The diner had never jumped so hard. Every booth was crammed, the tables too, full of people excited for the race. Looking out the pass-through, Wedge Antilles gave a low, worried whistle. The team had agreed to meet in the diner kitchen at two. It was one forty-six. No Solo, yet. And still no Luke.
There was a buzz over at the corner booth, where Shara and Marci, Donna and Willa, heads together, were sharing a single newspaper. Annie was leaning over their shoulders to read, and Wedge was of a mind to yell at her—the diner was slammed, plates of food backing up on the counter—but then he noted Suzette was over there too, holding a pot of coffee. Suzette, who worked so hard and efficiently Wedge had always been afraid to let her down. Their buzz was an unhappy buzz, Wedge thought, like the girls were a cloud of distressed, territorial bees.
The doorbells jangled. Solo. About damn time, Wedge thought, then noticed how Solo looked: awful. So rough that Wedge sucked air in through his teeth. Solo's hair was wild, his unshaven face white and damp. Dark circles under his hectic eyes. Wedge could hear his growling cough. Would he have stayed out drinking all night right before their big race? That didn't seem like the same man who'd been so adamant about their practise, their plans.
As Solo wove through the crowded tables, scanning—for Leia, of course for Leia, Wedge knew—the atmosphere in the diner changed. Everyone seemed to stop talking when Han stalked past—and, now that Wedge noticed, every table seemed to be huddled over a newspaper. Wedge glanced at Janson, who was letting scrambled eggs overbrown as he stared down at his own newspaper. Hold up. Since when did Janson read?
"Janson," Wedge hissed, snatching the pan of eggs from the gas flame. "What's the dope?"
XXXXXXXXXX
Moving through the diner, Han was thinking only of Leia. Was she at a table? In a booth? Maybe still upstairs, sleeping it off? He couldn't call the cabin, so he thought he'd stop here first, see if she was still with Chewie. Today, he was going to straighten them out. Today. Before the race. Han was going to tell Leia that he loved her, wanted to stay with her, if she'd have him. He'd tell her what he'd just told Madine, even, just so there were no secrets on his end—and then he'd help Leia unshoulder her secret, too. Whatever it was. Whatever it was, they—
Han heard his whispered name. He froze, the back of his neck prickling. He turned, and a table of prepster boys and girls dropped their stares at once. Exhausted, puzzled and wary, Han looked around the diner. All right, so he knew he'd looked better—Han was feeling pretty lousy now, maybe even leaning slightly over. But illness couldn't explain the looks he was getting: some furtive, some amused, some compassionate; some simply hungry for local news. Han gave his pounding head a slow shake. Maybe he was hallucinating.
Then he turned to see Annie's face, blotchy pink, her pale gray eyes full of tears. Sure, Annie once cried for joy when Chewie gave her an ice cream sundae, and pinkened whenever Luke Skywalker smiled—but this was different, this was...different.
"...what?" Han demanded, suddenly seized with cold terror. "Is it—is Leia all right?"
Biting her lip, Annie looked at Shara. The normally resilient Shara just looked sick. Even tough Suzette winced as she gave him the newspaper. Tearing it from her hands, Han scanned the text. The gossip column? Why—
Hello, gossips! Esther is hearing rumors of an engagement between Mrs. Erin Isolder's son Theodore and her ward, Miss Leia Organa, daughter of the late Mr. And Mrs. Bail Organa...
Han swallowed the pure fire in his throat. Fuck. What.
A source is quoted: 'Miss Organa is like family to the Isolders...Leia has been Theo's lifelong sweetheart.'
Briefly, Han closed his eyes, but the word—his word, hers—remained in his mind as though branded there, just as hot as he'd breathed it against Leia's neck. Sweetheart, oh. What you do, Sweetheart: what are you trying to do to me.
Esther hears Mrs. Isolder is planning a small, private family wedding over the Thanksgiving holiday. But a little birdie says that a large reception will be held later this summer at the Organas' beloved heirloom property at Alder Glen, a celebration open to the entire town...
