, she shuts herself in the 'fresher on the Falcon and cries.
She's pale and drawn, tired and queasy when she finally approaches Han several days later. They're on the way back from a diplomatic mission on Sluis Van- nothing major – and Luke is flying his X-wing beside them, and Chewie tries to fix the autovalet that's broken again. Han sits in the cockpit and stares at the flickering stars as they glide through hyperspace, his boots propped on the co-pilot's seat, when Leia walks in on shaky legs. He turns at the sound and smiles, taking his boots off Chewie's seat and invites her to sit down.
"How are you doing, Your Worship?" he asks cheekily, his elbows leaning on the armrests, "Can I interest you in a quick orgasm or two?"
When she shakes her head and looks away, he sobers up and leans forward, touching her knee.
"Leia, what's wrong?"
She shakes her head again, takes a shuddering breath and pushes down the urge to vomit all over his feet.
"I'm pregnant," her voice is quiet, almost too quiet, but he hears her, and he blanches and recoils, and now she fears that it is he who might yet be sick.
"I can't be a father, Princess," he rasps after a few charged moments of silence, "not now; not when I have Jabba to worry about. I'm leaving, Leia; you know that. You've always known that."
She never entertained any delusions about a pink, bright future where Han Solo accepts the news that his seed took hold in her womb with tearful delight and falls at her knees with proclamations of his undying love for her and their unborn child, but this still feels like a punch in the gut, and she blushes in anger and frustration.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she hisses at him, "was there a more convenient time for you to get me pregnant?"
Han stiffens, and his face turns even whiter. With a frightened jolt, Leia realizes that he's furious.
"Are you a child?" he asks harshly, his voice like thunder; and it's Leia's turn to recoil in astonishment. He glares at her, "Don't act like this is all my fault, Highness. You are a consenting adult. We're both to blame. We should have known better."
Han is right, of course; Leia has to agree with him. They are both to blame for succumbing to passion and pleasure without thinking ahead. And it's odd, and out of character, because she is smart and careful and he is worldly and shrewd; but it seems that they lose the ability to think straight around each other, ending up acting first and regretting later. Han is spice and Leia is spirits; clearly toxic for each other, but ever so addictive.
She can't keep the pregnancy, this much is certain. There are numerous reasons that indicate that remaining pregnant and having a child with a smuggler that's threatening to leave every other day is a bad idea. There's the all-consuming war, for instance, that's hogging most of her time; the fact that she's just so incredibly young and can barely take care of herself; not to mention, their dire existence on Hoth, the Ice Cube, where even grown-ass adults have a problem surviving.
Leia stares at her feet, and Han fiddles with his headpiece which he now holds in his hands, and the only sound in the cockpit is their remorseful, guilty breathing.
"What do you want to do?" he asks at last, almost placatingly, as if regretting the harshness of his reaction; but the damage's already been done - Leia's upset, and she wants to jostle him a little, to shake his equilibrium –
"I'm keeping it," she says vindictively and watches triumphantly as Han's eyes widen in horror.
"You- you can't, Leia!" he splutters, and he's stumbling over his words, his chest rising rapidly with panic.
And now Leia is feeling downright cruel, and hurt, and overall just humiliated and exhausted, so she leans towards him in her seat and places her hand over her abdomen.
"Oh yes, I can," she says, her voice low and deceptively tender, "I will grow fat, and large and round with your child, Han; and I'll feel him move and kick, and when he's born, he'll look just like you- with clear hazel eyes and long fingers-"
Han looks remarkably green now, and frightened; Leia stops abruptly, and she's ready to cry, because- this isn't supposed to go like this- not like this, not so wretchedly -
"Look at you," she says almost mournfully, "Don't worry, Han, you're safe; I wouldn't want to have your child, anyway."
Something in his face crumbles briefly, and Leia realizes that he's hurt- of all things- by her statement. She steels herself for his fire, but Han just turns away, and nods, and chews on his lower lip; anything to avoid looking at her, really.
"I'm glad we made that clear, Princess," he says quietly, and she turns away from him and exits the cockpit and doesn't leave the cabin until they land on Hoth.
Next morning he comes upon her emptying her stomach in one of the blessedly emptier corridors of the wretched base and asks her sheepishly if she's alright. Leia doesn't answer; instead, she's shivering with humiliation and fatigue and something frighteningly alike remorse. To her greatest mortification, she feels Han's hand on her shoulder, feels him kneeling in the snow next to her.
