Leia sat with Shara and Annie on a little knoll at the side of the road, an expandable folder on her lap. While Han was been running heats with the Rogues, Leia had spent the day leafing through the classifieds archives of the Gazette. Leia was moved by these small histories. Over years of mimeographs, she traced the town she loved, its simple, affecting biography: the solemnity of deaths, frothy happiness of engagements and nuptials, the wonder and pride of each new birth. Often, she found herself reading the most moving or funny or inexplicable announcements aloud to Shara and Annie and Marcie.
After a while she tucked her papers away and watched Luke, idling at the shoulder as he waited for Han to clear the rise. Even from this distance, her cousin radiated a peculiar peaceful intensity that had only grown over the last week. Beside him, in the passenger seat, Kes fidgeted, kept craning his neck to check for Han's white truck. But Luke sat still, both focused and relaxed, his eyes fixed to that billboard Leia hated.
Cairn Estates represented everything her father and Ben had fought against: an encroachment of greed into a place of peace. It wasn't that Leia opposed sharing the beautiful land; cheap lots had been available for years. It had nothing to do with keeping the lake elite. Ben Kenobi had never had a penny to his name, in fact. But she'd taken Han to see the spec bungalow Cairn Estates had built outside town, and he had exploded, ranting all the way home that it was cheap bullshit, wouldn't last ten years, was designed to bilk money out of young, struggling families. In his own way, Han was as outraged by the project as Bail had been, though Han's anger was rooted in the idea of rich prospectors profiting off the hopes of the poor—and also, Leia could now tell, his private horror of shoddy standards.
Leia blushed at the thought of her—what? Boyfriend? Leia had never liked the word, couldn't relate to the milkshake-and-bobby-sox dates of her classmates, the trips to park at Lookout Point. Yes, she'd intellectually understood the pull towards lust, and sometimes she felt deep loneliness. But Leia couldn't lie, either, and accepting dates with prospective suitors would have been that, as Leia simply didn't feel about them the way they felt about her. It seemed both cruel and exhausting to pretend. So Leia thought it better not to date at all, to focus on her studies. And of course her parents approved, relieved that their daughter didn't seem to be this new social invention known as the "teenager."
Boyfriend. Going steady. Pinned. None of those popular words seemed to apply to Han Solo, nor to Leia; and, in truth, Leia didn't know what he'd call himself in relation to her. All Leia knew was, for the past two days, Han Solo had kissed her every chance he got. There weren't many kisses so far today, since they were out with their friends; by mutual unspoken agreement, they'd conspired to keep the change in their relationship private. Instead, waiting for Millie to materialize, Leia settled for running every kiss she'd shared with Han through her mind. He'd kissed her in the woodshop, and on the beach, and as they stained cabinets under the red-gold leaves. Han had kissed her on the porch, and in the orchard behind the cabin, his mouth sweet and tart with Honeycrisp apple.
Leia thought now of his lips, his hands, his tongue, his teeth. This was what she'd missed in school, what it was to be swept up. He'd kept everything above her shoulders, so far, though Leia ached for him to do more. But Han didn't—wouldn't. In fact, he'd only ever kissed her standing up. She'd tried to pull him to the grass, and into the hammock, but he resisted. Han wouldn't even enter the cabin at night, not anymore; he'd kiss Leia goodnight at her door after dinner, then sequester himself in the Falcon like he was some werewolf, and Leia the calling moon. She wasn't quite sure, exactly, what Han was forbearing, though the anguished crease that often marked his forehead when he kissed her certainly suggested something.
There was a whoop from nearby, where Lando Calrissian perched on the bumper of his sleek baby-blue Skylark. As Millie flew into sight, Luke took off, leaving hot black rubber in his wake. Leia stood. Lando shaded his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief, like a man at a racetrack who'd bet on the wrong horse. But his smile gave him away; there was something in Lando that couldn't hold a grudge. He was a man who appreciated beauty and style, and there was so much of both, now, in Han and Luke's graceful merger. For the first time their two vehicles ran perfectly close and parallel, each man's sense of timing and speed, power and space pooling into the other's. They seemed to have discovered some kinetic telepathy. Han and Luke were both fast as hell, but now they shared a similar steely grace that let them make the most of their formidable combination.
As the vehicles flew by together Leia thought she could glimpse Han's face opened in appreciative, joyful laughter. Chewie made the throw; Kes made the catch. Annie squealed, and Shara and Leia exchanged a giddy, hopeful look. Then Kes stood, and threw the bottle; this time it hit, splattering the plywood with thick blue paint. Everybody cheered.
