This story takes place just prior to The Empire Strikes Back. It is my first Star Wars fanfiction, and explores the different perspectives of Han Solo and Leia Organa as they struggle to win their own personal battles. There are two sides to every story. This is theirs.

Disclaimer: So... I own nothing. Nada. Zilch. All rights go to George Lucas and all affiliated with the production of the Star Wars films. It's their world. I just play in it.

The Winner

Part One

Han's Perspective

As you stand here, hip-hitched, staring back into those same deep, dark, liquid-brown eyes that have alternately charmed and infuriated you for almost three years now, you start to wonder for the umpteenth time just how the heck you got yourself into this mess.

Sure, when you think back hard enough, you can remember. You can recall the inside of that seedy hovel of a cantina (your kind of place) where you first met the old man and the kid, and where you got commissioned (or suckered) into hauling their butts, plus two of the most annoying droids you've ever seen in your life, to Alderaan (for a substantial fee, of course). You can remember putting up with the old man's seemingly endless droning about hokey religions and ancient weapons and watching the farmboy waving around that glorified nerf-steak knife of his. You can remember thinking about how those seventeen thousand credits you were supposed to receive in compensation for your services would really save your neck.

And you can remember in perfect detail feeling your heart plummet through the pit of your stomach when you brought your beloved ship out of hyperspace and into an uncharted asteroid field that should not have been there.

It was just your luck.

Of course things couldn't have been easy. You just had to get sucked into that floating pillbox of a space station, and then you had to go and follow the old man and the kid all over that blasted Death Star, clunking around in a suit of stormtrooper armor and slinking through the place like you were a kriffing womp rat. Then, as if that wasn't monument enough to your lunacy, you found yourself traipsing like an absolute idiot into a detention level simply because the greenhorn kid wanted to spring a princess out of her cell.

Yeah, you were just that stupid.

Never mind that that firebrand of a princess was one of the toughest and most beautiful women you'd ever laid eyes on. Never mind that she'd just had her whole world literally blown out from underneath her. All you could think about at the time was that this petite but powerful girl had just dumped you into a garbage masher and had almost gotten you killed in an attempt to save your lives.

How ironic. You didn't know whether following her would lead to your escape or your death.

You didn't know whether you were going to kill her, or if you were beginning to like her.

Somehow, after managing to escape the Death Star with your passengers, minus the old man and plus the princess (you weren't sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing), you found yourself transporting them to the elusive home base of the Rebel Alliance, unwittingly becoming a pawn in the Rebels' scheme for the time being. It had been your intention to take your reward and run with it as soon as you possibly could, and that was what you did: loaded up and ran with barely a goodbye. After all, you weren't about to watch Luke and the Rebels get themselves killed.

It was after you left that you started looking back.

Suddenly there were a million reasons in your mind to stay, a thousand arguments popping into your head, and for some reason you couldn't get the image of a girl with the deepest brown eyes you'd ever seen out of your brain. Driven by that image, you'd altered course and headed straight into what could have been considered one of the Nine Corellian Hells, skimming much closer than you'd ever like against the surface of that awful battle station and saving the life of the kid who would become your best friend (besides Chewie, of course). But it ain't final, you told yourself as you felt the heaviness of the medal the princess was hanging around your neck. You didn't have to stick around. You could leave whenever you wanted.

And right now, you were wondering why you hadn't left this party almost three years ago.

If you were to be completely honest with yourself (which you're not inclined to do), you would admit that the reason you're still with the Alliance might be standing right in front of you, gazing back at you with fire burning in those liquid eyes. But you won't admit it because it can't possibly be true…

Can it?

No, you decide. Because the girl in front of you, the beautiful, headstrong leader is, without a doubt, the most infuriating human on the face of the planet.

Heck, make that the most infuriating being in the galaxy.

You got into your first argument with her only minutes after meeting her. (You got your first hug from her too, and you can't deny that that felt nice, but that's beside the point.) She even had the gall to accuse you of being a lowly, arrogant smuggler and mercenary while she was on board your ship, being transported across the galaxy to safety because of you! Who did she think she was? Had she forgotten completely who'd sprung her out of that Imp-infested prison?

No, she hadn't, which made her all the more intriguing. And infuriating.

After that, arguments between the two of you had been anything but uncommon. It was almost like even standing within a ten-foot radius of each other was enough to make your blood boil. She knew just what to say to set you off, and you, in turn, knew just how to get under her skin. You fought hard, and she fought harder. It was just the way things worked.

You can't remember what started this argument. You honestly can't. You've been going at it for too long and too hard to remember, and right now you can't spare the extra brain power to try and recall while formulating a response to counter her biting words. But if it followed the course of your previous arguments (and it probably did), then it more than likely began with her starting up her whole "commit to the Alliance" speech and you getting slightly offended and making a smart remark about how she never gave up or shut up. That usually set her off pretty good, which produced the desired effect and gave you some satisfaction, but it never ended there. She wouldn't let it.

She stands before you, defiant, her anger visible on her face. You'd never believed she'd been eighteen when you met her, and you can barely believe that she's just now twenty-one. She acts much older than that. She grew up too fast, a little voice in the back of your head whispers, but you shut it up. You're too mad right now to begin to justify her.

You're used to arguments, Force knows you are, especially with her. But most of the time your arguments are more like children fighting, backing off before real blood is drawn. This time though, you're really angry, and so is she.

The rage you feel burning in your blood courses through your veins like liquid fire. Screw this, you think, giving in to your desire to shut her up. You feel it strengthen your resolve as you let the words fly from your lips, the unquenchable hunger of that feeling:

The undeniable desire to win.