It had to be a nightmare, Han decided. Yeah: he hadn't slept much last night, and maybe he was sleeping now, drifting off the road in his truck. Smashed. Crushed. Or he was trapped in one of those terrible paintings Luke had shown him in some art book. What was the word Luke had used? Surreal. At the time Han had called them bullshit, all them melting clocks, trains steaming from fireplaces. But now, Han thought, they made a kind of hideous sense.
He looked up from the paper, giving the restaurant patrons an incredulous half-smile. Come on. It was a prank, that's all. A stupid joke. The girl of his goddamn dreams, Leia Organa—his Princess, his Sweetheart—could not be marrying that...that useless rich-boy bully punk. Leia was not going to invite the whole damn town to celebrate her wedding to Theo goddamned Isolder at the home Han had been so carefully fixing up, for her. Han thought of the wood he'd planed and sanded and stained to satin, the cheery paint, the fucking flower boxes he'd fixed to the windows. He begrudged Leia none of his work and never would, no matter what—but the thought that he'd been unwittingly preparing the scene for that—
The silence of the diner was rent with the tearing of newsprint in Han's spasmodic clutch.
...on the 9th of July, 1957.
"That's my birthday." Han stated, with ghastly blandness, to a wash of blurry faces. Frantically Annie looked to Shara and Suzette, Donna and Willa, who always knew what to do. But Shara, Suzette, Donna and Willa just stared at Han, too, in futile empathetic agony.
Someone entered the diner, then, from the kitchen, behind him. Han knew who it was from the way the atmosphere in the room electrified, crackling along his skin. His mangled newspaper dropped to the floor. As Han turned, he felt thick blood throb in his neck, his temples, the backs of his hands. The pressure rose, the heat, until he began to feel numbly remote from himself. As he crossed the floor to her, as he stopped before her, Han felt he was floating, unaware—uncaring—that everyone in the diner was hushed and staring. He was past concerns of humiliation. The world had contracted to only Leia.
Like him, Leia was wearing her clothing from last night, paler than Han had ever seen her—ashy gray, her eyes shadowed. Her hair was rumpled, her sweater creased, trousers wrinkled. This time, Han's yearning imagination could summon no tender backstory for her deshabille. He knew Leia's appearance had been crumpled by the same forces as his own—proof of use, of isolation from the wholesome rhythms of what had become their shared daily life. Han thought, distantly, how silly it was, how futile it was to try to be your best self, every day, and put it forth into certain damage.
For a long, agonizing moment the pair stared at one another. They stood close together, but across a gulf of everything they'd shared—every story, every kiss; explosions and chores and jokes and lessons; each small and large liberation. Private, public, promised, passionate—it was all precious to them, everything precious to Han and Leia lay now between them. Neither of them dared to look down into that chasm.
"It's not true." Han's voice was eerily calm.
Leia's chin—that sweet chin that she thrust up like the prow of her stubborn little ship, when they fought; that chin that fit just so between Han's thumb and forefinger, when he nudged her upward into his kiss—wobbled, and her eyes screamed No.
"You're not engaged." Han wore a face like thunder. "To...him."
The patrons of the diner held their breath, some in horror, others in titillation.
The trembling of Leia's chin reached her cherry-tinted lips, and her eyes flooded. But Leia nodded.
Han faltered in his stance: frowned, winced, shook his head. His smile was so small; it held a persistent, childlike faith in fairness and reason that, after the life he'd led, had no business on Han Solo's face or in his system of belief.
"...Leia?" Han's voice was strained, his eyes beseeching.
Leia shook her head harder, pressing her lips together, her closed eyelids sluicing water down her cheeks. Somehow her tears reminded Han where they were. He seized her hand and led her, in several swift strides, out the jangling diner door.
Out on the sidewalk Han cupped Leia's shoulders, speaking in rapid, frantic scattershot. His floaty disorientation was lost in the chill air, in the chill of fear. "Leia. Leia, Sweetheart, whatever they've said, whatever they've told you—we'll—Jesus, Jesus, Leia, you can't—" Han paused, fighting down panic, bargaining wildly with Leia, with fate. "Would you talk to me? There's gotta be something we can do. There's something we can do, to fix this. But you gotta talk to me, Princess." He gave her a quick, cajoling smile, familiarly tilted, but sick. "C'mon, Sweetheart: don't make a guy beg."