"Sweetheart," he says gently, "you understand that we can't do this whole 'parents' thing, right? There's the war; you're so young, and I-"
"And you're leaving." She rasps, exhausted.
Han sighs and pulls her close to him.
"Yes." He says simply.
They sit huddled together in silence, and Leia thanks the Force and whatever God that's listening that the corridor remains deserted, when Han clears his throat awkwardly.
"How…when-" he begins, not really knowing how to form his question; he clears his throat again and licks his suddenly dry lips, "How long?"
Leia understands what he's trying to ask her and takes pity on him.
"Not long," she says quietly, still huddled in his embrace, "I'm only three standards weeks late."
He nods against her shoulder, and they fall silent again. The next time he speaks, it's almost against her ear, and he's very quiet.
"Have you thought about- you know- how to…take care of it? I'll…I'll pay for everything, of course…"
And suddenly she can't bear to have his arms around her, and she pushes herself to her feet, sending Han sprawling back as she stands. Leia is queasy again, and dizzy; but she'd rather faint, rather vomit a second time,than let him hold her another moment. She leaves him sitting on the ice in the deserted corridor and is relieved beyond words that he doesn't follow her or call her back.
Leia boards the Falcon two days later, in the dead of night, after some painful, extensive research. She makes a beeline for the crew quarters where she finds Han, sleeping bare-chested in a warm cabin, the blanket barely covering his abdomen. She sits at the edge of the bunk, and he's instantly awake, sitting up and regarding her with guarded eyes.
"I need you to fly me to Zygerria," she states firmly, and he frowns, "that's where I'll have the…procedure."
His eyes narrow and he takes a deep breath, and Leia is suddenly distracted by the moving muscles under his skin.
"The slavers planet?" he hisses, furious, "Leia, you can't! Not there-!"
"The technology is advanced," she interrupts him, because him caring is just too much, "I'm less known there, no one would ask any questions-"
"How can you risk it?" he all but shouts, but then he takes a deep breath to calm himself and looks away from her, "is the facility safe? Will you be alright?"
His voice is suddenly quiet, almost gentle, and Leia can't take it; she just can't.
"As if it matters," she snorts and stares at the ceiling, "what matters most to you is that the problem goes away, right?"
From the corner of her eyes, she can see Han shaking his head wildly as he grabs both her hands and squeezes them.
"Sweetheart, you know it's not true," he says softly, pleading with her to believe him, "the most important thing is your well-being."
Leia nearly brakes at this heartfelt statement and a few stubborn tears well up in her eyes; she blames her inner turmoil on the cluster of cells that attached itself to her uterine wall.
"But what about my soul, Han?" she asks quietly, staring at their hands.
Han's brows knit together, a strangled sigh sounding deep in his throat, and suddenly he's pulling her towards him, kissing her desperately. She doesn't fight him, doesn't push at him; instead, she reaches for his face and melts into his touch, matching his despair with intensity.
"This one's on me, Leia," he mutters against her lips, "my soul can take it. It's ruined enough."
They end up making love, and this time Leia can't call it anything else; not with all the emotions running raw under the surface of their heated skins. They rise and fall together; their joining full of desperate touches and lingering kisses, and keening sighs. She asks him not to touch her stomach, afraid that she should break if he did, and he nods and kisses her shoulder and whispers, "alright, sweetheart," into her flesh. When her climax overtakes her, she cries and pushes her face into the pillow, trembling with emotion. Han holds her tightly, his arms circling her ribs, as he breathes her in and out like air.
"Sleep, Leia," he whispers tiredly against the skin of her shoulder, "I'll wake you up before dawn."
She's on Alderaan again.
Brilliant daylight warms her face and bare arms as she strolls through the royal orchard, her round belly heavy and low; the child within her squirming and twisting. The plum trees are in bloom, and the heady scent they give forth seduces her to pluck a ripe seed from the tree and bite hungrily into it. Juice trails down her chin and she wipes it off with the back of her hand, smiling and laughing like a little girl.
Her mother waits for her on the balcony, her arms beckoning, and Leia runs to her with surprising haste and agility for a woman in her latest stage of pregnancy. She falls into the embrace, and longed-for warmth spreads through her limbs.
"Mama," she cries when her mother's palms cradle her cheeks," Mama, I'm with child. It will soon be born!"
