a/n: and, with this chapter, we start to come to a close. a dénouement, if you will.
Twenty-Seven
Leia slept, uninterrupted and vaguely dreamless, throughout the day. Despite how tired he was – Luke had been right, Han was just as deprived of rest as she – Han found it difficult to force himself to do the same; even with Bail and the kid gone, he was wary and apprehensive. His day was as restless as the night before: he was uncomfortable, uncertain, and he ended up in a sort of thin slumber that had him feeling like he was awake, even though, finally, he wasn't.
Next to him, Leia was oblivious to his discontent. She'd wrapped herself in her familiar sheets and blankets after her shower, and she'd been effortlessly tugged back into the same exhausted, deep sleep she'd succumbed to the night before. She felt like her conscious was wrapped in a cool, protective shield, like there was a shimmering, gossamer barrier between her and the things that haunted her.
She fell short of pleasant dreams, and she fended off nightmares.
She was also treated to the rare, satisfying luxury of waking up slowly, groggily; no alarms blaring on her bedside table or in her head, no tremors in her hands, or the tight, unbearable feeling of being so scared she felt like she couldn't breathe – she merely eased out of sleep, hazily awake before her eyes opened, blessedly given the privilege of deciding when to blink into awareness.
When she did, she found Han asleep next to her – still in his clothes, completely wrinkled, smudged and dusted with engine grease leftover from the day before. He smelled faintly metallic, and – she wrinkled her nose just slightly, taken aback – a stale. There was a tightness to his jaw, a grim, disturbed furrow to his brow, and she breathed out quietly.
She remembered everything clearly, not only because the sleep had done her wonders, but because when she shifted her feet together lightly, a hot ache radiated sharply through her ankle, and then dully through the rest of her. She drew in her breath quietly, swiftly, and then shifted towards him, sliding her palm across the small space between them slowly.
She was sure he was out of his mind with stress and worry, she wasn't sure what had gone on with Luke or – her father – while she was turned in on herself, and she didn't want to startle him.
She brushed her fingertips over his jawline, and against his lips.
"Han," she whispered softly. "Han?"
Despite her best efforts, he jerked awake, blinking harshly. His hand, as it always did when he was unexpectedly awoken, went directly to his thigh. He had a knee-jerk reaction of reaching for his blaster, but finding that he wasn't wearing the gun, or even his holster, his hand flattened to his leg, and he paused, looking at her blankly for a moment.
It seemed to crash over him that she was alert and watching him thoughtfully, and he lunged towards her, his hand flying to her neck, pressing possessively against her skin, moving closer, his other hand threading through her hair.
"What's wrong?" he asked automatically, hoarsely. His eyes met hers, searching, determined, his nose just inches away. "You okay?"
She nodded, her heart skipping a few beats. He was so worried; she'd – she'd so badly put him through the wringer this time.
"I'm okay," she murmured.
He tilted her head up and kissed her, his mouth against hers, like he hadn't seen her in weeks, like she was the air he breathed, and when she reached out to clutch his shoulder, his muscles relaxed into her touch. His kiss was reliable and comforting, and full of relief and a desperate apology, uncertainty and desire, and she broke it, gasping for breath, but he didn't let her go far – he held her face close to his.
"Han," she mumbled weakly, blushing a little, trying to sound stern – but she was delighted by it, delighted he was here when she woke up, delighted that despite how hellish the past week or so had been, he still wanted – needed – to kiss her like that.
He tucked her head under his chin and wrapped his arm around her tightly, holding her close, moving his head to share her pillow with her. She took a deep breath, reveling in his scent, his – his scent, he smelled – she recognized all of it: engine grease and subtly woodsy aftershave and the barest hint of that bland, cheap shampoo he used, but there was something off –
She mumbled incoherently into his wrinkled shirt, and he loosened his grip, shifting. He ran a hand through her hair again, catching her eye, shaking his head a little - he hadn't understood; so she repeated herself, uncertain, her words slow and lazy –
"You … smell like, ah, smoke?" she murmured, identifying the right descriptor. "Like my father used to."
She ran her tongue along her lower lip hesitantly, and shook her head slightly – her senses must still be on high alert, still tuned to what she could pull from the Force and remember, and what was in the here and now.
Han was giving her a look she couldn't quite define, and she slid her hand under the hem of his shirt, pressing it comfortably against his ribs. Han reached for it, sliding his fingers against hers.
"What time is it?" she asked uncertainly – her voice was gravelly, soft and a little raw, sleepy and laced with the halting scratchiness common after long stretches of silence.
"I don't know," Han said honestly, bluntly. "You've been out of it for," he squeezed her hand, and then let go, gesturing a little sharply, a little roughly, with his other hand; he hadn't looked at a chrono in hours, he hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep – he leaned up, cradling his jaw in his palm, his elbow stiff, watching her like a hawk.
She bit the inside of her lip, able to sense – without the aid of any supernatural entity – how deep Han's concern ran, how badly she must have scared him. She felt a sharp stab of regret for it, and looked at him with penance, penance and respect. He curled his hand around hers for a moment, and then reached out to touch her hair, drawing his fingers through it. She swallowed hard, shifting, and winced, lowering her head. She bit her lip and breathed out –
"My ankle," she murmured, turning slightly. She leaned up and pushed the covers off of her, reaching for it – she was tangled in the robe she'd gone to sleep in, and it slipped off of her shoulder.
Han pushed it back up, pressing his hand against her collarbone and holding it there, and she was a little surprised he'd exerted himself to cover her bare skin. Her fingers brushed against the tight wrappings, and she winced.
She murmured something, and Han lifted his head slightly, giving her a look that was uncertain, but partly suspicious –
"You speaking Alderaanian?" he asked quietly.
A bit of colour touched her cheeks, and he arched his brow, figuring he'd guessed right –
"Princess, are you swearing in Alderaanian?"
Her hands fumbled with the wrapping a little, worrying frays into it, and she bit her lip – even though she spoke it occasionally now, with the return of her family, and her best friend, and her people, it was still rare, and he'd never heard her pollute it with – well, whatever sorts of words her people used to swear.
"It hurts," she murmured, justifying herself. She scratched at the edge of the bandage – it was itchy, too; tight, and uncomfortable. She supposed that was because she'd gotten it wet when she showered – she remembered showering – and there was still some soap in it, leaving it oily, and irritated.
Han sat up, but he was giving her a cautious look. He leaned forward and looked at her critically, studying her eyes closely.
"Leia, do you remember what happened?" he asked carefully.
Leia blinked at him calmly. She compressed her lips tightly, and then relaxed, her shoulders sagging gently; she nodded slowly.
"Yes," she said truthfully, suppressing a shiver at the memory of what a totally shattered mess she'd been. "It still hurts," she added, a little lightly – she wasn't confused as to why her ankle hurt, she was just – complaining.
Han arched his brows, and sat up fully, gesturing for her to shift. She did, and he took the ankle in his lap again, picking at the edge with his nail until it came loose and he started to unwrap it gingerly. He threw the used bandage aside and ran the pads of his fingers over the injury with care – it was swollen, but not unreasonably so, and there was a bruise blooming over the flat part of her foot.
"Yeah, I wanted to give you something for the muscle, and for the bruising," he said heavily.
Leia sat forward some, looking down at the ankle with distaste. She wriggled her toes, and winced, drawing her lip between her teeth.
"I can take the shot now," she said.
Han glanced at her guardedly, the slight downturn of his lips skeptical. He reached up with one hand to rub his jaw, and didn't say anything.
"It needs the shot," she recognized, grimacing at the sprain again. "Han?" she prompted. "It's hurting. I can take the shot."
He gave her another look, and after a moment, gingerly replaced her ankle on the bed and got up. She watched him go into the bathroom for first aid, then pause, and come back out, returning to his side of the bed and crouching down – he'd left it on the floor yesterday, and he'd never picked it up and moved it. He picked up the syringe, and she saw the look he gave it as he stood up and held it down by his thigh, intimately attuned to Leia's aversion to needles.
It was better, these days, than it had been years ago, when her Death Star torture was fresh, but there were times – precisely like last night – when shots could still send her into a high-stress, impossible to calm panic, and Han was probably thinking it was too soon after a bad episode for this.
He was clearly on edge, walking on eggshells – she genuinely felt clear-headed, she felt calm, she felt okay – and he had no doubt been expecting a subdued tenseness on her part, a need for him to back off for a moment while she reconstructed her armor.
That's what it had always been like before, after all – Bespin, and Endor, both times she'd had overwhelmingly bad nights, bad reactions, bad everything – and then the next morning, she'd been reticent, held him at arm's length just a little, been grateful for his support but desperate to distance herself from what she perceived as weakness.
She didn't necessarily feel that, at this moment.
She felt rested, and she felt awake, and she felt like she wanted Han to give her that shot, and make her ankle feel better.
He sat down next to her, and slid her foot into his lap again, running his rough palm over her foot. He prodded the worst part of the bruise very lightly, frowned, and then touched her toes, glancing up to her.
"Between your toes?" he asked.
She nodded, sitting up on her elbows. Her eyes fell to his hands, and she smiled a little; she couldn't see the syringe, because he'd intuitively angled his shoulder so it was hidden, a trick he'd developed ages ago. She sat forward and he immediately shifted more, protecting her line of sight.
He gave her a searching look.
"I want to see you do it," she said quietly.
Han nearly dropped the syringe. He arched his eyebrows, taken aback, and stared at her.
"It's a needle, Leia."
"I know what it is," she answered softly.
He shook his head, and she watched his jaw tighten. He started to lean back, more comfortable, relaxing, and she could see the needle, poised at the little crease between her big toe and the one next to it, for a second, before his shoulder obscured it again.
"No," he said flatly. "Leia, I don't know what you're doing, but I don't want to be associated with it."
Her lips parted, and she looked at him with concern, her heart skipping.
"What I'm - ?" she started uncertainly.
His knuckles whitened.
"You've – there's times when you don't want me touching you," he reminded her. He shook his hand a little, gesturing with the syringe, though he still kept it out of view. "I don't want to do this, and then you start dreamin' about me torturing you."
She closed her lips again, her heart sinking – she understood painfully where he was coming from, and she faltered in her own resolve for a moment – but she didn't think that was going to happen. She thought of the moment when, enveloped in the Force, she'd erased Vader from one of her most beloved memories, and that was what hummed in her head as she anticipated getting a shot – this doesn't have to be about Vader, because I say it's not about Vader.
It was the smallest place she could think of to start, and there was a thirst in her cells, an ache for the peace that had soothed her in the early moments of that meditation.
"It's okay, Han," she soothed.
She sat up, moving forward, bending her knee a little, and sliding her arms around one of his. She rested her chin against his bicep, and nodded forward, indicating with wordless expressions – eyebrows, a twitch of her lips, flick of her lashes – go ahead; give it to me.
It was impossible for him to hide the needle, and his hand was tense as he searched her face, and then turned, a muscle leaping unhappily in his temple, to comply. He pressed his thumb against the bone in her foot, and gently held her toes apart to give himself room, and he was quick with the needle; it took less than a few seconds, to pierce the skin, empty the syringe, and deftly withdraw the slim, sharp metal.
