Disclaimer: I am not George. I own nothing. Don't sue.

A/N: I don't know where this came from…Let's blame it on testing. HanLeia PoV, throughout the trilogy, beyond the saga. Read, enjoy, let me know what you.

Revised some 5/10/06

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Long ago in a galaxy far, far away…

Every fairytale needs a love story, even one that's peppered with wookiees and robots. And while once upon a time didn't fit into their story, their own beginning would become no less classic.

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He was supposed to be rescuing her. But it was hard to rescue a woman who was already rescuing herself and her saviors. But no one had told him she had never been fond of the 'distressed damsel' role so he couldn't really be blamed.

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It wasn't love at first sight, not when he saw a credit sign on her back and she saw 'nerf herder' written across his forehead, right next to 'idiot'.

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The garbage chute changed things, being the first time they escaped death. Together anyways. And though Death seemed as imminent outside as it had within, for there is no real safety in the belly of the beast, there was still the thrill of survival rushing through their veins and just the smallest traces of hope.

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They escaped.

She called him a mercenary. He thought her a pain.

They parted ways.

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He came back (his conscious now wake with a hang over).

He helped save the day and she could only half explain her happiness.

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He was infuriating.

Arrogant and lewd, with that grin of his, more of a smirk than anything else. Time passed, and she developed the theory that there was nothing but hot air holding up the walls of his skull. She told him so one day, fist clenched at her hips, finding it hard to retrain dignity when the urge to beat him to death with her comm link was prominent. She resisted, princesses simply didn't commit murder with Alliance issued equipment.

"You spend a lot of time dreaming up theories of me sweetheart?"

She thought she might have to reconsider.

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He didn't realize she was human till he saw her bleed. Her face etched with pain, a blaster still held tight in her hand, unwavering. His throat laced with the taste of copper, the smell of burned flesh in his nose and red everywhere: on his hands, on his gun, all of it spilling out of her.

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She was a princess, he was a pirate, and some might call that fated. There was no fighting alliteration.

So when he kissed her, she only pretended to consider pushing him away. And when she kissed him back and he only pulled her closer.

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The first time he saw the numbers at the small of her back he was speechless. That fact alone made her feel accomplished. But when he kissed the scars at the base of her neck she felt relieved.

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She never talked about Alderaan and he never asked her to.

Partially because she believed in a proper time for grieving (namely after the war), partially because she was afraid if she ever started she'd never stop.

He could understand that.

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She didn't know she loved him until the penultimate moment, when he stood on the platform ready to vanish. But it wasn't until the words left her mouth that she believed it.

And contrary to what the stories might later tell, he knew he loved her long before she refused to ask him to stay. He just didn't know how to say it.

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They rescued him and her happiness required no explanation.

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The war didn't end with the Emperor and 'Happily Ever After' didn't scroll into the horizon as they reveled in their victory. Yet they had made it that far and it was thrilling.

And while 'The End' didn't appear in the distance, there was still hope.

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He had the habit of saying I love you at the most random moments.

Sometimes she smiled, sometimes she laughed, and sometimes she glared. They might have been the same three words but he had a million and one ways of saying them, all of them meaning something different.

'I love you Leia.' Except that one.

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The most misleading thing about fairytales is that people think they required happy endings.

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He had forgotten she was human until he saw her die. His throat laced with copper and his vision blurred by grief. And everywhere there was her life, on his hands, on his lips, on his clothes. All of it spilling out of her.

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Some stories have sunsets and others forever.

They didn't.

But what they had was their own.

That's what the story books will say.

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End

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