Han was never sure, later, how it happened, who planned it. It was late in the evening, it seemed like they'd been at Cloud City for days. He lost sight of Leia somehow—he hadn't meant to, but she was a small frond in the forest of revellers, and soon he was searching for her with the maddening panic of a fever-dream. Some waitress took him aside and told him Leia had gone backstage, looking for him. Han didn't stop to think that made little sense. He just went.
He found Leia in Donna's dressing room, perched on the edge of the scratchy plaid couch. As he leaned into the doorway, gripping the jambs, she looked up at him in the warm amber light shed from the makeup mirrors. Han caught his breath: Leia looked in so much pain to see him. He crossed the floor to her in two long strides.
"Sweetheart," Han said, and sat next to her, folded her into his arms. He stroked her face with a thumb, murmuring as though to a spooked horse. "Leia. Leia, c'mon. C'mon: I can fix it, Princess. I know I can." She closed her eyes, leaned into his palm, and for a moment Han knew she was going to open to him, finally tell him what was wrong.
Then, accompanied by a series of female giggles, the dressing room door slammed shut, and locked. Leia's eyes flew open; her pain was seemingly gone, but along with it her softness, her trust. Han shot up, leaping to the door and rattling it, but it was too late. Through the wood he heard gossip, the wagers of waitresses, drifting away. "Fuck," Han sighed, resting his hot forehead against the cool plywood. The door was cheap. He could shoulder it apart, even kick it to bits, and he would, if he had to. But he'd rather not get a bill from Lando—and Calrissian would do it, too. For a moment Han paced, long legs clearing the limited space, as though in search of a weapon, or escape.
When he turned back to Leia, she was on her feet, curiously exploring the dressing room. Inquisition was a genuine Leia-trait, and for a moment hope flared in Han again. Then she leaned over a makeup counter to examine herself up close, and the sight of her like that, all arched bare back, made Han turn sharply back to the locked door. He'd had Donna right there—bent right like that—and now what had been easy fun filled him with a sullied agitation. It wasn't Donna he thought of with discomfort, not Donna herself, or even Donna in comparison with Leia, or any of that virgin-whore shit they'd spouted at Corell Home. Han was troubled solely by the specter of himself. The thought of that vast emptiness in himself, so recently lost; the thought of being cast back into it.
Han crouched, went for the knife he kept in his boot, this one a cheap replacement for the one he'd left in the door at Starwood. He'd always carried a knife, ever since the one he'd been given by Simmons as a kid. God, Han had loved that knife, with its little folding tools, its ingenuity, its promised resourcefulness. It was the first thing he ever had that was truly his. He'd slept with that knife in his hand, to guard it from bunkroom thieves, though in truth he'd always known he'd lose it. Eyeing the keyhole, Han dragged a sleeve across his face. He was really sweating, whether from nerves or illness he wasn't sure. He wasn't on the verge of collapse, but he couldn't make his thoughts connect quite right, or his actions. Han fumbled with the knife, his dexterity muddied.
"They set us up," Leia said, her voice slurred and dreamy. She sat unsteadily on the arm of the couch, watching him work. "Why would anyone—"
"Someone's trying to win a bet," Han grumbled over his shoulder, without thinking.
"What bet?"
Damn it. Han rearranged his shoulders, cleared his throat. "Uh, now listen. I have nothing to do with this, all right? It's something Calrissian let slip, earlier tonight."
"What. Bet?"
Han rubbed at his neck. "It's some stupid pool, where...well, there are a lotta versions. But basically, what they're betting on is if..." Han rattled the thin blade in the keyhole with unusual awkwardness. "Uh. There are three options, you know, for." Leia watched his broad back bunch up, telegraphing his discomfort. "For a potential couple, say, who suffer from. Various tensions?" Han coughed. "Purely hypothetical. And you lay your bet on one outcome, whether they're going to—get together, um, in one of a couple of ways...or attack each—"
"Oh." Leia snorted. "Sort of like fuck, marry, kill?"
Han snapped a look at her over his shoulder.
"Han, please," Leia said. "I wasn't raised entirely by sewing songbirds." Leia said this not with the warmth of their private joke, but in a contempt for herself so obvious that it hurt Han to watch. "People are betting on us, for that? But how do they declare a winner?" Leia mused. "How would they know our outcome?"
Han launched a smirk at her, trying for some of her archness. "...I guess if you come back to the party with my head on a stick?"
Leia smiled, plucking a thin gold hair ribbon from Donna's vanity table and wrapping it around her wedding finger, like a band. She held up her left hand and waggled it at him. "Think they'd believe it?"