Leia watched the swift action, and when the needle touched her skin, she hesitantly tried to tap into that ability to reclaim the way she used to feel about shots – that they were nothing but nuisances that had to be done – but when she delved gingerly into her Force sensitivity, she was paralyzed for a moment with only the memory of the interrogation droid trapping her in a corner.
She drew back from the Force, her grip on Han's arm tight and unforgiving, and pressed her forehead against him. She realized she'd made a soft, strangled noise against his shoulder, and heard a click against the first aid kit as he threw the needle aside.
He was shaking her loose a little, turning towards her, resting his hands on her head.
"Why the hell are you doing this to yourself?" he asked, his lips close to her ear, voice raw and husky.
She clung to his arm tighter for a moment, and then released it, leaning back slowly. She let out a slow, steady breath, blinking, her head settling surprisingly quickly, and she felt – not betrayed by the Force, not fearful of it, but like it sought to warn her, to remind her; she'd taken on too much at once, she needed patience, small doses – she was too close to the hurricane of meditation to be tangling herself in golden threads again right now.
She straightened up slightly and wiped at her face, even though her cheeks were dry. She pushed her hair back, and wrapped her robe tightly around her, trying to think of how to begin, what to say to him – he sat in front of her, so tense, so agitated, and she was suddenly, abruptly remembering that prior to her return with Luke from the Jedi Temple, the last time she'd seen Han, they'd had a nasty fight.
Thinking of it made her catch her breath, and her eyes stung, swimming with tears. She hit her teeth together, clenched them, and then drew her knees up, hugging them to her chest.
"Han, I'm sorry," she said shakily. "I'm sorry about the," she wanted to say fight, she wanted to say how cruel I am to you sometimes, but what came out was – "the kaffe."
He blinked, and his face darkened – not at her, at the comment, and he shook his head sharply, his jaw tightening.
"That? That's what you're worried – Leia, it doesn't matter," he said shortly. "It's – it's a – it's just – it's a goddamn ship; who gives a fuck about the ship?" he said – his disregard of the Falcon was so uncharacteristic that it shocked her, drew a short, hoarse laugh of disbelief from her. "I don't care if you pour kaffe all over – "
"Han, I mean – that what you said, that we weren't fighting about the kaffe – "
"I shouldn't have yelled at you about it!"
"—you were right," she said. "It wasn't about the kaffe – "
"I don't care about the kaffe!"
"I wouldn't have been there with it, spilling it, if I'd listened to you – "
"Leia, what's the kaffe got to do with you and Luke – with whatever the hell – happened," he ran a hand over his mouth stiffly and shook his head. "What happened?" he asked. "What happened?" he repeated.
Leia took a deep breath, her lips trembling. She pressed them together lightly, and Han leaned forward, interpreting the moment she took to compose herself the wrong way, thinking he'd made her cry. He moved towards her, his expression guilty, and he touched her face lightly, leaning in to press his lips against hers.
"Leia," he mumbled, kissing her lightly again. "The kaffe doesn't matter. You matter."
She nodded, her hands fumbling against his elbows as she brought them up – she felt tangled up in him, and she fought to maneuver her arms so she could run her palms over his shoulders and press them against his neck.
"Okay," she murmured softly, voice catching just slightly. "Okay, Han?" she murmured. "I think I need to start at the beginning," she told him faintly.
He nodded, relieved – yes; he needed her to start at the beginning, he'd been out of his mind with worry, he'd been stressed, he'd been trying to show a stronger face to her father than he actually possessed, because he needed the Viceroy to know that Leia was in good hands. He wanted to hear her talk, and he didn't want to hear her apologize again, because the words were making his head ache – Leia, thinking she was in the wrong, when he'd been the one –
Han nodded again, swallowing hard.
He pressed his forehead against her gently, and closed his eyes a moment, steeling himself.
"You hungry?" he asked – his voice was a bit hoarse, and he lingered close to her a moment, and then he drew back, setting his shoulders.
She took her own deep breath, and shrugged – she could eat, but she wanted to focus on this now, and not something as mundane as food – dinner, or breakfast, or whatever meal it was time for – time? Her brow furrowed, and she bit her lower lip gently.
"I'll start with some tea," she said softly.
He nodded, and drew back some more, sitting for a moment and looking at her. She crossed her legs loosely, drawing them up towards her in a crisscross, and her hair fell messily and knotted over one side. Her robe was loose and slouchy, falling off one shoulder again, but he noted that her face had plenty of colour, and her eyes weren't bloodshot - -she looked, he realized with some surprise, good.
Considering the state she'd come home in, and the harrowing hours he'd spent keeping his eye on her, good was not what he expected – though he hardly begrudged her it.
He got up, his spirits lifted a little by that realization, and she slid her arms around her stomach, hugging herself lightly.
"You stay here," he said gruffly. "Don't walk on that ankle yet."
"Ah, will you," she began, and paused; her voice still needed some recovery time, it seemed. "Grab me one of your shirts to put on?" she asked.
He nodded, and she looked down at her hands a moment.
"And, Han?"
He grunted, waiting.
"Would you mind changing your clothes?" she laughed a little to herself, and then looked up to find him looking at her warily, one brow raised. She winced slightly. "I don't know what you've been doing but that…smoky smell," she ventured. "I hate it."
Han looked at her mildly for a moment, and then, to her surprise – and a small amount of confusion – he smiled, and shook his head, as if he was sharing some private joke with himself. His jaw twitched as he nodded, and turned, and she heard him mumble something – it was in Corellian, but it sounded suspiciously like 'that old bastard.'
Her brow furrowed – her Corellian was slightly rusty, though; she could have been wrong.
She leaned forward to run her own hands over her ankle injury, listening to Han in the kitchen, breathing in and out quietly but deeply – there was so much she wanted him to know. She wanted him to know she was okay, that Luke hadn't done anything wrong, that in spite of how – of the immediate after affects, she had needed that experience so badly, if only to open her eyes to the profound depth of her trauma – because she'd spent so long merely placing it in isolation in her head, controlling it, but never truly having control over it.
She pressed her fingers gingerly against the bruise; the pain was dulled, the medicine already working. She licked her lips, and then looked over at the chrono, finally orienting herself – it was late afternoon she realized, with some degree of shock and awe; it was the time when, on a good, light day, she'd be coming home from the office. It had been close to a full day since her conversation with Pooja, more than a day since her fight with Han, and she'd slept the hours away – wholesome, decent sleep, the kind she had longed for all these years, the kind that had been rare since the Death Star, since Alderaan, and even rarer since her father's return.
Leia sat up straight and for a moment, bowed her head, reflecting on that.
Had Luke given her this, had the Force – had she found it for herself?
She lifted her head and opened her eyes, hearing Han come in, watching him strip off his wrinkled clothing and change into something clean and comfortable. Her eyes ran over him lazily, watching his muscles flex as he moved, lingering on his thighs, then his abdomen, then his chest – finally finding his eyes.
She smiled at him softly, and he ran a hand through his hair, managing a small smile in return. He looked like he'd say something, then he shook his head, and turned to go back for the tea. He stopped abruptly, turned around, and swept his dirty clothes off the floor, carrying them out with him to drop in the washer unit.
Leia looked after him with a bemused look, and then stretched out horizontal across the bed, shifting until her upper body was close to the bedside table on her side. She opened the thin top drawer and pushed some trinkets around, finding, after a moment of unconcerned searching, a spare hairbrush.
She shut the drawer, sat back up, and leaned against the headboard, all disheveled robe and tangled hair, idly running her fingers over the bristles. She lifted it to her hair and drew it through the tangles a few times, hardly noticing the uncomfortable pull against the knots. Han came back in a moment later with a small tray, and she didn't move while he sat everything down on a bedside table. She paused, brush in hand, and he strode over to the closet, crouching down and digging around for a shirt to give her.
She sat forward a little and turned her attention to the tray to see what he'd fixed for her – her favorite tea, the kind that turned deep purple when it was all steeped and ready, and the kind they always seemed to be running low on because she drank it so much.
She smiled faintly to herself and picked up the tea decanter, pouring the hot brew into a chipped, faded mug that used to live on the Falcon, but now found its home in their shared cabinets. Pale violet steam curled up into the air, and Han tossed a shirt against her legs, standing at the edge of the bed and watching her.
Leia paused to disrobe, throwing the wrinkled thing aside to the floor, and slipped his shirt over her head, letting it envelop her and drown her. She got comfortable in it, let the sleeves fall to the edges of her fingers, and used the material to protect her hands from the hot ceramic of the tea mug – and she shifted, crossing her legs, watching him.
He raised his brows, and then he sat down and swung his legs up on the bed, leaning back against the headboard – making a show of settling in for the long haul. He folded his arms seriously and gave her a look that was both expectant and wary, and he cleared his throat almost comically.
"Okay, Princess," he said matter-of-factly. "Talk."
Leia smiled a little faintly, lifting her mug to her lips. She tasted the slightly sweet, slightly bitter concoction – this was strong stuff, and often helped her focus when she was overworked or tired or anxious – or all three. She angled her body towards him a little more, and tapped the handle of the mug.
"You don't want any tea?"
He shook his head pointedly.
"Kaffe?"
His eyes narrowed warningly.
"Are you put off kaffe now, for good?" she ventured teasingly.
"Leia."
She laughed quietly, but contritely, and flicked her eyes down for a moment, lowering her mug. She cradled it gently in her palm, one hand curled around it, looking at the soothing colour, and then she looked back up, lips falling into a soft, solemn line, her shoulders relaxing. She hesitated, calculating where to start, and began with –
"You didn't hurt Luke, did you?"
Han's shoulder's stiffened a little, but he shook his head, his jaw flexing before he spoke.
"You asked me not to," he retorted flatly. His tone clearly indicated that he was still convinced Luke deserved a nice, jarring right hook.
"You swear you didn't?" Leia clarified.
"You asked me not to," Han repeated curtly – it was the only thing that stopped him from giving in to the urge to go absolutely ballistic when he found Luke casually meditating on the balcony.
Leia took a deep breath.
"Thank you," she said quietly. She traced her finger around her mug. "He knew you were going to throw a fit. He seemed terrified of you," she added, thinking of the way he'd been jittery and panicked the whole way home – checking her head in the lift to her apartment, a frantic mantra in his head – Han's going to kill me – Han's going to kill me -
"Good," Han said. "If he ever brings you home like that again, I'll throw him off the balcony," he threatened, deadpan.
Leia smiled cautiously, looking at him silently a moment.
"Han," she said softly, her voice gentle. "It might happen again."
He looked at her incredulously, his eyes hard. She breathed out in a rush and stumbled over her next few words, placating him –
"I could do without a repeat of the bloody nose and the sprained ankle, but the meditation – "
"That's what that was?" Han asked sharply. He swallowed hard, a bitter expression on his face. "He's been running his mouth about peace and calm and healing, he almost had me convinced a few times – and it's – Leia, it made you sick. It knocked you out for – do you know how long you've been asleep?"
Leia nodded a little vaguely – she knew she'd slept endlessly and slept well, and she knew, logically, how long it had been, but it was still hard to believe, and there was wonder in her voice when she answered –
"Yes. I haven't had a single nightmare."
Han's jaw fell into a tight line again, but he didn't immediately have anything to say about that. Leia licked her lips slowly, took a sip of tea, and sighed, resting the mug lightly on crossed shins.