The tears streamed from Leia's huge brown eyes. She seemed to waver. Han's own eyes flared green with a last-ditch gamble. He took Leia's face in his hands, ducked his head down. The kiss was searing, deep, anguished. Invested with all Han's emotional longing, his physical want, his trust and belief and awe and hope. Leia could feel it, all of it; clinging to Han's wrists, she returned the kiss with everything she was, everything she felt in return.
"I love you," Han vowed, against her lips. "Leia, Leia. Leia: I love you."
Leia began to cry in earnest. She wanted to tell Han that she loved him, too; how truly she did, how she always would—for how long she had, and exactly why—but he would never leave, then, and then he—they—
They would be here soon. For the race. And in this state, she knew, Han would not be able to keep himself from attacking Theo Isolder.
She pulled back. "Han, you need—"
"Forget what I need, Leia," he said, low and fraught. "What about, you need?"
Han ducked back in, pressing close, pressing her against the wall of the diner, kissing her wildly over and over until Leia, with a tortured little growl, pushed him off. Han gave her a lopsided smile of disbelief that vanished when she pushed him again, hard, and still harder.
"It's for the money, okay?" Leia said through her tears, flinging the words at him like rocks, mean and stinging. "You can understand that, right, mercenary man?"
"That's not true." Han shook his head, stepped back into her. "Never, Leia," he said. "Not you."
She shoved him again. Again, Han came stubbornly back, into her flying hands and hurled words, refusing her, denying her lie until Leia was sobbing, sagging, and then he caught her. Looking up at that beloved, beautifully asymmetrical face, drawn with love and strain, Leia gulped a rush of tears. Han's eyes were still that electric green, but gathering mist, neon seen through rain. He made an urgent, grieved sound in his throat and jerked her close, pressing her cheek to his heart, absorbing her in his abnormal heat, his clean-wood scent. Leia shook her head, helplessly, curling her fingers in his flannel shirt. "Tell me what you need. I'll do anything you ask, Leia, I swear. I promise."
"Anything?" Leia whispered into Han's damp shirtfront. Her face contorted with pain. Go. Be safe. Fly away.
"Of course, Sweetheart," he said, his voice hoarse and cracking in his chest, under her ear. "Damn it, Leia, I love you. Of course."
Leia swallowed, marshalling her strength, but still the words were borne on a sob. "Han. I need you to leave."
Han's arms tensed around her, his body tautening; Leia could feel his long fingers twitch against her skull. He drew a sharp inhalation. Leia could feel that gasp, too, feel the way he pressed his cheek to her hair, held her tight, tighter. But she couldn't know how Han squeezed his eyes shut against the mortal pain, like a knife in a lung, stealing the breath to speak. Burrowing into Leia's hair, Han grit his teeth against the urge to weep, hopeless and deep. Behind his eyes he saw a tiny child, his face raw with bawling. Needy. Need.
I need you to leave.
He said, softly, just to her, into her hair: "So long, Princess."
Releasing Leia with terminal gentleness, Han hunched into the chill and walked away.
XXXXXXXXXX
Han found Chewie sitting on Millie's front bumper. In a ravaged voice, Han ordered "Off. Now."
Han stopped squarely in front of his best friend. He was hard and stark and white as a bone, but also shadow-dark. Radiating heat, breathing rapidly. His eyes were glassy, though Han wasn't quite crying—Chewie had never seen the younger man cry, not even when their platoon-mates were killed, not even in that long night huddled together in their blizzard shelter, praying to live, and then praying to die. That terrible night, Chewie had dreamed of his mother and even Chewie had cried, had woken up crying in rusty gasps. Han had sternly shaken his head and pulled him close, into his rough grasp. "You're gonna be fine, pal," he'd whispered, gruffly. "You're gonna be fine."
No, Han wasn't crying. But he was devastated, nonetheless. Chewie could feel his energy, a flagging signal, erratic and bleak. Morse code going out from the Titanic. Chewie knew how Han was: he sent out these distress calls, then wouldn't let anyone assist. So Chewie cracked his knuckles and gazed past his closest friend, up into the vivid blue of the autumn sky.
Han's voice was threadbare. "I ain't playing with you, pal. I gotta go."