"Sorry, Princess," Han said, and turned back to the lock. "I'm a little scruffy-lookin' for anyone to buy me as a prince." He popped the lock, dropping to one knee to sheath the knife back in his boot. The blade was bent, a bit. Stupid cheap junk, just a replacement for a knife which was itself a cheap replacement, and the one before it a cheap replacement, and so on, all the way back to the real one, the one he'd had as a boy. He'd liked that knife best, Han thought, bitterly. It was sturdy, came in handy; let him open locked doors, sneak in or out, repair machinery that was broken before anyone got punished. Han carved with that knife, whittled, felt he could defend himself against the really violent boys, if it came to that. After midnight, Han used his blade to jimmy the pantry lock when hunger kept him and his bunkmates awake. That knife had actually meant something to Han—about himself, his skills, his possibilities in this world. Not like these ones he'd picked up since, utilitarian and interchangeable.
Donna's voice carried right through the wall, singing "Mr. Sandman" in that Marilyn way she had: heartbreaking and torrid all at once.
That first knife. He'd managed to keep it until he was nearly eighteen, until he was finally busted with a girl. Patricia was a spoiled city councillor's daughter, twenty-three, and so daring she'd sought him out at Corell Home after lights-out, casting pebbles against his window. Han had known it was a terrible idea to sneak outside: he could be caned for it, get a laundry stint. But he couldn't resist the thorny rush of mingled resentment and lust. He felt shame that Patricia knew where he lived, that he was unwanted. Han had felt challenged, compelled to assert his worth.
He took her to the dark exercise yard. He'd just got her off with his hand, standing up, her back braced against rough cement, when the flashlight found him. Han sent Patricia running off into the shadows before she was identified, but he'd been caught and dragged to the headmaster's office, the guard slapping him all the way. Headmaster Shrike understood exactly what had gone on—Han's face was marked with lipstick, his trousers still open—but the nasty old man, with a prurient smirk, demanded Han say it, what he was doing out there in the exercise yard, after dark.
"Exercising," Han sneered, as he buttoned his pants.
Shrike's flexible cane lashed into Han's face. He felt a wet warmth across his chin, but no pain; Han had even given a brief, shocked laugh before Shrike hit him so hard in the gut with the butt of the stick that it put the young man down to one knee, almost retching. The cane came down across Han's shoulders, ribs, legs, ass as he curled around himself. When the weapon cracked across Han's back, Shrike stopped, breathing hard, adjusting his cuffs, leaving Han gasping and twisting on the rug. Han was sent to wash laundry for a month, to think about God, to think about meekness. He'd turned eighteen in that poisonous basement, and that was it. He collected what little stuff he had and walked out the front doors for good.
But there was no knife. Maybe the laundry staff had found the knife in his boot, and confiscated it. But something in Han knew Patricia had stolen it. This girl whose father could buy and sell him a million times over. Took it as a souvenir of the rough-trade boy she'd dallied with over the summer, before she went back to college, or married rich. Han begrudged her the loss of it, his one gift, maybe even hated her, a bit. She'd slipped his single prize from his pocket under the guise of touch.
Now, Han shook his head, chiding himself. Helplessness had a way of making him reflect on stupid shit that nothing and no one could change.
"You are quite handsome," Leia said, in a drunken mock-regal tone. "I don't believe I'll have you beheaded after all."
Taking advantage of his humble position, Han swivelled on his knees to play supplicant to Leia's monarch, offering a courtly bow. "I'm grateful we've ruled 'killing' out, Your Highnessne—"
"So that leaves fucking." Leia said, recklessly.
Leia said it to provoke Han to wildness, to make him take her. She said it to prove to Han her sophistication. She said it like a kind of armor, as proof of her jaded hide. She said it to feel some, any power; said it to see that cool poker face of his drop. And it did—kneeling at Leia's feet, Han gaped up at her, brow corrugated, full lips falling open with a tiny pop. Han Solo, of all people, was shocked.
He recovered with a tight laugh. "You're not serious."
Han got to his feet with elaborate nonchalance, but he couldn't hide the tide of dull red sweeping up from his collar. Leia knew this was her cue to laugh, too, to dismiss her statement as an uncharacteristically ribald, drunken joke. But now that her words were out they'd became an idea—a real option, taking shape in the tiny room. And Leia didn't laugh. Han didn't laugh either. Both knew that the two of them, like that, could come true—especially since other lines had been hungrily breached. And knowing sex could come true, really could, right now, with Han Solo on this couch in this dressing room, made liquid heat flood Leia's belly. Made Leia step closer. Made her press on, dizzy and heedless, into the only chance for joy she could now imagine, however fleeting.