"Pooja Naberrie came to see me at the end of my work day," she began quietly. "She wanted to discuss the resolution of – " Leia broke off; the politics were boring to Han; that didn't matter. She found her train of thought, and picked up again: "I'd been – thinking about our fight, and about…Shmi Skywalker's diary. And then Pooja Naberrie was standing in my office."
Leia took a deep breath, and blew out slowly, keeping herself steady.
"It's just – it's felt so overwhelming lately, everything," she said, her voice small but firm. "Vader, Father, the Skywalkers, the things that happened to me, the truth of my bloodline – it was just closing in. I couldn't escape it. She was there, and talking to me so casually, and I kept thinking – she doesn't know who I am – I kept looking at her and wondering if she remembered Padmé. But I asked her," Leia paused carefully, "about Anakin."
Han shifted a little, crossing his legs. He didn't take his eyes off of her, and Leia's nails scratched against her mug lazily, picking at the faded ceramic.
"She looked me in the eye and talked about this – larger-than-life hero she remembered," Leia said hoarsely. "This man who was unfailingly loyal to her aunt, and who played with her as a child," she recounted.
She pursed her lips, shaking her head back and forth.
"She, I – well, Pooja has no idea of the history, but I was hearing her talk, and it was like hearing you tell me to read the diary, or – I don't know," Leia said faintly. "Read it, or keep letting it haunt me. Just suffer."
"That's not what I said," Han broke in immediately, grimacing. "I don't want you to suffer."
"I know," Leia said, her voice hardening a little. "I'm not putting words in your mouth; I'm telling you what went through my head. Listen to me," she said, eyes boring into his, "because I want you to know that this was what I needed."
Han grit his teeth, wishing for a moment that he hadn't said anything that remotely made this about him, and he nodded. Leia lifted one hand and pushed her hair back, fingers slipping through it loosely, curling into the ends for a moment. Her hand fell to her shoulder lightly, and then she touched her lips.
"I turned to Luke because I just couldn't stand it anymore, Han," she murmured. "I wasn't sleeping. I wasn't able to just – compartmentalize anymore. There's too much complexity. I could see…how much it was hurting you, too."
Han's immediate reaction was to shake his head, open his mouth to interrupt, to deny it – but he bit back his response, and controlled himself; she was talking, he'd wanted to hear her talk – he needed to be quiet.
"The Force is not my area of expertise," Leia said very quietly. "I don't know what I was expecting, or if what happened with Luke in the temple was normal, but I needed it."
She paused, and her brow furrowed. She looked confused, bit her lip, like she was parsing something out, and then she caught his eye.
"I can't put it into words."
"You?" Han asked huskily. "Can't find the words?"
Leia laughed a little, and gestured with her hand, pressing her fingers to her abdomen thoughtfully.
"You know what it's like to feel nauseous – that miserable, dizzy, awful sick kind of feeling," she said, more of a statement than a question.
"A hangover," Han noted, deadpan.
Leia gave him a look, but nodded.
"You feel better after you finally vomit?" she went on callously. "Even if getting sick is the worst?"
Han gave a shrug of acknowledgement – everyone knew that feeling. There was nothing good in feeling nauseous, there was only an ill, heavy feeling, coupled with the dread of knowing how unpleasant retching was – but he knew as well as anyone the grudging relief that came after coughing it up and washing your mouth out.
"That's how I feel right now," Leia said succinctly.
Han swallowed the urge to remind her that she had vomited, in a sense that was distinctly less metaphorical. He didn't think she needed the reminder, though – and he considered her edgily. His jaw relaxed a little, but there was still a nervousness coiled in his stomach; he didn't trust what had happened – he didn't feel like his concerns were assuaged.
"That's it, then?" he asked, irreverent, a little sarcastic. "One bad trip with Luke and you're cured?"
He said the word 'cured' like it was a myth, a ridiculous notion – and Leia appreciated it. She took a long, reflective sip of her tea – it had cooled to the perfect temperature now, still warm and comforting, but not quite scalding, and she let his words settle between them before she answered.
"I'm always going to have nightmares," she ventured slowly. "I'm always going to be a little – broken, and have splintered, sharp edges, and I don't know if – accepting the reality of Anakin, and who he became, and Vader, and what he did, will ever get easier, but I was stuck in this ferocious, stubborn hell where I just stared at the flames and waited for them to go away."
Leia's knuckles turned white as she held her mug, and she bit her lip a moment, her voice so surprisingly steady, and calm.
"I was so in control, and so together, during the war because I had other flames to focus on – and I put those flames out," she noted, because that was important – she had thrown herself into extinguishing the Empire, its chokehold, its injustice, extinguishing everyone else's struggles and strife, but she had just been waiting for her personal fires to burn themselves away. "I had myself convinced I'd wake up one day and it would all have finally gotten better."
Han looked at her for a long time. He leaned forward silently and took the tea away, setting it aside on the bedside table. Turning onto his side, he reached for her, taking her hand, tugging her forward, his dark eyes like fine velvet, familiar and comforting and warm. He ran his thumb over her wrist lightly, squeezing her hand.
"You're not broken, Sweetheart."
Leia compressed her lips, turning her hand in his, pressing her palm to his tightly. She tilted her head, accepting his contradiction – walking back on her own words.
"You're right," she answered softly. Her lips formed a silent word – but. "I'm not the girl I used to be. I know that – I've known that, for a long time, and I've said it, to Father, to Mon Mothma," she listed. "In here," she pressed two fingers to her chest, nails twisting in the material of her shirt, "I've been waiting for the pivotal moment when I miraculously heal, and all the damage evaporates, and I go back to that girl."
Leia swallowed hard.
"It's not going to happen. It's never going to happen," she said huskily, "I should have been focusing on confronting everything that has happened to me, and how that's a part of who I am now."
Leia pressed her lips together and pulled her hand back, reaching up to run her hands through her hair again.
"I don't even know if I want to be her anymore."
She took a deep breath, and then put her hands together, interlocking her fingers, looking at her nails, and then looking away.
"Luke showed me how to detangle everything that gets so knotted in my head," she said shakily. "I closed my eyes and I could pick out memories that have been drowned – I could amplify how much I know my Father and Mother loved me, and soothe my doubts," she went on.
"Leia," Han began thickly, warily. "You were a mess."
Still looking off to the side, he watched her throat move as she swallowed again. She nodded.
"I did too much at once, and Luke – I should have started smaller," she confessed. "Han, I was feeling everything at once."
She brought her hand to her mouth for a moment and touched her lips, and then she rested her palm on her knee.
"I didn't have a clear idea of what I wanted to confront so I unleashed everything," she said quietly.
She pressed her lips together hard, and looked back at him carefully.
"But I got a taste," she assured him earnestly, quietly, "of tranquility."
Han looked back at her wordlessly, and she felt a swell of emotion, needing to tell him what she meant – to explain –
"I ripped Vader out of a memory he'd tarnished, Han," she said hoarsely. "I took it back."
She leaned forward, lashes quivering.
"It was brutal," she whispered, "you have to understand – I needed it," she repeated.
She placed her palm against his cheek.
"I know I scared you," she confessed. "I've put you through hell and all you've ever done is try to throw me buoys when I'm drowning."
Her voice cracked, and Han turned his head into her palm, kissing it. He shook his head, leaning forward, reaching out to pull her towards him. She uncrossed her legs and let him put his arm around her, his weight pressing into her side, satisfying and warm, and he leaned over her, running his palm over her ribs, pressing his lips to her jaw lightly.
"'M sorry, Leia," he told her. "You didn't have to go off to that – Temple – because I was being a dick," he mumbled. "C'mon," he soothed. "You're not hell. This isn't hell."
Leia tilted his chin up and kissed him lightly, pressing her lips to his in a silencing gesture, languidly increasing the intensity of the kiss. She ran her hands over his neck and his jaw, and pushed him onto his back, rising up and leaning over him, her nose brushing his when she pulled away.
"Have you been listening to me, Han Solo?" she asked in a hushed, calm voice. She brushed her fingers through his hair. "Always thinking it's about you, you smug nerfherder," she murmured teasingly. "I didn't do this to make you feel bad, or prove a point." She kissed the bridge of his nose gently. "I faced my demons because I wanted to," she murmured.
She pressed her lips against his and was struck, clearly, by his presence in her meditations and visions, his strength, and all the fight in him that had belonged to her since before either of them ever knew it. She thought of every time she'd still been able to rely on him even after a nasty fight, and of every time he hadn't flinched when another terrible detail of her past had reared its ugly head.
Her lashes brushed against his skin as she pressed closer, her lips resting against his jaw for a moment, finding his ear.
"If you hadn't been so constant, I'd never have found the conviction."
Her lips pressed to his jaw again, down his throat tiredly, but it was her words that pierced his skin and eased all of the guilty, stressed tension in his muscles – it was so similar to what her father had spoken about, from his perspective, but to hear Leia say it, to hear the same sentiment in her voice, meant more – and he was able to release a little of his distrust of the Force and his animosity towards Luke, because when she laid her head on his chest contently, he could feel how – stunningly at ease she was in this moment.
Leia put her arm over him, ran it over his stomach and up to his chest, stopping just over his heart. She closed her eyes, her mind clear, searching lazily for words she wanted to say – words that somehow encompassed the way she felt.
"Han," she murmured quietly. "You mean so much to me."
It was, oddly, a stronger sentiment than telling him she loved him – it felt that way, for the time being. She had known love all her life – a good family, wonderful friends, a home – and they, surely, loved her unconditionally, but Han's persistence and frustration, his initial friendship, his commitment – it was a different sort of love, and that someone could feel so passionately for her was both humbling, and wildly inspirational.
She nudged her foot lightly against his shin and managed to tangle her legs up with his, her eyes wide open as she enjoyed the moment of simply being with him. He seemed thoughtful, reflective; he shifted back onto his side and slipped a hand under the shirt she was wearing, sliding his palm over her stomach and up to her breasts in a touch that was more – purely intimate, than sexual.
"I want you to tell me when you're going to go do that stuff," he said finally. "Leia, don't just – drop off the planet on me," he said gruffly. "We'd been fighting, and Bail said you missed a council meeting," he shook his head. "At least tell me."
She nodded – fair request, and Luke himself had seemed a little wary, at the Temple, that she hadn't told Han where she was going, and what she planned on doing.
"I won't be diving right back into that," she admitted quietly – she needed to talk to Luke, more explicitly, about what she was willing to work with; she understood things, implicitly now, about herself, and about the nature of the Force, and those things were going to inform how she progressed from now on.
She reached up to brush her knuckles against his jaw and paused, something in what he'd said striking her as odd –
"'Bail'?" she quoted. The name felt strange on her tongue – she had always found it absurd to refer to her father by his first name – he was always Father, or Dad, or – infrequently – Daddy.
She thought of him, standing there yesterday, stricken with grief and worry; she vaguely remembered Han physically smacking him, and she cringed a little – Han had never fully explained what had been going on when Luke brought her home.
"What was Father doing here last night?" she asked, eyeing him warily.
Han propped his head up on his hand.
"Insulting my mother," he answered, deadpan.
Leia's mouth fell open slightly.
"He – what?" she asked dryly. "You told me there was no fighting," she remembered, eyes narrowing.
Han's deadpan look softened a little, and he shook his head, a short, teasing smile touching his lips. Leia compressed her lips, uncertain.