Beyond the billboard Han and Luke slowed, then pulled over; Wedge and Janson pulled up, and all the men poured out, laughing and thumping backs, praising, crowing and vowing until finally Han reminded them, with typical acerbity, that the race hadn't actually been won yet, so. Back to work. They spent the last hour of real daylight pulled off the highway adjusting their engines, overseen by Han. Janson had brought enough beers for them to have one each; Wedge had brought everyone coveralls. Luke declined the beer, but took the coveralls; he had an evening business dinner with his father. With a wink, Han snagged Luke's beer along with his own, but refused the coveralls with a snort.
"What, Antilles, you afraid to get up close to a little grease?"
"Nope." Wedge shrugged, snapping off the cap of his beer with the churchkey he kept on his wallet chain. He inclined his chin at the tall brunette sitting on the ridge with Annie and Suzette, Shara and Leia. "But I'd rather get up close to my girl."
Han went silent, taking a long pull of beer.
Wedge hid a smirk. Just fifteen minutes ago, watching Han pull off that crazy flying formation with Luke, Wedge had figured—again—that Solo had to be the slickest fucker he'd ever seen. He'd been stunned. But now, as Solo tried to sneakily climb into a too-short coverall, Wedge hid a smirk. As Solo cut his eyes to the hill, to a particular girl, Wedge threw Janson a knowing look. Slick? Ha. Sometimes you could read Solo like a Dick-and-Jane.
XXXXXXXXXX
Chewie and Annie rode back to town with Janson; they had to open the diner for the supper rush. Kes and Shara left for her mother's house, where they were living to save money for the baby and their own place. Wedge, with a wink at Han, squired Marcie off to the movies and then probably, Han thought with a smirk, Lookout Point, a popular make-out spot just down the road from Cloud City. Luke slapped Han's back, kissed Leia's cheek and cleared out to meet his father and, probably, Erin Isolder. It was the yearly state-of-the-company dinner in Mantell, and Erin, since the death of her father, old Sheev Palpatine, was Empire's biggest shareholder. If Luke didn't know he was soon to escape this life, he wasn't sure he could face it tonight.
Lando strutted over to where Leia and Han sat together on the hill, resplendent in a purple crewnecked cashmere sweater, the cuffs pushed jauntily up. He whistled when he saw Leia in her own new clothing. "My goodness, Little Queen," he called. "Look at you! Finally someone in this town gives me a little sartorial competition."
Han and Leia shared a moony look that they happily believed Lando didn't notice. Meanwhile, Lando mentally counted his winnings: on a whim, he'd supported Kes' Hail Mary bet of marriage by Christmas. It was nuts, but what the hell. Lando sat for a bit on the hill with Leia and Han, drinking Han's second beer, trotting out old stories that made Han splutter and Leia laugh. Nothing too crazy; Lando knew not to sandbag a buddy with a girl. Or to cut into his private time, so as the sun began to set, Lando finished his beer and stood, adjusting the crease in his slacks to ferocious sharpness.
"Listen," Lando said. "It's my birthday on Friday. Twenty-damn-seven. We're having a party, at Cloud City. Everyone's gonna be there and you are too, Miss Vogue." Lando grinned at Han. "I'll let you bring your grease monkey here if he cleans up first."
Leia said, "Luke and I are only nineteen."
Lando smiled his easy smile. "Well now, that's no problem if nobody at Cloud City serves you. Coke and water for you two, Queenie." He shrugged. "Of course, I can't control, nor am I responsible for, whatever libations you might consume first." He winked, and checked his watch. "Friday night, it's going down. Nine o'clock, Donna hits the stage. Do not," he said, "Be late." And Lando paraded down the hill, absolutely untouched by grass or twigs or dirt.
Han stood too, in the gathering dusk. He went to help Leia up, then drew back his hand, seeing it was smudged and dark. She was wearing her pretty new clothes, a blouse and red cardigan and a navy circle-skirt. Seeing how much pleasure she took in her finery gave Han a boost of pride that he'd read her right, helped her out when it counted. And did Leia look nice? Man...
He thought of last afternoon, when he'd come into the cabin after racing practice. She'd been wearing a pair of little fitted trousers that some crazy man had bought her and something about those with her tiny bare feet—well, it was a good thing he'd been covered in engine grease. It forced Han to keep a certain distance, though Leia was no help with that, always trying to wriggle closer. Han went alone into the Falcon last night, into the cold shower, where the bathroom mirror reported just what a state Leia left him in: tortured eyes, hair wild, Leia's lipstick blooming across his face, his neck. His groin all heavy fiery ache.