"You seemed pretty serious the other night," she said, "In your truck."
"Leia, you're trembling," Han said.
"I'm not trembling," she said, with a hard laugh. Her eyes were too bright, Han thought, with the hard gleam of ball bearings, not at all the rich luster of real-Leia's eyes. She stepped close, moving from arch seduction to barbed anguish—Han could feel it in her touch, her kiss. He tasted desperation. He tasted loss. He could feel an energy in her, frantic and angry—an animal in a trap, a creature desperate to free itself. And he'd surely turned to sex out of that himself but not with her, he was not going to do that with her. "Not like this," Han whispered. "Leia, not...like this."
"Why not, Hotshot?"
Han took a measured step back, making a short sound of disbelief in his throat. "Well, you're not—"
"Not your type?"
"C'mon, Sweetheart. You know damn well you're my type," Han said, tersely. "But you're not—look, you've been drinking...a lot—"
Leia narrowed her eyes. "Because you've been sober as a judge, every time you've been with a woman?"
"I...ah, hell, that's not the same."
"Oh? Because you're a man?" She advanced on him.
"No! Because I'm..." Not worth a damn, taunted the voice of Corell Home. Han held up his palms. "Leia. Listen. You don't want—"
"I want what everyone wants!" She raised her voice, startling them both. "I want to try it at least once, before—I want to, with someone I—"
"Before?" Han chanced a cautious laugh. "Princess. You're talking like it's our last night on Earth!" He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Sweetheart, Sweetheart, there's no rush—"
Leia blinked back sudden, hot tears, shaking her head sharply in frustration, slapping at his stroking hand and stepping into him, seizing his shirt. She pressed her lips against his throat and when Leia spoke again, her tone was almost ferocious. "I want to have my own experience. I want to say how it happens, too: how, when, and with whom. I want to choose, Han. And I choose here, now, with you."
Her words hit Han so hard in his heart and groin that he staggered back against the vanity counter. She followed, nestling her body into his, nibbling his underjaw, splaying her small fingers across his chest. Han made a vexed sound at the ceiling, tempted, unsettled. This was not Leia. This was not Leia. It didn't matter how much he wanted Leia, didn't matter how gorgeous she was: so sexy in her loose, low-backed sweater, her skin flushed with daring, promise, lust. She wasn't herself. She was drunk. His drunk princess. His drunk virgin princess. His drunk virgin princess who was now, oh God, peeling that sweater up over her head. She wore a pale, slightly sheer violet strapless brassiere, peaked at the tips. Han reeled, his stare stunned, heated, yearning. Leia was glorious, some primal goddess tinted in the rosy light, her full chest rising and falling with her rapid breath. Han wanted to return to kneeling at her feet. Wanted to call her Your Worship, and completely mean it.
Han closed his eyes against the rush of mixed tenderness and animal want.
No. For once his gut and head were in agreement, united against other mutinous parts of his anatomy. No. Forget his hammering heart, his immediate hard-on; it didn't matter. He wanted Leia; God, yes, hadn't he spent months, plus this last excruciating week of actually touching her, kissing her, struggling with that? He wanted to have her, wanted her to have him, desperately wanted to feel the moment they became them. But Han didn't want them to happen like this, on some strange battlefield of cryptic defences and advances. Not with a sea of alcohol between them. He didn't want them here, not in this room, not on this shabby couch where he'd already been had by someone else.
Han opened his eyes. He pushed off the counter, slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on hers, not letting his gaze travel lower. Han placed his hands on Leia's shoulders and made his voice both firm and gentle: "Sweetheart. No."
He hated the hurt that overtook her beautiful eyes. Leia stepped back, out from under his hands. She asked, quietly: "But you would with Donna?"
Han winced, blindsided. "Now, hang on. Just hang on..." He trailed off, his bluster lost in truth. How to say that he couldn't do with Leia, now, what he had eagerly done with Donna? Han ground his teeth. He didn't want to scare Leia off with the depth of his feelings—he was still plenty scared to fathom those, himself. And with everything that Leia was saying, doing, who knew how she'd take it? But how to deny Leia what she was after now without confessing his weakness for her, his caring for her, his wish to be close, truly close to her?
His love for her. How to refuse Leia without declaring his love for her? It was such a bitter trap that Han gave a hollow laugh. The scorn was for himself, but Leia didn't know that; she flinched, though her vulnerability swiftly disappeared behind an icy mask. Leia knelt and scooped up her sweater. "Oh well. It was worth a try." Her voice was cool and hard. "Donna said you're good, really good—"
"Leia," Han implored.