"What's been going on, Han?"
Han ground his teeth thoughtfully for a moment. He decided she could use some humor in her evening.
"Your dad made me some toast," he told her seriously.
Leia looked bewildered. She propped her head up, mimicking his stance, and her hair fell over one shoulder messily. He reached out and touched the edges of it lightly while she tried to figure out if he was joking.
"Father can make toast?" she asked, faltering.
"No," Han said cheerfully. "He incinerated some bread and tried to feed it to me. I kept it. It's in the living room."
"You kept it," Leia repeated witheringly.
"It belongs in a museum," Han retorted. "I'm going to sell tickets for your people to see it. 'Viceroy Bail Organa's Efforts in Breakfast.' A masterpiece. A social commentary."
Leia stared at him with a helpless, still bewildered expression, and suddenly felt like she'd slept through a whole year instead of merely a day – Han sounded practically chummy about her father. She shook her head wordlessly, and his fingers twisted playfully but gently in her hair, his eyes finding hers with an expression that was impossible to gauge.
"Is that why you smelled like smoke?" she asked faintly.
Han shook his head blithely – and she got the distinct impression he was finding her mystification amusing.
"We smoked cigars," he told her bluntly.
Leia blinked – she had no idea Han kept cigars in the apartment, considering he knew how she felt about the smell, but strangely, her immediate reaction wasn't to question why the hell he'd been casually sharing cigars with her father, but to admonish, on reflex –
"Han, he's not allowed to have cigars," she paused, trailing off – her mother had banned them years ago, after one of the royal physicians said Bail's lungs seemed just a little too…'sooty,' he had said.
Han arched a brow, intrigued - so, the Viceroy had swindled him into giving him a forbidden object. Interesting.
Leia shook her head a little, and ran her tongue along her bottom lip, consternated. He watched the thoughtful, concentrated look on her face a moment, and smirked, shifting his elbow a little and taking pity on her.
"He wanted to talk to me. He finally succeeded in his quest to get me alone," Han snorted, relenting. He paused. "He sure as hell wasn't going to leave after you came home like that."
Leia looked grim, her face losing a bit of colour. She rubbed her forehead with resignation – she wished he hadn't been there, just like she wished he'd never overheard her nightmare. It wasn't that she was ashamed – she knew she couldn't help it – she just wished he didn't have to be subjected to it, as well.
Looking down at the sheets between them, she sighed.
"You – didn't kick him out?" she asked.
Han shrugged.
"I didn't wanna pick that battle," he said evasively.
Leia looked at him softly, and then her lips moved soundlessly, eyes flicking towards the door.
"Is he still here?" she asked, and then a moment later, she closed her eyes heavily, and winced. "I missed a work day," she stated.
She felt Han start laughing before she heard it, and her eyes flew open, a little indignant, and a little curious. He grinned at her, shaking his head, and she felt a rush of delight to see that charming smile, and that light in his eyes – they'd been too tense lately, too full of desperate worry and concern.
"I can't believe it took you this long to notice that," Han drawled. "And you just took the day without fighting me – who are you, and what have you done with my princess?" he joked.
Leia bit her lip, her expression worried.
"I needed the sick day; I couldn't possibly have functioned," she said, with surprising clarity and self-awareness – and he fervently hoped that stuck around. "My – schedule, though, and the High Command – what - ?"
Han tugged on her hair lightly, very gently, to quiet her before she got too worked up. He looked at her for a moment, and then cleared his throat.
"Your old man took your place," he informed her gruffly. "Said he'd handle your meetings and your excuse."
Leia's eyes searched his, and she lifted her brows a little. Han nodded.
"I gave him a pair of your heels and a white dress to wear. Couldn't get the hair right, but I don't think anybody noticed. Good lookin' guy in your red lipstick, though."
Leia gave him a scathing, narrow look, rolled her eyes, and turned onto her back, flinging her hand out lightly to smack him in the ribs. She tried to envision the scenes – her father and Han, sitting together and talking, somehow involving themselves with toast and stories about Han's mother – and she couldn't, it was just too divergent from the narrative she'd come to expect between them.
She swallowed hard, something like hope simmering in her chest. She took a deep breath, and turned her head, looking at him intently.
"Are you two friends now?" she asked – her tone was a bit prim, a bit skeptical, and somewhat teasing, but deep down it was an earnest question; she didn't have a clear comprehension of what they'd gotten up to while she slept, but if it had done any good –
Han hesitated.
He seemed to equivocate with himself, but his answer came fairly quickly, and with certainty:
"We understand each other."
Leia reached for his hand silently, brought it to her lips, and kissed his wrist reverently – gratefully.
It was one thing not to worry about then, at least in a small sense – she doubted Father and Han were best friends, but the alternative was her finding out she'd interrupted another bad confrontation between the two, and they were seething all over again.
Han moved closer and snuggled up to her in a burst of affection, pushing his nose against her neck until his breathing tickled her, and she laughed slightly, tilting her head up. He wrapped his arm around her, hugged her, and then kissed her jaw, lips lingering at her ear.
"He did call my mother a whore," he informed her seriously.
Leia sighed pointedly. She felt Han grin smugly, and surmised that the incident was more complex than that – perhaps she'd ask her father to recount it later, and decide then where the truth fell, but considering Han didn't seem ready to challenge Bail to a duel, she left the comment alone.
"He's comin' back later," Han said. He loosened his grip on her and leaned back. "If you're up for it, you should see 'im," he added.
Leia nodded. She turned onto her side and curled her legs up slightly, her eyes on Han's clean but wrinkled clothing for a moment. She breathed in and out once, deeply, and then caught is eye.
"It's your turn to shower," she advised softly.
What she meant was – he needed to wash off the drama and stress of the past day, take his own step back, breathe, get some real sleep – he may have been asleep when she woke him earlier, but she highly doubted he'd gotten any real rest while he kept a vigil over her.
It was her turn to take care of him – and she meant it, though she didn't protest when he shook his head and leaned forward to kiss her, and the scratch of his unshaven stubble against her cheek was a tangible reminder of the selflessness that ruled his feelings for her.
Leia thought there was an unusual calm simmering in the apartment, though she supposed it could be merely an extension of the personal serenity she was feeling overall. She was unsure how long it would last, but she felt the best thing to do was embrace it, rather than dread, and plan for, its end.
She suspected Han was more exhausted than he let on – he hadn't gotten any real sleep while he was with her, which translated into him having been awake in a stressful sort of stupor for more than a day.
At her behest, he showered, shaved his face, but stopped short of actually going to sleep – too early, he protested gruffly; sleep schedule's already screwed. He wanted to stay up to a decently late hour and get back on track – she understood, that was fair; she was bound to have an odd few days ahead of her, too, as it was fast approaching the end of a work day, and she was feeling well-rested and energized.
She half-heartedly turned on the terminal in her office while Han scraped together a light something to eat – fruit, and yogurt, and a sandwich, little more than he'd tried to get her to eat this morning; with amusement, she found a quick message from one of her aides – Your Highness, Affairs are being handled by Viceroy Organa; office has been instructed not to bother you – full briefing will be provided on your first day back. The message was sent with proper procedure, but Leia sensed the loyalty of her aide in it, the unspoken murmur of – let us know if we need to override Bail. She turned off the console - -she was starting to feel a slight urge to get back to work, to pour over what she'd missed, but there was no point now, no point at this hour.
Instead, she turned on the holo in the living room, and curled on the couch, watching the continuous cycle of news programs. She abandoned a half-eaten bowl of yogurt and granola and devoted herself to a peach instead – one of the sharp, tart yellowish ones imported from Chandrila.
It felt strange to be home in the middle of the afternoon. It felt – undisciplined, and unnatural, and it was altogether unfamiliar to have nothing to do.
Han, for all his talk about staying awake, stretched out on the couch next to her and was asleep with his head in her lap and his arm-twisted around her folded legs five minutes later. He seemed completely unwilling to let her out of his sight – and she accepted that, she understood it; there was a strangeness to the way she was so steady and perspicuous about what she'd confronted. He wasn't used to her embracing that she was in pain and she needed it assuaged.
She ran her fingers through his hair soothingly, her other hand occupied with the peach, and silently multi-tasked – sorted her thoughts, listened to the news, wondered what she had missed. She catalogued stray thoughts in her brain – I need to talk to Luke; is he off shift yet? – I should speak with Pooja again – She kept her thoughts in order, though, and prevented herself from getting bogged down; she knew it would do her wonders to still linger in the quiet and calm lull.
Biting into the peach absently, Leia paused at the remark of a newscaster from a less serious news station –
"—of course, Princess Leia's absence raised eyebrows, not that Viceroy Organa was forthcoming on the matter," the being was saying – and then, a clip of her father, accosted by a reporter, the tail end of his words "—personal day – " and then the absurd question thrown at him next "Any chance the Princess is expecting, Viceroy?"
Leia's teeth scraped against the flesh of the fruit slowly. She arched her brows, watching the grainy image over her father's face.
"Expecting what?" he fumbled, distracted, with what he was doing.
"A baby," was the wheedling reply. "Morning sickness taking her away from us?" goaded the reporter.
She watched a startled look cross her father's face, and he just stared at the man, frowned a little disapprovingly at the deeply personal line of questioning, and shook his head without saying another word. Unable to help herself, Leia laughed, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle it – her poor father, matched against this wildly salacious world of invasive Media that Alderaan had never known.
Han shifted his head, grumbling something. He cleared his throat.
"What's funny?" he mumbled.
"Hmm," Leia murmured, threading her fingers lightly through his hair. "I'm having a baby," she answered nonchalantly.
Han turned his head to look up at her with extreme concern.
"What?" he demanded hoarsely.
She nodded her head blandly at the holovision.
"Channel Eight, explaining my sick day," she said – sick day; the phrase was foreign on her tongue, unprecedented; when did she take sick days? Never – and yet how often had she desperately needed them?
She felt Han's shoulders relax heavily against her legs, relieved, and he shook his head, turning to scowl at the screen. He rubbed his jaw, spotted the peach in her hand, and gave it a pointed look. She held it out to him, and narrowed her eyes in a glare when, instead of taking it, he bit into it like an animal, his teeth catching her fingertips.
She tightened her fingers in his hair and pushed him away.
"Scoundrel," she admonished, withholding the fruit.
He reached up this time, and snatched it easily, and she sighed, shaking her head. She ran one of her fingers along her bottom lip, rubbing the residue of peach juice off, and flicked her eyes back to the news – now they were harping on about a new military accomplishment in the Outer Rim – Lando appeared to have had quite a week.
"Don't get any of that peach juice on me," Leia warned mildly.
She realized, almost immediately upon saying it, that he'd interpret the words as a direct invitation; it was barely a few seconds before she felt the juice drip deliberately onto her skin just above the knee.
Leia rolled her eyes.
"Damn," Han swore, feigning contrition. "Here, I'll get that – "
He licked it off, his tongue inching suggestively higher on her leg until she reached down and grabbed it.
She put it back in his mouth. She pressed her fingers against his lips, and he smirked at her, eyes glittering charmingly. She smacked his cheek gently, and slid her fingers through his hair – she sensed he felt getting her back into the bedroom with him would give him a perfectly valid excuse to fall asleep early, but she didn't have any interest in more sleep – she did feel the need to speak with her father, and to speak with Luke.