Stroking his beard, Chewie said that yes, he had seen the paper, put it together with his small houseguest's wild, distraught behavior. The situation was terrible and bizarre, and clearly demanded close investigation.
"Close investi—" Han's eyes went so wide Chewie thought they might explode out of his head. He leaned into his friend's face, teeth bared in a bitter grin. "This ain't fuckin' Dragnet, Chewie!"
Untroubled, Chewie added that he knew a couple of other things, too. He knew that escape seemed, to Han, crucial to the preservation of whatever fragile sense of self he had left. But Chewie also knew that if Han fled now, he would never forgive himself.
"Stop." Han threatened, or maybe pleaded.
Running from Leia was bad enough—
Ah, the pointer finger. Chewie almost wanted to greet it. "Hell d'you know about it, you self-righteous—!" Han's lip trembled. Angrily, he closed his eyes, shook his head. "Guess it hurts her more to be around me in her new life—"
Chewie said, with the severe, healing precision of a surgeon, that Han was seizing upon this supposition as a chance to run from the challenge of love.
Han's eyes became glittering slits in his pale face.
People say ridiculous things when they're distraught, Chewie reminded Han; consider their long, hellish night stranded together in the Chosin blizzard. How many times had Chewie demanded that Han leave him, save himself? And had Han done it, abandoned Chewie to the killer elements?
"Maybe I'd like another crack at that," Han snarled.
Running from Leia was bad enough. And what about Luke, Chewie wondered. The Rogues? What about the race? There was no way Wedge and Janson could beat that middle stretch along the Kessel, let alone swing that tricky final exchange of the bottle with Luke and Dameron.
Han's lips twitched at the thought of Luke, earnestly trying to win the race by himself, surely falling to Theo Isolder. Brought down, face in the dirt in front of his whole town. And then he'd find out, too, find out about the Princ—no, not the Princess, not anymore. Leia was Luke's cousin, now, and no one else to Han. Just like on the way to Starwood. Han would return Leia to a faceless girl, no importance to him beyond monetary gain. Like a maddened bear Han pawed at his skull, to dislodge the stinging barrage of feelings. He truly cared for the kid, but Luke would just have to deal with life, with loss, like everyone else. "I'll leave him the Falcon," Han bargained. "I'll give it back."
Chewie mused that the diner renovations, plus winterizations, that Han had promised to help with would be awfully hard for the cook to pull off alone. With a laugh just this side of sanity, Han jerked his keys out of his jacket pocket. "Wouldja listen to this shit? I always pictured my conscience as a little less hairy, but fuck it: sure, pal, go ahead and lay it on. Why not."
Now Chewie got to his feet, dwarfing even his tall friend. He took Han by the shoulders, looked him deep in the eyes. Chewie knew where Han came from; he knew why Leia's rejection had so savaged him. But he had to stand and fight—for her, for himself, for his friends. Or Han would run all his life when things got too hard.
"It's time to grow up, little brother," Chewie rumbled as clearly as he could, his tone both loving and absolute.
"Grow—" Han stabbed a finger into his best friend's huge chest. Chewie didn't give. "I need to grow up? Who saved your ass at Chosin, then, Chewie? A goddamn newborn?"
Calmly Chewie conceded that Han was extremely brave, but bravery was but one element of realized manhood. Another was work. Even when it got tough. Even when it hurt. Work was work. There was nothing for it: it had to be done.
"I worked. For Leia. All goddamn. Summer, Chewie." Han ground out, his eyes sharp-curved as scythe blades, face slick with sweat. "And I got her, too. Did you know that? Yeah, I did, buddy: you were right, she liked me." Han jerked a thumb towards his chest. "Leia Organa liked me, she thought I was alright. And for a couple weeks, I was the happiest sorry bastard on earth." Helplessly Han looked up at the vivid sky, the scudding clouds, baring his working throat. "I love her. I love her and I told her and I kissed her, Chewie, over and over and she's still—she's marrying him, Chewie! Leia is gonna marry that...that motherfucker and I can't—I can't—"
A sound of despair, self-disgust wrenched from Han's chest; he tore himself loose from Chewie's grip. At the door of his truck, Han pushed back his hair, gave Chewie one last, resolute glance. "Look out for her, pal." Han said. "All right?"