"I just wanted someone good at it." Leia said, drunk and stung and bereft enough to fall into outright cruelty. Han felt as though he'd been stabbed; who was this? This wasn't his Leia. She slipped her arms into the sweater, shrugging it over her head, giving him a wintry smile as her face emerged. "I could use a good—"
"Stop. Don't." Han barked, goring the air between them with a forefinger.
Leia smoothed the sweater down over her torso. Her voice was maddeningly casual. "That's not true, Hotshot? About you? That you're good in bed?" As though she was asking him if he was tall.
"Oh it's true," Han said, hurriedly, then cringed at his own ego. Idiot. He swallowed, took a chance and cradled her face in his hands. She closed her eyes."Listen, I. I can't be that guy, Leia. That's not how I feel about you."
Leia jerked back like she'd been slapped. Han grimaced as he heard his own words, how wrong they'd come out. What? No. That wasn't what I meant.
She crossed to the door and pulled it open. They were engulfed in a tide of noise, music and laughter, smoke.
"No—no—Leia, wait—"
Leia turned back, her eyes already dismissive, distant. She said, with delicate venom: "Audrey Hepburn? Right. Maybe you're more of a Marilyn man after all."
And she was gone.
Han stood a stunned, horrified moment—how had his beautiful week gone so hideously, dizzyingly wrong? What was wrong with his girl? What the hell was going on? He was sure, a swooning second, that he was going to throw up. Then Han moved, decisive and fast, his long gait catching Leia on the dance floor. He caught Leia by the elbow, spinning her to face him. He saw anticipation there, in her face: surprise, but no anger, just a wild, shocked hope. Han opened his mouth, not sure how he'd tell her the frightening truth about his feelings, the whole truth: only that he would.
Now.
"Leia." Han said, and took her hands in his. "I."
A braying voice cut in. "Really, Leelee? The odd-jobs guy?"
The anticipation in Leia's eyes flashed to pure rage. Theo Isolder's blond crew-cut was brushed to even spikes; he was wearing a plaid sport-coat and red tie, like any prep on a big date.
"Who the fuck let you in?" Han barked.
Smirking at Han, Theo inclined his chin at Ruby, over by the bar with her tray. Theo began to say something further; Han felt his own face turn murderous. Then Theo seemed to bite his tongue, become curiously respectful. He held out his hand to Leia with stilted courtesy, like he'd practiced in an etiquette class. "Come on, Leia. Mother wants me to see you home."
Leia turned back to Han. She gave him an anguished look, as long and deep and heated as all of their kisses.
Han tightened his hands around hers. "Leia, I lo—"
Theo cleared his throat impatiently. Han wheeled and snarled at him, really snarled, guttural and lethal, like a threatened animal. Leia gave Han's hands one crushing squeeze. She wanted to shriek; she almost said what was going on. But the look on Han's face, feral and protective, stopped her. He was prepared to fight, but he didn't know the forces amassed behind his enemy. "Han," Leia said, her voice loving, gentle. She touched his cheek. When Han looked back into her face, Leia slowly shook her head, the sweet fire in her eyes curdling to dull, resigned tears. And then Leia carefully withdrew her hands from Han's and turned to Theo Isolder. She let him take her tiny hand in his square, meaty paw, let him lead her off.
Han couldn't move, fixed in sick shock, feeling like he'd been shot in the guts, in the heart. His bones hollowed. Leia was swallowed in the crowd. And then, electrified by her loss, Han followed, fighting through dancers, lunging out to the parking lot. Theo's taillights were just turning out onto the country road. Han ran to Millie. He couldn't lose them, let Theo take Leia somewhere—up the road, maybe, like Lookout Point, and—no, oh fuck. Leia was drunk, and not in her right mind. In a cold metallic sweat, pedal pressed to the floor, Han slammed the heel of his hand repeatedly against his forehead. Stupid. Solo, you stupid, stupid, stupid bastard. If you'd only kissed her, kept her a little longer—
Han heard a siren, saw the flashing lights in his rear-view mirror. No. No. No! Fuck!
Author's Note: Why I do this to these beloved characters, I do not know. Gotta have some evil. But rest assured, my friends, things won't always be so bleak for poor Han and Leia. Tune in next week, when New Hope, Indiana earns its M rating! (Eeek.) Not with Leia and Isolder: no one's here for that. Or, if you are, you're gonna be disappointed. Xo!