Her father needed reassurance, at the least, but it was Luke she wanted to speak with on a more definitive level.
"Go to bed, Han," she suggested.
He looked at her thoughtfully, and handed her back the peach – which she, for a foolish second, thought meant he was acquiescing, but instead he slid his arm around her waist and maneuvered her onto her back, nudging her knees apart as he did so. He ended up between her legs with his chin resting on her abdomen.
His hands slid under her, brushed the hem of her shirt, and played with the hemline of her panties suggestively. She caught her breath a little, and he pressed his lips warmly to her stomach, kissing her through the material of her shirt. He pushed the shirt up lightly, baring her skin, nipping his teeth lightly against it.
"Come with me," he murmured, "to bed."
"I've been in bed all morning."
He shrugged.
"Might as well make a day of it," he said, his words spoken into her skin, dissolving into her hipbone, his lips moving over her temptingly.
She brought the peach to her lips again, taking a thoughtful bite, her hand still moving comfortably in Han's hair. She flicked her eyes at the droning news, the speculation about politicians, about laws, about the new government – anything and everything. The sound ran together, blurring into irrelevance, and all she could think about was Han.
He rose up on his knees, crawling forward, taking the peach from her hand and setting it aside. His face inches from hers suddenly, he nudged her nose with his, eyes heavy with desire, and her hands fell to his shoulders, pulling gently at his shirt.
"You got to let me make up for that fight, Princess," he drawled quietly.
He pressed his lips to hers and she ran her hands over his neck, drawing him closer, dropping one leg off the side of the couch so he had more room. Her hands slid down his chest quickly, resting at his waist, anchoring his hips to hers.
She detected lingering guilt in his kiss, the residue of his concern for her, and she pulled him closer still, breaking the kiss for a small gasp of breath, and resuming it, with reassurance, with confidence – she'd already told him it wasn't his fault, that she just needed him to be there – and here he was, and she wanted him so badly it hurt.
When he stopped for air, she shifted her head, and leaned towards his ear.
"Han," she murmured. "I'm in a good place right now."
He looked at her, intent for a moment, and nodded slowly.
"I want to keep you in a good place," he said huskily.
She tucked her fingers into his belt tightly, her breath catching again, and she nodded back.
"I needed that fight," she said, echoing earlier sentiments.
He swallowed hard – he was still uncertain, still seemed a little wary. She knew he'd never begrudge her any peace of mind, but because her behavior was different than usual, she sensed he felt the encounter with the Force had only numbed her, only served as a masking agent; he seemed to be waiting for the fall-out, still – and perhaps he was right to, but she didn't feel it coming; she felt in control, and she felt stable.
That wasn't to say everything bad, everything difficult, evaporated – but she had a better understanding of healing, and herself.
She caught his eye, and his jaw was tight, a little defeated – she read his thoughts without actually doing so; she'd never invade his privacy in that way, if she even could, but she knew him well enough to know what he was thinking. He didn't have the power Luke had to help her, and show her to wield her own power, and it was eating at him, because he felt like he was falling short of what she needed – and it was strange, and just barely comical, that a tiny part of Han's anxiety over the whole incident boiled down to something that hadn't reared its head since Endor – jealousy, when it came to Luke.
She ran her fingers over his lips and he kissed them, nosing her hand out of the way and bending to kiss her jaw, and her throat, and her shoulder. Han was secure in his ability to physically please her where he wasn't always secure in his ability to be the right thing emotionally – and she could forget, sometimes, that Han had been left, and abandoned, and deserted, so many times by so many people that he easily felt threatened.
Where Leia had so frequently had people who loved her taken from her against their will, Han's entire life had been littered with people who didn't give a damn if he lived or died.
He martyred his own needs constantly, and this was one of those moments where she saw it so clearly; if he ever lost her, he'd relentlessly blame himself, if anything ever happened to her, he'd likely never forgive himself, and the thought of not being able to help, or be enough for her, etched lines into his face, around his mouth when he grimaced, and near his brow, when he frowned.
Han gave her so much strength on a daily basis, and she knew he'd avoid making her feel burdened with anything else if he could help it – and because of that, she was able to pierce through his guarded eyes and interpret his unease with such clarity.
Luke was her brother, and the Force was an entity she had to learn to coexist with, but Han was her soul mate, and she wished there were words that could promise him, once and for all, that nothing was going to change that; nothing was going to threaten his place in her heart.
But sometimes, Han understood actions more than he listened to words.
She reached for the fastener at his belt, and he pulled back, surprising her a bit. Shaking his head wordlessly, nodding vaguely at the door.
"Bed," he said gruffly, his voice low. "Your old man said he'd come back later. He has the code."
Leia's heart jumped into her throat, and she stared at him – it seemed so – unreal, that Han had just leapt directly into considering her father, and planned for him being around – when he'd previously been resistant to Bail completely, hostile even – for some reason, she felt like crying. He wasn't joking, he wasn't making a mockery of it – he was serious.
She smiled a little, her voice shaking –
"If he really is working my schedule, we have hours before he comes home," she quipped.
Han looked amused, but shook his head, giving her a look – he wasn't about to undo all his progress by risking the Viceroy walking in on him fucking Leia on the couch.
He kissed her quickly, and sat up, running his hand over her knee possessively.
"I need more room than I got on this couch," he drawled, cockiness edging back into his voice.
Leia sat up languidly, raising her eyebrows – she could concede he had a fair point, though she'd had a perfectly lovely time every other time they'd had sex on this couch. She brushed her hair back and smiled, reaching to click off the holovision.
He pulled her foot into his lap – it was still a little tender, but the shot she'd been able to get through had done miracles with healing, and the bruise was beautifully faded. He touched it reverently, like he was reminding himself of what she'd done – for him, and for their relationship – and then he cast his eyes over her intently, at last catching her eye, and flicking his towards the half-eaten fruit she'd abandoned moments ago.
"You'd better bring that," he suggested throatily.
Her heart took a few scandalous leaps, and she reached for it, thrilled, as always, by what he had in mind.
Later – though it wasn't really late; the sun hadn't even set on the day yet – Leia donned a comfortable pair of leggings fashioned from some kind of exquisitely soft animal hide and pulled Han's shirt back on, leaving him asleep in bed behind a tightly closed door.
She wandered through the apartment, cleaning up the remnants of food they'd eaten earlier, quietly marveling, again, at being absent from work. The early evening felt starkly different when she was thoughtfully observing its approach rather than racing to get a hundred things done in the hopes that maybe she could get home at a decent hour.
With a glass of very mild wine, she resumed her place on the couch, holovision on but muted, a datapad resting idly in her lap. She palmed through it with quiet interest, two fingers brushing lazily against a faintly purplish mark Han had left on her collarbone, one hand balancing her wine glass on her wrapped ankle, which was tingling pleasantly with the last of its healing.
An aide had sent her concise little summaries of what had gone on today, likely behind her father's back, and Leia was perusing them and cataloguing them accordingly; she had done her part in taking much-needed time to recoup, but she had no intention of falling behind, or even appearing to.
She looked up, noted the time scanning across a news program, and tilted her head back a little, pressing the edge of her glass to her lips, hesitating as she considered reaching out to Luke. She hadn't meddled with the Force, even with him, since the quick moment in which she'd tried to manipulate her feelings regarding needles, and as that had proven too much for the moment, she was wary.
Still, she reminded herself that – she'd reached out to Luke dozens of times before, and nothing bad had ever really come of that particular small gesture.
Luke? – her touch was hesitant.
His response was immediate – Leia! There was a pause, and she felt the hum of his presence, scrambling for the right thing to say. Words tumbled through her mind, and then organized neatly, echoing in her ears: How are you feeling? How are you?
His concern was earnest, palpable, and she took a deep breath, carefully choosing her words. How to explain - ?
I feel steady – she decided that summed things up fairly well, for the moment.
She heard his sigh of relief in her head, his satisfaction at hearing that.
I want to talk to you – she ventured.
I don't blame you – Luke's response was somewhat dry, wary. I told Han I'd check back in later. Is that okay?
Leia drew her nail over her datapad thoughtfully, tilting her head from side to side without a word. She felt Han still needed to distance himself from the negative attitude that had overwhelmed him concerning Luke, and she didn't want Luke to have to take any flak, as he clearly already felt bad enough.
Would you mind if I come to your apartment? - she countered.
Luke's response was quick, wry – a little grim: Han's that pissed at me, huh?
Laughing to herself, Leia shot back – He'll get over it, he always does – she placated. She already had him half-distracted and completely asleep, anyway. His temper just happened to have a hair trigger, and it usually flared at the sight of whatever had most recently pissed him off.
There was a chiming sound at the door, and Leia looked over, her brow furrowing – she started forward a little, but it opened; ah, Han had left it unlocked so that Bail's access code would let him in. Distracted by the sound of him entering, Leia missed half of Luke's words –
…and then I have nothing else, is that good?
She fumbled, furrowing her brow.
What time? – she requested clarification.
The muscles in her head throbbed unexpectedly, and she touched her temples, frowning – were Force sensitive beings capable of getting some sort of ethereal sprain from extensive, untrained use? She winced, and nodded to herself when Luke repeated that he was available after twenty-one hundred – easy enough for her to do; after sleeping a day away, she had no hope of powering down early tonight,
Luke, I'm sorry – she began – "Father," she said out loud, as he entered the room, and then she frowned, unsure if it had gone through to Luke, too – Father just walked in.
Your voice is glitchy – Luke sounded bemused, but a little worried, and she answered – My head hurts.
Ah.
She felt, faintly, subtly, a brush of serenity from him, and the ache in her head relaxed immediately – and then he closed the connection for her, fading back into his own head, out of hers, and she breathed out in relief, looking up, her eyes bright, at her father.
He stood just at the entrance of the living room, a bit cautious, a bit bewildered – he'd been watching her concentration, her focus on something he couldn't see. He looked harassed, and wrinkled, and wary, and hopeful, and Leia straightened her shoulders, sitting back – and offered him a plain smile.
Relief cascaded over her father's face and he stepped forward, a smile starting around his eyes. He stopped, folded his arms, and breathed out tiredly.
"You managed to duck away early," Leia remarked, full aware of the talent that sometimes took, with her schedule.
Bail sighed, consternated.
"You know, the Media asks you the most absurd questions," he noted, exasperated – he'd had his fair share of annoying ones, since his disastrous first press conference, but stepping into her shoes for a day had been an entirely new experience.
Leia inclined her head in placid acknowledgement, and then tilted it at the holo, arching her brows.
"I did see a few of their theories for my absence," she said dryly.
"None of which I gave credence to," Bail said loftily, and quite proud of it.
He took a few more steps forward, and Leia shifted, lifting her glass, making to get up.
"Do you want something – "
She trailed off as he waved his hand, demurring silently. He stood a little to the side still, almost hesitantly, as if waiting to be invited to sit down. Leia sat back cautiously, watching him with a kind of gentle amusement
"Sit down, Father."
He let out a quiet sigh of relief, and moved forward again, doing so. He adjusted his ceremonial robes and turned towards her, looking over her worriedly. His gaze was appraising, and not in a way that made her uncomfortable – it reminded her of the concern he'd shown when she was very young, and he thought she was tiring herself out with politics and spycraft and things teenage girls shouldn't have to occupy their heads with.