For the first time in his life, Han didn't want to go so far, so fast, with a girl. He wanted to find a pace, a sustainable pace that wouldn't burn them out, or set Leia racing away. She'd said how she felt about marriage, after all—that, essentially, it was a trap—and though the lifelong marriage-phobic Han secretly no longer believed quite that, it wasn't like he was considering that step either. But, he figured that Leia was afraid of her career goals being smothered in romantic obligation. So, as Han repeatedly scolded himself when all he could think of was getting under her dress, Not so far, not so fast. This, for now, would be just this: kisses, simple touches. And, in truth, just this with Leia left Han thrilled, addled, consumed. More turned on than he'd ever been with anyone else.
Walking back to Millie with Leia, Han felt buzzed. Not by the single beer; it was that he and Luke had solved something, worked some real magic out there. He'd felt in the grip of some weird steering force that left him still edgy with eager adrenaline. Leia hopped up into the passenger seat and put her folder down. Then she turned back to face Han, standing before her, unzipping Wedge's coverall. He tossed the oily, crumpled canvas in the bed of the truck, then stepped close, planting his knuckles on either side of Leia's thighs, against the seat. For a long moment, they simply regarded each other in the dim light, grateful to be alone.
"How's your study goin'?" Han finally asked, knowing Leia was expecting to be kissed.
Leia lifted her eyebrows, mildly incredulous, then lifted her chin, telling Han that it was going well. She'd studied everything Cecil had given her, and later, at home, she'd try to write her own versions, to capture their tone.
"Oh yeah?" Han asked, leaning in, his eyes moving between her face and her lips. He offered her a sly grin. "What news you got, Miss Reporter?"
He craned his head towards hers, but Leia pulled back, stubbornly playing out the teasing he'd begun. She wondered aloud how he'd like to be described in her article, in the language of public announcement. "Noted craftsman? War veteran? Ace driver?" (Boyfriend?)
Han rolled his eyes.
"Local smartass?" Leia asked, sweetly.
"Scoundrel," Han said back, in that voice of his she'd only just discovered: silky, secret, deliciously subterranean. He leaned closer. "I like the sound of that."
Leia swallowed. "The newspaper doesn't write about scoundrels," she said, going on with the game, though her voice was shaky. "That's romance novels. The Gazette only writes about nice men."
Han closed in, his eyes both amused and hot with intent. "I'm nice men," Han said, and then he kissed her, a long slow deep kiss that fit her lower lip between his. "But one's a scoundrel." Another kiss, his tongue slipping just in, then gone, his lips moving down Leia's jaw. "And it's that guy," Han murmured, against her neck, "that princesses like best."
Leia sighed. Yes. Now that she knew how Han Solo kissed, Leia supposed there was no point in denying it. Han was nice men and Han was a scoundrel, and now he kissed her with a similar impossible balance: sweetness and impatience; demand and reverence; need and gratitude and frustration and relief. But still Han kept his hands off her; in fact, the more depth and hunger with which he kissed her, the farther he moved his hands away; one was now gripping the back of the seat, the other braced on the dash. Leia broke the kiss, taking her own hands from their roosts in his hair and on his shoulder.
"Would you like me to also keep my hands to myself?"
"Wha—no, Sweetheart." Hazy-eyed, Han gave her a quick half-smile. "God, no." He lunged, but Leia held up her hands between them.
"My hands are dirty, too," she said, wiggling her own ink-smudged fingers. "What are you afraid of?"
Han narrowed his eyes. "I'm afraid of markin' up your pretty new clothes," he growled.
"Is that what you're afraid of?"
Panting, Han cocked his head. Leia lifted in eyebrow in challenge, in invitation. Han looked down at her neat kneecaps, paired close together against his lower abdomen. He looked back, into her eyes; his look strained, pleading. Then he heaved a sigh—a kind of apprehensive recklessness—and gently parted those knees with his thigh. Han pressed himself between, close, carefully watching Leia's face, her widening eyes as they met at the crux of themselves. Leia felt him there, felt the state of him there, felt his mute, primal explanation—saw, in Han's green eyes, a kind of starved contrition.
When Leia breathed sharply in, it was not in fear, but in expansion. Instinctively, she hooked her calf on the back of Han's leg and pulled him still closer, tight against her. And some ignition fired in Han then, a hum she could feel just under his skin. With a shuddering breath he took Leia's face in his palms, engine grease be damned, and kissed her for all he was worth, in wild, awed disbelief.