Her mother doesn't speak, but she smiles and caresses the hill of Leia's abdomen lovingly, and, suddenly, clutching, stiffening ache flashes wherever the Queen touches. The belly is tight and hard, and Leia struggles to breathe through the pain. Her mother is guiding her down to the paved floor and reaches under the long billowing skirt Leia's wearing. The pain is strong but pleasant; almost as enjoyable as one of the slow-burning climaxes she sometimes enjoys when she lies with Han. She gasps and moans and pressure settles in her loins, and suddenly her mother is there in front of her, a bundle of white cloth cradled in her arms. Leia sees a mop of dark hair, and red, rosy cheeks; the eyes open, golden-green and sharp in their intensity-
With a strangled gasp, Leia wakes up; her heart hammering wildly in her chest. She's covered in cold sweat and pressed against Han- whose arm rests on her hip- on the impossibly narrow bunk in the crew quarters.
A dream, then; but so very vivid!
Leia breathes slowly, trying desperately to get her nervous system under control when Han's arm slides down to her abdomen, his palm pressed against her skin, as he seeks to pull her even closer to him. She stiffens and grows numb; a whimper of protest escapes her tightly closed lips. Han, finally awake enough to understand the source of Leia's distress, pulls his hand back as if burned.
"I'm sorry," he mutters in her ear and squeezes her hip for reassurance, "I'm sorry, sweetheart; my hand slipped."
Leia nods dully and Han, dreadfully relieved and suddenly more at ease, presses against her back and kisses her neck. She bolts out of bed and grabs at her clothes that are scattered on the floor around the cabin. Han frowns and sits up, following her sharp movements with weary eyes.
"I best be going," Leia mutters as she wiggles into her thermal pants, "it'll probably be dawn soon."
Han glances at the chrono and sighs.
"Not for another two standard hours; come back to bed, Leia."
She shakes her head and zips up, touching her loose braids gingerly.
"No, it's best that I leave," and before he has a chance to react, to protest, to beg her to reconsider, she palms the door open and with a quiet, "sleep, Han," she disappears into the night.
Three days later Leia corners Carlist Rieekan on his way to breakfast and notifies him that she'll be taking a few days off. When the good General gently inquires after her plans, she lies easily despite her heavy heart.
"Captain Solo has agreed to take me to the Graveyard," she says, looking at her gloves, "It's been nearly three years, and I-"
A hand lands softly on her shoulder, and Leia looks up, startled, into Rieekan's paternal expression.
"Say no more, Princess," he says gently, and the ghost of loss lingers behind his eyes, "I understand."
Leia hangs her head in guilty shame, nodding slowly. Rieekan, mistaking her guilt-ridden look for grief, sighs in understanding.
"Oh, Leia," he says mournfully and shakes his head, "it doesn't get any easier, does it?"
"No, it does not." Her voice is soft and quiet, and full of ache in the freezing corridor.
"When do you leave?"
"Now," she says and raises her eyes to his face; sees that he's smiling sadly, "if you'd be so kind as to let the rest of High Command know? I've done all my duties for the next-"
"Clear skies, Princess," he interrupts her and squeezes her shoulder lightly, "my best regards to Captain Solo."
After the General leaves for breakfast, Leia gropes her way to the Hanger almost blindly, touching the walls for some much-needed anchorage. She spots the bucket of bolts immediately, her eyes landing on its impressive bulk. The Falcon's ramp is lowered, and the landing area is deserted, so Leia proceeds straight to the ship's entryway –
-And stops when she hears voices from within. Suddenly startled that she'll be found boarding the Falcon by someone other than Han, Leia squats and hides behind the lowered ramp. The voices are clear now, and she can make out Han's baritone and the rumble of Chewie's mournful bleats; and with a sudden sense of choking embarrassment, she understands that Han told the Wookie everything. He told him.
"You can't come; pal," Han says dejectedly, "Leia's in a bad state as it is; imagine what it's like for her- to walk around like this, being so sick because…" he grows silent and Chewie rumbles softly.
"Don't say it, Chewie," Han says, clearly annoyed with his friend, "we can't! There's Jabba, and the war, and no kid deserves me as a father – no, no; you know it's true!" after a moment, he adds quietly, "Besides, Leia doesn't want my kid. Trust me, buddy; it's better this way."
Chewbacca huffs sadly, and Leia realizes with unfathomable misery that the wookie is grieving for his friend's situation; that he's full of sorrow for her as well, and for the unborn child- the one that's destined for termination.