Leia tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and reached for the handheld console on the table, completely muting the holovision. There was an image of Mon Mothma on it now, speaking kindly from the place of honor in the Senate arena, and Leia turned to the side, facing her father.
She rested her glass against her knee.
"I know I must have given you a fright," she began carefully – but he interrupted, not rudely, but urgently, waving one of his hands in a hurry, shaking his head.
"Please, please, don't worry about it – I certainly hope you aren't going to apologize," he said quickly, a strained expression on his face. His eyes creased with worry, and he shook his head emphatically.
Leia hesitated – only because she realized that she wasn't about to apologize, and that was interesting, because there were many, many times when she had apologized to Han, anxious and mortified, for being difficult.
"I simply want to know that you're alright," he went on fervently. "As, ah – well, as alright as you can be?" His words were a little uncertain, disjointed. "You – you look better," he finished faintly, trailing off.
His jaw tightened and he pulled his hand into a fist, resting it on his knee – and Leia understood, implicitly, that he had no idea how to make it clear that he didn't think any less of her.
"You look," Bail ventured earnestly, his eyes on her face, a little confounded, "at…ease."
He was looking at her curiously, and Leia compressed her lips wryly, reaching up to run her hand over her hair – she got the impression he was distracted by the style, if only because he'd never seen something so simple on her, or any other Alderaanian woman in his immediate circle.
She had simply run a brush through it, and pulled it back into a neat, purposefully messy ponytail, leaving only a few tendrils falling around her face – it was a style she'd never before been able to wear, with hair as long as hers had been, and she wondered how different it must make her look; more approachable, more – normal.
She held up her wine glass in a quiet toast, and then flashed a small smirk at her father, illustrating her state of mind with an old adage often thrown out by royalty when anything seemingly untoward occurred –
"I am quite recovered from my ordeal."
Bail snorted appreciatively – he'd long lost track of how many times he'd heard those words from one of his sisters after something altogether minor had happened to them, such as a broken nail, or a poorly stitched new gown.
"You slept well, I hope?" Bail ventured, rubbing his hand over his jaw – he hadn't thought to shave this morning, and was on his way to looking as unkempt as Han had earlier. Leia noted the disarray with a warm smile – it was so, so singularly energizing, to remember, and embrace, how much they cared about her.
"I haven't slept that well in ages," Leia answered honestly. She furrowed her brow, fingers sliding up and down the stem of her glass as she considered it for a moment. "It seems counterintuitive that I managed to just – sleep, after all of the," she paused, "histrionics. Doesn't it?"
She caught his eye, and correctly guessed his consternation. He nodded, but shrugged his shoulders.
"I suppose there's only so long you can retreat from battle," he remarked sagely. "When you finally fight, at least it's over."
Leia tilted her head.
"I never ran from a fight, during the war," she murmured slowly. "I had to be dragged away from them. Han usually did the dragging," she noted, laughing a little. "He wasn't a coward," she mused, "just…less of a martyr." Leia took a sip of wine. "It's a little…disconcerting, hearing it suggested I ran from my battles."
Her pride bristled, and her father grimaced, leaning forward purposefully.
"Leia, I meant no insult – "
Leia waved her fingers lightly.
"No, Father, you're right," she said quietly. "I have been retreating from confrontation. I've been," she flicked her wrist pointedly, "skillfully redirecting, until everyone around me bears the brunt of it." She tilted her head at him. "You, Luke," she sighed. "Han."
Bail shifted, solemn. He looked around, his brow knitting slightly, and then looked back to her.
"Where is Han?" he asked – and a very subtle edge in his voice seemed to indicate Bail would be immensely displeased if he found out Leia had been left alone.
Leia gestured vaguely towards the hall, angling her hand to indicate the back part of the apartment.
"He's in bed," she said. "I don't think he actually got any real sleep."
Bail shook his head seriously.
"No, that man was too on edge," he said matter-of-factly. "Bloodshot eyes – he was in here grinding his teeth, damn close to pulling his hair out over," Bail started to trail off at the transfixed look on his daughter's face, "you," he finished uncertainly, wary that he'd perhaps been too cavalier.
He cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"General Solo," he said, slipping back into formality, "has it very bad for you, Lelila."
Leia blushed, pulling her glass against her chest a little self-consciously. She was surprised to hear Han had been so emotionally evocative around someone other than herself, but it enlightened her, a bit to what sort of interaction he and her father had going on while she was out.
"I don't enjoy seeing people in distress," Bail said mildly, "but I won't soon forget his actions, his – well, hmm," Bail faltered, trying to put it into words. "Anyway, as I said. His feelings for you are unquestionable."
Leia nodded, biting her lip.
"I know," she said. "I know, and he's just," she broke off, and sighed. "He's a very strong person."
Bail tilted his head.
"So are you, Leia," he said quietly, his expression serious.
Leia made a dismissive noise, shrugged, took a sip of her wine.
"I have to be," she said flatly. "Han just…he's made of iron, or steel, or something," she said softly. "Nothing cracks him."
Her father's brow furrowed – because from where he sat, it seemed like Leia cracked him pretty hard. He said nothing, wondering where she was going, and Leia sighed, lifting her hand, rubbing her brow pensively, and then transferring her wineglass to the table, and abandoning it.
"He's been through hell, too," she said, not entirely sure why she was speaking about this, suddenly, to her father of all people. "His childhood, and losing his mother – do you know, that part of his court martial at the academy was a lashing?" She said the word in a hush – the thought was barbaric, and Han had gotten fifty with a cat o'nine tails whip, the scars from which still marked his back in lines she could trace gently with her fingernails.
Leia shook her head thoughtfully, running her hand over her knee. She curled her legs up, and leaned towards her father earnestly.
"He was tortured with a scan grid," she said softly. "They didn't even do that to me." I had to watch them do it to him, though. "Carbonite," she whispered, shaking her head. She wasn't even sure what Han's time in Carbonite had been like; he never mentioned it – and not in the way she rarely spoke about her past trauma, only to have it manifest in rages and nightmares, Han didn't even seem to have those.
He woke up in cold sweats sometimes, silent and tense, and she thought in those moments he seemed lost and confused, vulnerable even, but he never said anything about it.
She took a deep breath.
"He's so – solid and impenetrable. It's always left me a little awestruck."
Bail nodded, silent for a beat. He folded his hands in his laps, thinking about that.
"I don't like to admit this very often," Leia said quietly: "I don't know what I'd do without him."
Her father smiled gently.
"He's a good man," he said fairly – honestly.
Leia rested her chin on her hand and her elbow on the back of the couch, blinking at her father brightly. She let out a breath softly, drawing her lip between her teeth for a skeptical moment, laughing under her breath.
"I close my eyes for paltry twenty-four hours or so, and the two of you are best friends," she teased, though with a tone of disbelief.
"That's a strong term," Bail protested hastily, giving a small smile. "I would say that – Han and I have merely come to – "
"Understand each other?" Leia supplied.
Bail looked at her warily.
"Well, yes. That's – actually verbatim what I was going to say."
Leia snorted softly.
"Your new boyfriend said the exact same thing."
Bail gave her a dark, withering look.
"I don't think I like how smug you are, young lady."
Leia's eyebrows shot up at the moniker.
"The time for that has passed, Father, I'm in my twenties," she retorted smartly, arching a brow to underscore the reminder.
"And yet, I'm still your elder – and your father," he returned in that old, familiar paternal tone. He narrowed his eyes. "Didn't you want me to be on good terms with him?"
Leia feigned an exasperated look.
"I was hoping for more cordial handshakes, I hardly expected you to start inhaling cigars with him."
Bail lifted his chin.
"That's men's business, child," he told her sternly.
She started laughing, turning her face into her hand and closing her eyes. She laughed until her jaw hurt, muffling the sound as best she could so as not to wake Han, and she held on to the rush of amusement and easygoing humor that lingered when her laughter faded – to joke around with her father – to feel this comfortable with him –
Abruptly, her eyes filled sharply with tears, stinging and impossible to hold back – though by no means were they the harsh, angry, painful tears she was used to.
She wiped her hand briskly at her eyes, looking at her fingertips thoughtfully, and her father leaned forward to take her hand, his expression clouding.
"Leia?" he asked, amusement wiped from his tone.
"It's okay," she soothed, looking up from her hand confidently. She blinked back some more tears, and smiled at him reassuringly. "I'm not upset – I'm relieved; I do want you to get along," she said earnestly.
She licked her lips and put her hand to her chest for a moment, fingers curling around the collar of her shirt. She looked at him searchingly, seizing onto the memories of him in her vision – hand holding hers tightly while she learned to walk, worried about her when she was sick, always there to mentor her, and protect her – she knew, with such clarity now, that he'd never let anything happen to her out of neglect, he'd only been as powerless as she was to stop it.
"All these years," she said softly. "I've missed you so much, Father."
He nodded, his grip on her hand loosening a little. His worry cleared a little, and he breathed easier. Instead of releasing her hand, he placed his other over hers, holding it tightly.
"It's important to me that you know – I wanted to do the best I could for you. I wanted to keep you safe, and if there was anything I could do – anything in my power – to find a way to change – "
Leia was shaking her head.
"The past can't change," she said simply. "I'm going to do a lot better now, accepting that – coming to terms with the fact that railing against everything that has happened to me, and to the people I love, is not going to fix the damage."
She looked down at their hands, and lifted his up, turning his palm over. She looked at the lines on his hands, dark and deeply creased, and traced them thoughtfully, thinking of children's games she'd played with Winter back on Alderaan – reading the threads in palms, telling the future, not knowing then what hers would hold.
"Father," she began quietly, "I'm not going to forgive you for your mistakes," she looked up and caught his eye, saw the stricken look on his face, and did not let it faze her – she plowed on: "because I don't think you sinned against me."
His face changed again at that, caught off guard – uncertain. Leia swallowed hard, and went in:
"I've been thinking about Luke a lot, in the past day," she confessed. "How Ben Kenobi took him to Anakin Skywalker's home world, left him with his own family, and never made sure his surname was changed – Ben Kenobi barely even altered his own name. Luke was – well, I can't speak for him, I don't know how he feels, but it looks to me as if he were raised for the slaughter by a pair of old Jedi who cared more to finish a fight than to keep him safe from his father's sins," Leia paused, "and you, you took every precaution to keep me from harm. You changed my name. You gave me protection and a life and choices, and I chose the path that led me to Vader. I chose the Rebellion."
Leia pressed his hand between hers tightly.
"It wasn't your fault. It wasn't mine – and Father, I think the most important thing is, that we fought on the right side of this war."
Bail looked at her almost helplessly for a moment, and then leaned forward and hugged her so tightly she found it hard to breathe. She smiled into his shoulder, though, again comforted by such a familiar, paternal hug – and this one was more wholesome than the last good one she'd had from him, because her mind was more settled overall, soothed by a significant breakthrough.
Leia pulled back, and brushed her lips against his cheek chastely, reaching up to swipe her hands across her cheeks lightly – they were dry, but it was a habit. She tucked hair behind her ears, and compressed her lips, straightening her shoulders.
"Speaking of Luke," she said gently. "In case you were feeling any of the same animosity Han was – don't," she warned neatly. "His intentions are never anything but good and more than anything, he stopped me before I hurt myself."