You blame it on your past, your childhood. Growing up practically an orphan, you got used to fighting hard for just the simplest things: food, water, credits, shelter. If you didn't fight hard enough, if you lost, then you went without.

And you hated going without.

So you got used to fighting with everything: your fists, your brains, your mouth, your flying skills, anything that would help you win the constant battle to survive in the cruel world you'd been born into. You fought until you won, and if you didn't win, if you got beaten, then you dragged yourself to your feet and started to fight all over again. Eventually you stopped losing so much and started winning.

And you got good at it.

Winning made all your successes and victories taste that much sweeter. You began to crave it, as an addict does spice, and you hated the bitter taste of defeat. You got dealt your share of blows, and you tasted blood more often than not, but you didn't let yourself give in when you felt the beginnings of the burn of defeat on your tongue. You pushed yourself until the sweet balm of victory invaded your lips again. You aren't used to being challenged like this.

But when you met Leia, you met your match.

And you won't lose to her.

She's livid now, your words infuriating her, and once again you're back on the subject of commitment. You know she despises the fact that you won't commit yourself to the Alliance, the cause that she's thrown her whole life into since you first brought her to Yavin almost three years ago. But it's like you've told her before: you aren't going to throw away your life on a lost cause when what you need to be doing is getting out of here and saving your own skin. The callous card only makes her angry, but it's a good excuse for you, because it gets your mind off the real reason why staying here is so dangerous:

Because you're scared that if you get any closer to her, pulling away again will be impossible.

But she doesn't know that. She doesn't know you, not really. You won't ever let her know the real reason you refuse to stay. Let her think that you don't care. What do you have to lose anyway? What do you care what she thinks?

But you do care. And you have to pretend every day that what she thinks you are doesn't hurt.

Her words come hard and fast, and you know she's intended them to be the peak of her argument: "Truth? You want to know the truth, Solo? The truth is that you're too much of a coward to give any part of yourself to anything. You turn a blind eye to everything but your own personal cause because it's all you want to see. You only want to look out for yourself, and you don't want to know what other people are going through. Some of these men have given everything, Han! They've lost their families, homes, and thousands have lost their lives, but they keep fighting for what's right because they are not afraid of the consequences. They want to bring down tyranny, and make a better life for themselves and everyone else in this galaxy, and unlike you, they aren't afraid to feel for something other than themselves!"

That's it. No more playing nice. You've never been so mad at her before, but deep down, you know you're mad at yourself too. Mad that this is what she thinks of you, but more than anything, mad because you know that in some ways, she's right.

But that doesn't stop you from delivering your final blow. You feel the pull again, the inexorable pull at your sternum, the deep, burning desire within to win at all costs.

And you give into it.

"Feel?" you hear yourself roar incredulously, your fists clenched so hard at your sides that a tight pain runs through your hands and up into your arms. "What would you know about that, huh? You, the almighty Princess Leia, up on that pedestal of yours… Tell me, Your Worship, do you ever come down off that thing? Or is it too degrading to be down here with us commoners?" You tower over her by almost a foot, but you draw closer to her, staring down on her hard, as if to intimidate her. You stick your finger in her face, noting the fire of fury blazing behind those beautiful eyes, and you can't stop yourself. "You don't know the first thing about feeling. You walk around like you're made of stone, and you leave a trail of ice wherever you go. So you tell me, Your Worship, do you feel anything at all?"

And about two seconds after those words leave your mouth, you realize that you've screwed up.

Big time.

You forgot. You totally forgot what tomorrow commemorates, what's been burned into her mind for almost three years now. Tomorrow marks the third anniversary of the day you first met her.

Tomorrow marks the third anniversary of the day Alderaan was destroyed.

The day she lost everything.

And you suddenly have the desire to shoot yourself in the foot with the strongest blaster you can find.

She doesn't flinch. She doesn't move. She doesn't even breathe for a moment. You find yourself drowning in the pools of her eyes, and for the briefest instant, you watch as her strong, untouchable façade shatters and falls. Her expression never changes, but for the first time, the distance in her eyes fades away, and all you can see is hurt, a hurt so deep that it pierces your own soul with its pain. You have the almost uncontrollable desire to pull her into your arms and hold her until her pain subsides, but you know she would never seek comfort from you.

And you don't blame her one bit.

You watch her build the wall again, the one that surrounds her heart, and the hurt in her eyes is quickly replaced by a dead, empty nothingness that chills you to the bone. Her expression is unreadable; you can't see anything written across her ivory features except exhaustion, but she draws herself up to her full height, exuding that inner strength in the only way she knows how, and when she speaks her voice is so soft that unless you saw her lips moving, you never would have believed it was hers. "I do feel, Han," she whispers, and she never looks away from you, though you can tell she wants to more than anything. "More than you know."

And she walks away. There is no anger in her stride, no emotion fueling it at all. She just puts one foot in front of the other, heading towards nowhere in particular, just desperate to get away from you. You stare at her retreating form in silence, and deep in your heart, you know you just scored the final blow.

You won.

But for once, the taste of victory is not sweet on your lips. It tastes cloying, nauseating, and as it slides through your lips and over your tongue you just want to retch. Those same words echo through your head, over and over: You won, Solo. You won.

But at what price?

Your heart thumps hard against your ribs, hard enough to hurt. Round one goes to you, Han Solo. Ding ding ding, we have a winner. Come on up and claim your prize.

But the cost of your victory was her pain. You know you hurt her. And you can't take it back.

You won, Han Solo.

But for once, you don't want to be the winner.