Bile rises in Leia's throat and panic grips her bowels; she'll get sick –surely, she'll get sick – and Han will know that-
"I messed up real bad this time, pal," Han starts again, and she takes a few deep breaths through her nose to calm her stomach, "I should have known better- should have asked her about precautions- but…I don't know, Chewie; it's like we can't think straight around each other…she's fire, and, Stars help me if I'm not a pyromaniac…"
So, he feels it too, she thinks gloomily as she stands up and brushes off her pants, how does the saying go? "Fire and Spice and everything that's incredibly fucked up?"
Leia boards the ramp rather noisily, providing the two inside with sufficient time to compose themselves and act as if no one was talking about her and her extra luggage. Once inside, Han acknowledges her with a stiff nod and she returns the gesture with just as much rigor.
"Hi Chewie," she turns to greets the wookie quietly, unable to meet his eyes; but then she feels his strong arms on her shoulders, and she's compelled to look up into-
-The clearest, saddest, most profound pools of liquid blue. He rumbles softly and embraces her gently, and Leia doesn't often cry- nearly never, in fact- but she feels that she might do just that now, and-
"Go on, pal," Han steps in, and his tone is falsely normal as he pushes the wookie in the direction of the ramp, "it's take-off time."
With a parting bark and another mournful glance in their direction, Chewie exits the ship and Han seals the entrance. When he turns around, he finds Leia staring at him, blessedly composed and once again in control of her haywire mental state.
"You told him," she states, and Han places his hands on his hips, ready for battle.
"I did," he scowls and frowns, "now, before you grill me, Your Worship; I had to tell him. He wouldn't leave the ship until I explained why you were chosen as co-pilot over him!"
He's all defensive, clearly anticipating her to lash out at him, and suddenly all strength leaves Leia's body, and she leans against the bulkhead, and only sheer willpower prevents her from sliding to the floor.
"It's ok," she sighs and closes her eyes, feeling like she might faint if she continues looking at the man in front of her, "I don't mind."
He doesn't answer her, and her eyes remain closed. She hears the sound of his retreating steps, and she huffs out a troubled breath- thinking that this trip will be even more miserable than anticipated- when suddenly the footsteps are back, and something cool is being pressed into her hand.
Leia opens her eyes to see that Han brought her a glass of water. When she raises her face to look at him, he shrugs and sighs
"Drink up, you're green," he explains, and Leia can see that he looks tired as if he lost a couple of nights to insomnia.
"Thank you," she mumbles and takes a few sips of water, letting the cool liquid quiet her uneasy stomach.
Han studies her with an unreadable expression on his face and Leia raises her eyebrows at him.
"Are you good to fly? She asks and inclines her head in the direction of the cockpit, "you look sort of dead on your feet."
This comment seems to take him out of his contemplating mood, and he smirks arrogantly, taking the now empty glass from her hand.
"I can fly in my sleep, sweetheart," he brags and motions for her to follow him to the cockpit, "time to strap in, Your Worship; you're co-pilot, and we need to take off."
No, she thinks mutely when she follows the captain to her seat, she doesn't mind that Chewie knows; but she thanks her lucky stars that Luke's away on a mission with the Rogues and that she's spared the need to lie to him.
Because there is no need – no need- for him to ever know.
After all, it'll all be over by the time he makes it back to Base.
The Clinic on Zygerria is pristinely clean and sterile, but everything about the place screams sordid and seedy. They don't have medical droids here; only human doctors, who are no doubt imported for their nimble fingers and bribable leniency. Han and Leia sit outside the doctor's examination room; he's fidgety, and on edge, she's deathly numb and rigid.
When the doctor calls her in, it's under an alias; one that she took after her favorite childhood nursemaid. The nursemaid is not-so-long gone, pulverized into asteroid dust by the late Death Star, but the fond memories of her embraces and kisses stay close to the surface in Leia's heart.
When Han rises to follow her inside, she frowns at him and blocks his entry to the examination room with her small frame.
"Where are you going?" she hisses, reluctant for the doctor to hear their exchange.
"What do you mean?" he asks, "Inside, with you. I don't trust these quacks."
She shakes her head and pushes him back into his seat, and Han's eyes widen in astonishment at her gesture.