Bail nodded intently, processing the information – truth be told, he hadn't known what to think; he wasn't well-versed in the dynamic between Han, Luke, and Leia that had seemed extremely significant the other day, and it hadn't occurred to him to be angry at anyone. In the moment, he hadn't even had the energy to be affronted that Han had smacked him away he was just – purely concerned.
"That was – that engagement with the Force, that was a normal reaction?" Bail asked. "I ran around with a fair few Jedi in my day, but I don't recall anything like that."
"I think there's more at work here than just an ordinary Jedi," Leia answered honestly – and it was at once, both easy and difficult for her to admit; she and Luke were the progeny of one of the most powerful Force users in recorded history, and it was immutable truth, even if it was hard for her to swallow, considering.
Leia wrapped her arms around herself lightly and shrugged.
"It must have looked like he – tortured me," she reflected, shaking her head a little. "It was almost – it doesn't seem like it, but there was so much good in that experience," she said neutrally, "everything else was like a toxic allergic reaction," she finished grimly, shaking her head.
She closed her eyes lightly, thoughtfully. The thing was, even the worst parts of it – Vader, hissing at her that he'd chosen his fate, goading her with his cruel taunts about Alderaan; the lieutenant's neck snapping – suffocating red threads, and dark temptation – it was all a lesson in making a conscious choice, every day to not be like him.
"The good aspects were worth it," she said quietly, "they're a silver lining."
Her father put his hand to his face, resting his chin in his palm.
"That's life in general, isn't it," he remarked – just a remark, not a question, no philosophical inquiry for her to expand upon.
Leia sighed quietly, a wordless, wondering look on her face.
"I don't know," she murmured finally. "I think that might be a terrible platitude to ask people to believe."
"I don't mean so much that 'everything happens for a reason' or 'everything is bearable if something good comes out of it – that sort of glorification of suffering is distasteful, offensive even,'" Bail amended. "I don't think – it can be said that good came out of anything that happened to you. It just so happens that good things happen to you in spite of all the bad. And what I'm saying is – you, and all of us, really, shouldn't shy away from feeling happy when we can."
He looked down heavily.
"I know how much guilt there can be in survival," he confessed. He hesitated. "Whatever you've struggled with behind closed doors, you've been an anchor for all of surviving Alderaan. Handling your affairs today was more eye-opening than I imagined," he said quietly. He looked at her with respect – "You must know how you inspire people. How much you are – admired. They won't be offended to see you happy."
Leia flushed, and compressed her lips – she felt uncomfortable with the praise, and she bit her lip, searching for a way to lighten the heaviness of the conversation.
"Not if I marry Han, apparently," she joked hoarsely.
"That's ridiculous," Bail said bluntly. "From what I've seen of late, you could marry a Nerf Herder and no one would lose an ounce of respect for you – no one who matters."
Leia looked at him brightly, and smiled radiantly.
"I've told you before," she said softly. "I call myself happy, most days."
Bail swallowed.
"All I have ever wanted for you, Lelila, is happiness."
Leia rested her cheek on her palm, and smiled at him gratefully. He returned the smile, and she felt more at ease than ever – and he was relieved to see her composed, and smiling, and coping with the things he hadn't been able to protect her from.
She turned to look at the holovision, running her hand over her hair again, and looked down at her abandoned wineglass, lonely on the table – she turned to her father, her eyes glinting.
"You're sure I can't get you anything, Father?"
"I'm quite alright – "
"Toast, perhaps?"
Bail immediately glared at her, lips plummeting into a frown.
"He told you," he griped gloomily.
"He told me," Leia agreed. Han had showed her, as well, and refused to let her throw the specimen away - he'd wrapped it in clear cellophane and put it in a cabinet, insisting he wanted to show Chewie. Leia was sure it would come back to haunt Bail at some point, as well. She leaned forward, arching a brow. "You need to prepare yourself – if Han starts to like you, the ferocity with which he makes fun of you directly increases. It's how he shows affection."
"I can't wait," Bail said, deadpan.
He started to say something else, caught sight of the bite mark on Leia's collarbone, and narrowed his eyes prudishly, pointing at it stiffly.
"I suppose that is how he shows affection to you?"
Leia glanced down, and put her hand over the mark, leaning back somewhat contritely. Bail scowled a little, and looked pointedly to the holovision. Leia brushed her hands over the mark, shrugging. She smiled indulgently, her tongue caught between her teeth, and wondered if – in the time she had before she was to see Luke – she could get her father to tell her how all of his alone time with Han had gone.
Leia stood outside of Luke's apartment, well aware of the access code, and yet choosing to ring the chimes instead. She had sufficiently learned her lesson – even though Luke was expecting her, and was unlikely to be entertaining female company.
He opened the door in sweatpants, straightening the line of a t-shirt he'd clearly just pulled on. There was a towel hanging around his neck, and his hair was damp – he was either fresh from a work out or a shower; Leia wasn't sure.
He beckoned her in.
"Hey," he greeted, swinging the towel off his neck and running it through his hair. "Uh, sorry if I smell," he said, with a wince, and Leia gave him an amused look. "I was working out, and I thought I'd have time to shower, but I got caught up in it."
"Ah, Jedi gymnastics. Hanging from the ceiling by your toes, were you?" Leia quipped, folding her arms.
"Yeah, the rush of blood to the head's like a spice trip," he returned swiftly, smirking. "Want me to teach you?"
Leia smiled, and shook her head a little; Luke flung his hand out, waving the towel at his sitting room.
"Come sit down," he said pleasantly. "Want something to drink?"
"Do you still have a sprawling selection of water, water, and water?" Leia answered, deadpan.
"There's blue milk," Luke retorted defensively. "Er, and Jansen and Antilles left a bottle of beer."
Leia, sitting down on the couch, shook her head to herself.
"No, Luke – I'm fine," she demurred honestly.
He had no type of table – and the floor was covered with datapads and holographic maps – plans for something, which she looked at idly, though not too invasively, in case it was private and he'd forgotten to clean it up.
She heard him fumbling around, and he strolled in with a frosty bottle of water, choosing to sit not with her on the couch, but cross-legged on the floor, his back straight with the sort of impeccable posture that her royal aunts had spent years instilling in her – Aunt Tia had even tied her to a chair once, to keep her shoulders back, until Breha found out about it and told them Leia would learn not to slouch on her own terms.
She'd been right – Leia had the revelation quite suddenly, when she was thirteen and seated next to Winter at an official dinner, that slouching made her look smaller than she already was – and from that point on, her posture was perfect.
Luke took a gulp of water that seemed oddly determined, placed it in front of him, and held up his hands.
"First things first," he began, a little wry: "Does Han know you're here?"
Leia laughed outright. She leaned forward a little, her hair dancing and brushing the back of her neck as she nodded – she'd left it in the simple ponytail – and clasped her hands together.
"He demands," she snorted quietly, "that you return me in the condition I left in."
Luke arched his brows, amused.
"Weirdly objectifying for Han, isn't it?"
"He's a little out of it," she allowed, though she'd sensed Han was trying to ease his own tension by making jokes – she hadn't wanted to wake him, but she also knew it was best to let him know where she was, in case he woke up while she was gone. "Besides, I assured him I wasn't off on another," Leia touched her temple lightly, "what did he call it?"
"Vader Hellscape," Luke supplied dryly.
Leia compressed her lips.
"Imaginative," she remarked. "Possible title for my autobiography, I think."
"Technically, true," Luke sighed, feeling too cautious to even grin at the jest – he winced, and an expression of guilt, and regret, flicked across his face. He leaned forward a little, gripping his ankles tightly, and looked at her intently, his concern evident in his eyes. "Leia, I didn't mean for it to be that bad. I didn't mean for you to get hurt," he said quietly.
Leia clasped her hands and rested them on her knees.
"I know," she said simply.
"I mean it," Luke continued, almost as if he hadn't heard her. "You probably think – well, I've just pushed and pushed, and advocated the Force, and then that happened, and I really want you to know that I've been through that, too, and it gets clearer, you gain more balance and control – "
"Luke," she interrupted softly. "Luke," she said again, waiting for him to fall silent, and look at her. "I know," she repeated.
He looked at her quietly, his expression conflicted for a moment, and then he lifted his shoulders.
"What do you know?" he asked finally, deciding to let her guide the conversation instead.
Leia breathed out quietly, tilting her head. She thought about the things she'd told Han, and her father, and she thought about the fine layer of calm that seemed to have settled over her.
"That it can be," she ventured. "Cathartic," she chose the world carefully. "It was cathartic."
Her brother nodded slowly. Leia looked down at her intertwined fingers.
"I could feel you there, even when I lost control," she told him. "You were anchoring me; I could sense it. You knew when enough was enough."
Luke frowned.
"No, I gave you too much at once," he countered. "I wasn't patient. If Master Yoda was here – "
"He's not," Leia said gently. "You're the only one left – those old Jedi left you with so much responsibility," she said, and paused, unwilling to offend Luke, and the people he considered beloved mentors, "and they were relics of their failed endeavors."
Luke swallowed hard, reaching up to ruffle his hand through his hair thoughtfully.
"Ben and Yoda meant well," he said quietly.
"I don't doubt that," Leia agreed. "I only mean – you shouldn't judge yourself against them, necessarily; their prowess, and their codes; and I don't want you doubting yourself because of me, either," she went on. "I understand the kind of strength and power you must have running through your veins, if you can command the Force the way you do – and it helped," she said earnestly. "Luke, it helped."
His eyes were wide, large, liquid, and hopefully, searching hers apprehensively.
"I feel so much better," Leia said, pressing a hand to her ribs near her heart, fingertips twisting into her shirt. "I don't know how long it will last, but I…understand more about myself, about the specifics of what," she closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, "of what haunts me."
Luke swallowed hard.
"You were – really asleep, all that time?" He asked hopefully. "Han said – well, Han thought I was trapping you in a coma, I think," he said, with a small laugh, "but he said – you slept? No nightmares?"
"No nightmares," Leia agreed heavily. She smoothed her hands over her knees thoughtfully, and hesitated. "I – could almost feel them, lurking in the depths of my subconscious."
"It could have been that you were just exhausted," Luke allowed. "There's a point – there must be, where your body is just so worn out, your brain doesn't even have the energy to scare you."
"Hmm," Leia snorted dryly. "That hadn't happened before."
"Well, my bias is obvious," Luke said softly, "but you spent a lot of time embraced in the Force and I think – once the sensory overload, and the shock of all the darkness wore off, the lingering presence protected you."
He held up his hands a little reverently, priest-like, forming them as if holding an invisible globe in his hands.
"You've taken a step of vulnerability in it, and it's – ah, known your presence, welcomed it," he looked at her serenely, "it considers you part of it now."
Shivers cascaded down Leia's spine, and she crossed her arms across herself, tilting her head back and forth – it wasn't something she was sure she wanted, yet – the brutal meditation had given her perspective on the things she couldn't change, and the ways she could ease her own suffering, and perhaps direct her own narrative, but it hadn't necessarily changed her mind.
"I want you to know where I am right now," Leia said quietly, "with – this: the Force. Your – intentions for me, as it pertains to – becoming a Jedi."
Luke straightened a bit, sat forward – she felt a pang of guilt at the look on his face, but she stood her ground, holding his eager gaze.