"The right to enter the doctor's room with me for an examination is reserved for the man whose child I'll carry to term, and that man is not you, Han," she says, and to her greatest surprise, these words are not said in heartlessness, and she finds that she is actually rather sad to say them. There is no satisfaction in lording this mutual failure over him; no pleasure in guilt-tripping him in any way. Suddenly, she feels petty, and tired and- yes, even a little cruel- because Han recoils at her words and nods dejectedly.
Inside, the doctor asks her if she wants to see the scan and Leia, legs spread embarrassingly wide before a stranger, shakes her head. The doctor, a balding man of about forty-five, raises his head from between her thighs and clears his throat.
"I don't usually ask questions, but are you sure you wish to do this?" he asks mildly, "that young man outside looks like the steady sort, I'm sure he'll stick by you if you choose to keep the child."
Shows how much you know, doc, Leia thinks sarcastically and turns her head to stare at the wall.
"No," she intones out loud, and her voice is steady, dead, "just- just make it go away, please."
The doctor sighs, and from the corner of her eye, Leia can see him nodding. The last thing she thinks of before she's put under is Chewie's sad look; and the mournful, clear blue eyes that look at her kindly, without judgment, lull her into a dreamless sleep.
She resurfaces into consciousness some time later, in a clean bed in a white, pristinely clean room. For a fleeting moment she's wondering where she is, but then a feeling of nothingness drags her into the present, and she draws a shaky breath. Leia feels hollow, and empty, and guiltily relieved.
Her small gasp rouses Han- who's seating by her side in what must be the most uncomfortable seat in the galaxy- from his stupor, and he frowns at her, his eyes haunted.
"I'm sorry," he croaks, and places his head in his hands, "I'm sorry, Leia."
"Han-" she begins, because she's just too tired, too emotionally exhausted for this; but he shakes his head and looks at her, and there's so much guilt and shame in his eyes that she doesn't finish the sentence.
"I'm sorry," he mutters again, and Leia can see that his hands are gripping his knees tightly enough to make his knuckles turn white, "I'm sorry you had to go through this. I'm sorry I've been such a kriffing idiot and didn't worry about contraception; I'm sorry about Jabba-"
"Stop it, Han," she sighs, because, really, what's the point anymore, "you were right, we were both to blame; we were both idiots."
He slumps in his chair and looks up at the ceiling and Leia thinks that she's never seen him look more miserable in all the time she'd known him, and her heart breaks a little because she suddenly realizes that she's probably about to make him even more miserable with what she has to say.
"Han," she begins, and he turns his head towards her, his face pale, and raises his eyebrows in question,"I…I think we should stop…"
Leia can't make herself continue, can't utter the words; because, how in Hell do you stop being so addicted?
But Han understands, and although his eyes are regretful and full of hurt, he nods and looks away.
"You're right, Princess," he agrees, and his voice is light years away; perhaps somewhere where the reality is different, "I think we should."
Back on the Falcon, on the way back to Echo Base, they sit at the Hologame table together and drink tea in silence.
There's slight bleeding, and cramping, and Leia is wincing at the discomfort as she stares into nothingness and thinks of maybe, in another lifetime…
And the sense of hollowness returns and suddenly feeling empty is not as assuaging as before. Misery starts seeping into her chest, and she frantically reminds herself that she didn't want it, she didn't- so there is no need to feel remorseful; no need to feel so, so utterly lost.
Murderer, her mother's vengeful spirit whispers in her ear accusingly, murderer…
No, Mama, she pleads with the imaginary spectator, her throat impossible tight, I couldn't have it; you know I couldn't!
Han's hand on her knee jerks her out of her morose self-abuse, and she stares at him, startled. He looks resigned and tired as he pats her knee awkwardly.
"There was no other way, sweetheart," he says with assurance she's not entirely sure he's feeling, "it's better this way."
And as Leia stares at him and at his guilty eyes, she can't for the life of her decide if he's trying to reassure or, or himself.
A/N: This was written in response to the too many pre-ESB fanfics I happened to read lately that have Leia pregnant and Han being happy about it.
One of the things I care about most in stories, is proper, authentic characterization of the characters, and – reading these fics – pushed me into writing a slightly more accurate portrayal of Han's reaction to an unplanned pregnancy on Hoth.
Because pre- ESB Han will never be happy to suddenly learn that he's about to become a father. Not with Jabba on his head, not with an unsteady not-relationship with Leia; not when he's constantly thinking of leaving.
And so this was written.
Hope it wasn't too awful:)