"It's not what I want," she said, respectfully, but firmly. "I learned a long time ago that never is a foolish word, but I will say I don't think it's ever going to be something I want."
Luke swallowed hard – his spirits fell, but didn't plummet, and though he felt disappointed for a moment, the feeling was replaced quickly with curiosity, and he tilted his head, nodding pensively –
"Why?"
"I like what I do," Leia said softly. "I like politics; I like diplomacy – and I am not convinced that the Force has a place in the power dynamics of government," she paused, "but more than that, it's tainted for me. It's always going to be tangled up in Vader's actions, Vader's choices – the way Vader used it against me."
Leia paused, and pressed her palms together.
"I'm interested in meditation," she went on after a moment, "in small doses, and to help me deal with what I need to deal with, but I don't want it to be a part of my life the way it is a part of yours."
Luke shifted onto his knees, looking at her intently.
"You're nothing like Vader, Leia," he said quietly. "You aren't anything like him."
Leia said nothing for a long time.
"Not Vader," she agreed.
She fell silent again, and Luke grit his teeth, anticipating what she was going to say –
"Anakin," she said.
He let out a breath harshly, shocked, and then somehow, not shocked at all. Bail had said it – and somehow, in all those black and gold threads of the vision, red and grey smoke, she had realized it.
"Don't let what he did make you reject the Force, Leia," Luke pleaded. "You aren't genetically predisposed to his choices."
Leia nodded mildly.
"I know," she said simply, "because I'm stronger than him." She paused for a moment, and then shook her head. "I don't mean in terms of power with the Force; I mean emotionally, psychologically. I know that killing begets killing and revenge only fills the world with more monsters. There's so much that's inexplicable about Vader – the thirst he had for subjugation, the indifference to genocide – but the most significant moment of his life, when he made his choice," Leia held up her hand and twisted it symbolically, clutching her fingers in a fist, and pressing it to her heart. "I felt what drove him to that. I understand him."
She swallowed painfully, her words sticking in his throat.
"It was an evil choice. It was the wrong choice – and everything he did following it is inexcusable – his reign was one of unjustifiable horror," she said hoarsely, "but I understand the very core of the emotional impetus – it's a cloying, choking desperation to save what you love and what you believe in."
Transfixed, Luke stared at her, and she took a deep breath to finish –
"And because I understand it, even if I vow that I would never choose the route he took, I don't want a lightsaber in my hand, and I don't want the central focus of my life to be the Force. I want to be able to feel emotions a little recklessly. I think I need that. I think I deserve that. And your Jedi order demands balance where I may never quite have it."
Leia tucked strands of hair behinds her ears, blinking rapidly.
"Teach me to meditate, and to heal myself," she said, "teach me to guide the Force however it comes naturally to me – but I don't want anything else. That's my decision. This is the legacy you inherited. I inherited Padmé's."
Luke drew his legs up and hung his arms over them, staring at her as his thoughts dashed around in his head – she wanted some kind of neutrality in the Force, and he needed guidance on that, his own meditation –but he'd do what he could for her, and he wouldn't push; for now, hearing her introspection, and hearing the – grudging acceptance she had of where she'd come from, and how to move forward, was enough for him to know she was, as he'd told Han, going to be okay.
Luke swallowed hard, and got up, leaving his water bottle abandoned on the floor.
"I have an invasive question," he said, folding his arms unassumingly. "You can blow me off if you need to."
She inclined her head.
"It's highly likely that, if you have children, they'll be Force sensitive," Luke said carefully. "Will your decision stand for them, as well?"
Leia's jaw tightened - she always felt nervous at the mention of children, shaky and anxious, uncertain, and she was aware of herself to know she wasn't in a place to be considering that right now. She shook her head a little, and pursed her lips, and Luke winced, realizing it was obviously not a topic she liked.
"My decision pertains to me," she said diplomatically.
Luke accepted that for what it was – and he sensed that she wouldn't prevent any children she might have from learning from him; she trusted him, and she trusted his care for her, and anyone else who would be a part of their family.
Luke sat down next to her, leaning back, resting his elbow on the back of the sofa.
"Han needs a crash course in getting more comfortable with the Force," Luke said frankly. "I know how you're feeling, and I respect your choice not to engage as a Jedi, but it's still part of who you are, and Han's wary of it. He's too mercurial. He can't – he needs to be more open, even if in the end, it's for no other reason than his kids will have this power."
Luke smiled a little.
"And they'll sense it, if their father thinks they're little freaks."
Leia laughed hoarsely. She looked over at Luke, and arched a brow.
"And what if, in this hypothetical situation, all of my children are Force duds, because Han doesn't have any sensitivity?"
Luke looked pained at the thought, but shook his head.
"I don't think it works like that," he said. "Not with our bloodline, at least," he said dryly. He smirked. "Force Duds," he repeated. "I'm going to start calling Han a dud."
Leia sighed.
"Don't," she requested. "He'll take it upon himself to do something extremely manly to counter that idea." She narrowed her eyes. "By manly, I of course mean – "
"Potentially stupid, and definitely dangerous," Luke supplied.
"It's like you took the words out of my head," Leia quipped good-naturedly.
Luke smiled at her earnestly, completely heartened at where the conversation was going. Leia smiled genuinely, and then gestured hesitantly at the conglomeration of stuff on the floor.
"What is all that?" she asked.
"Ah," Luke said. "My research and plans for my trip to Naboo," he told her. "I'm also going to go back to Tatooine, and comb over the Lars plantation for – anything else I might have missed," he said slowly, "and then, Polis Massa, where we were born."
He trailed off, and then tilted his head at her.
"Maybe I'll find even more answers, or at least more of the whole story," he ventured. "That – in the end, having the whole history is the best way to move forward, isn't it?"
Leia nodded slowly.
"Yes, I think it is," she agreed softly.
She looked at the mass of things, and felt a twinge of sadness that he was going to disappear again.
"How long will you be gone?"
"Oh, I'm not sure," Luke said. "I'll go in increments, since I still have military duties," he said logically. "It doesn't have to be immediately, either," he said hastily. "If you need me here, and want to get started on meditation – "
She shook her head quietly; no, she was going to take some time before she dove into that again, and she was going to spend every more time settling her head about all that had come out of this time.
"What is it, Leia?" Luke asked curiously.
"Well," she began, "I'd like you to be at the Gala for Alderaan," she said slowly. "You're to receive an award."
Luke nodded.
"I can make it a point to be here for that, of course," he said easily. He arched his brow at her. "But that's not your main concern."
Leia considered him, and then she drew her legs up, shifting and facing him, mimicking his posture. She touched her chest, as if she were reaching for a necklace, and Luke waited patiently, sensing she wasn't hesitant, but savoring the moment.
"Han and I are getting married," she revealed.
Luke's eyes widened – his arm flew out, and he grabbed her wrist, squeezing excitedly. His eyes went immediately to her fingers, and she curled them in, waving her hand with a blush.
"He gave me a necklace," she clarified, and Luke looked confused. "It's a long story," Leia said faintly, and he dove forward and hugged her tightly, grinning from ear to ear.
"Leia, that's fantastic!" he exclaimed, his happiness muffled in her hair for a moment as he hugged her.
He pulled back, still grinning – and it was infectious, she smiled brightly, too.
"There's no date yet, or plans, but I can't get married without you there," she said.
Luke beamed.
"I wouldn't miss it! I'd come back in a heartbeat," he said earnestly.
She held up her hand, smiling a little anxiously.
"I – well, let me explain; Father wants this to be a rather – a traditional affair, Alderaanian," she said.
Luke winced knowingly – Han would hate it. Leia tilted her head.
"There's a – in our weddings, the bride has something called a groom's witness. It's almost always a brother – but if there's no brother, it's a trusted male friend. The position is sort of – well, it's almost tongue-in-cheek, and it's a relic of the days when Alderaan had armies - you're there to remind the groom he's being watched," she said, laughing a little. "You know, in case he dishonors me." Leia paused. "I'd like you to be mine."
Luke made an amused, strangled laughing noise.
"I'd get to stand there the whole time glowering at Han and threatening him?"
Leia looked down, compressing her lips in amusement.
"I said, it's a symbolic remnant of an old time – "
"I'm in," Luke said loudly, ignoring her. "Han's suspicious of my lightsaber anyway, wait until it's glowing at him – what?" he broke off, as Leia gave him a prim, withering look.
"You can't possible think you're going to be allowed a weapon at a traditional Alderaanian wedding," she pointed out dryly.
Luke bowed his head.
"Oh, yeah," he remembered.
Leia nodded.
"As I said, there's nothing concrete at the moment, but it's very important to me that you'd be there."
Luke nodded earnestly, beaming again – and he meant it, he wouldn't miss it for the world, not his sister's wedding. He knew that was something guaranteed to make her happier than she'd been in a long time, and he would enjoy seeing it.
He swallowed hard, and he reached for her hand, taking it tightly.
"Leia, I'm," he started. He took a deep breath. "I'm so relieved this didn't ruin your opinion of me," he said seriously. "Last night, when you wouldn't speak to me on the way home…even though you set Han straight, I was still afraid," he broke off again. "You're the only family I have. You're vitally important to me."
He nodded for emphasis.
"Even if we've had our differences about all of this."
His meaning was unspoken, but understood – their differences about the Force, about Vader, about how close they wanted to be to their roots in general. She nodded back at him, turning her hand over in his and squeezing back.
She felt there was nothing more to be said; she afforded him some contrite silence on her part, because she had been so dismissive about the way he moved forward in the world, and the way he chose to bear the past on his shoulders – and she hoped he knew that she didn't think less of him because he chose to devote himself to the Jedi way of life while she still skirted the mere edges of the Force itself.
She and Luke just weren't the same person; they didn't share the same experiences and the same trauma, though now she tended to think they could both better navigate the differences because, in the end, very far back, they did share the same origin.
He leaned forward, pressed his palm unexpectedly to her forehead in a sacerdotal gesture, and she was at ease – sleepy, even.
Luke smiled wryly.
"To get your sleep schedule on track," he advised smartly, and then leaned forward, and gave her a platonic kiss on the cheek, sitting back purposefully – proudly, satisfied with how things had turned out.
Leia arched her brows.
"And that?" she queried, gesturing at her cheek – what was that for?
Luke smirked at her.
"For luck," he said.
Her brow furrowed vaguely, and then the memory was vividly clear, loud and picturesque in her mind's eye – the Death Star, heat of the escape, frightened nineteen-year-old girl hoping a chaste kiss was going to give this strange farmboy the courage he needed.
She smiled at Luke gratefully, thinking that was such a long time ago – and yet luck had never been the thing driving them, any of them – she had fought, tooth and nail, with her own power, and determination, and thirst for justice, to keep her head above water and win wars and emerge victorious, and it was that same strength of character that would keep her standing in the aftermath.
aha. so, my intention was not to give any sort of "the end everything is fixed ta-da!" impression with this and i hope that's clear! and i hope it's understandable now why i've been saying it's winding down / coming to the end - we've done what we can with this initial part of "post-war moving on" you know? anyway, as it goes, the rest is kind of like this: a "loose ends" chapter, the gala chapter, and (perhaps a post-gala chapter) definitely an epilogue
feedback appreciated, as usual
-alexandra
