"Hey, Echo Three!"
Reading in the armchair, Leia smiled, rolled her eyes. Somehow, over the course of Luke's regular calls from the road to Chicago, Han and Luke had adopted this absurd code. Echo Three, Echo Seven? Leia wasn't sure it was a joke anymore. Last week she'd overheard Han telling Luke about the "mission" he'd been on to secure some Cessna part in Mantell, and Luke had told Leia that living in the dorm was great, just like joining some secret spy order. Boys. But Leia was happy that her adored cousin and her new husband had formed such a solid bond, even if they both thought they were Robert Mitchum in Foreign Intrigue.
"Married life? Well, kid, it's..." Long body draped as though on display against the kitchen counter, pastel yellow receiver of the wall-mounted phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, Han shot Leia a winsome, sinful grin. "...pretty good." Somehow Han made the very mildness of the words into some licentious invitation to her.
Leia felt her face heat. It was true, the newlyweds were in hopeless carnal entanglement, seemingly interrupted only by work and errands. Han could arrive at the hangar largely when he pleased, but he chose to go on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, Leia's workdays, so he could drop her off downtown in the morning and pick her up in the late afternoon. Often they went to eat supper at the diner, oblivious to the fond laughter of their friends as they squeezed on one side of a booth, dopey, dreamy, almost drugged. They were readily spotted walking down Main Street, always intertwined; not hand-in-hand, but closer: Han's arm slung over Leia's shoulders, hers about his waist, heads inclined together.
For the rest of their lives, Han and Leia would smile secretly at one another whenever anyone or anything—a friend, a news report, a song, a film—referenced the autumn of 1956. He would surreptitiously wink at her, she would touch his knee, one or another would link their fingers, whisper Pretty good. That fall, those first weeks of their married life, it was as though they were on some sort of slow, lingering trip. No one else existed. When they were at home but not together Han went about his self-imposed chores—chopping wood, raking leaves—with his heart sore and soaring; Leia curled in the bath, newly bookless, unable to concentrate on anything other than him. They both knew it was a little nuts, their fixation on each other, but it was so delicious they were powerless to resist.
They carried each other into their new jobs, too: Han was inspired, surprising his new boss and the other guys, even himself, with his quick aptitude for airplane mechanics. He'd always intuitively understood machinery but this was something else. Somehow, Han's sense of how things worked had never been more efficient, effective, inventive and pinpoint-right as now, stumbling into the hangar on two hours' sleep, bleary and dazed and still buzzing from orgasm, thinking of her every second every part of her every sound every plea every searching, searing arch against him. Poor boy's a newlywed, Doc laughed with the journeymen, when the whiz-kid apprentice forgot his lunch in his truck for the fortieth time and had to jog back across the field along the landing strip to the far parking lot, missing half his break, tearing into his sandwich and apple on the run—God Han was so ravenous, that fall. Always starved. Always rifling his erotic armory for ways to light Leia up, but also he strove to make her smile, laugh, get that thoughtful look, touch his face and kiss him, say she loved him.
That was the best, when Leia said his name and that she loved him. And suddenly Han couldn't seem to stop talking, either, though he'd never been vocal in bed before. Words had never come to Han then, with other women; even at the end, he'd only ever really bit his lip, held his breath. Oh, it had been good, sure, to hit the height, but Han had certainly never lost himself to the point he had to express what he was feeling. And now, with Leia, he couldn't shut up. He couldn't suppress his exclamations. Now, Han growled his intentions; groaned hot encouragements, his appreciation of how she felt or moved or looked or tasted. Gasped obscenities, sometimes, into the sweet crook of her neck. Rapt affirmations as she cried out in release. At work Han counted the hours until he could pick Leia up from the paper and kiss her face near-off in the truck, mumbling Oh Sweetheart I want you so much. His voice low, almost rueful, face tucked all bashful into her hair. How he thrilled to feel her stroke his cheek, hear her sigh back Han, I missed you, stop talking, kiss me.
At the newspaper, Leia was more outwardly composed—always she would have more natural political sense, more perception of herself from the outside, than her husband did—but she was altered, too. She had a new pulse that moved her even sitting at her desk, that set her words down to a secret beat. Her work was suddenly alive, it could speak, it had form and shape and spark. And Leia found herself with fresh insight into the romantic announcements she wrote, the engagements and marriages, wedding recaps and honeymoon destinations, understanding now the private freight of feeling, of knowledge, that formed the foundation of every marriage, good or bad. Smiling, Leia bit her thumb as she read, sometimes, to wonder what the socially acceptable details concealed about any given couple. Because Leia could describe Han Solo, in print, as her husband—as tall, as handsome, as an airplane mechanic, as a veteran—and still only she would know the vulnerable arch of his back when he was below her. Only she would know the ways Han used his body, by turns contemplative, worshipful, greedy, comical, persuasive, joyful. In bed, yes, and outside of bed—from the hammock Leia liked to watch him in the clearing, splitting firewood. There was a rhythm to his work, the swing of the axe, the twist of his torso, an impact he absorbed in his heels and wrists. As he worked an ease overtook Han, his restless tendencies smoothed by exertion, that reminded her of how he was in the soft, breathless moments in her arms, just after he came. Leia saw Han craved kinetic effort; how he needed his tremendous energy to be made measurable, worthwhile. How he trusted only the reliable abilities of his body. Han was like a good utility knife, Leia thought: sleek, tempered, honed and boundlessly resourceful.
But none of this was what one said around the water cooler, was it, to the curious girls from the typing pool? Leia kept to herself at work, turning in impeccable and lively copy that impressed Mon Mothma but not speaking much. She knew that the girls were gossiping, now, about her and Han, her and Theo, the race; rooms fell into laden hush when she entered. Han and Leia weren't hiding their relationship, though word hadn't yet gotten around that Leia was actually married. She was forced, whenever she wanted to use the microfiche data, to engage with Cecil, Mon's insufferably pedantic assistant, but he was a fussy, apricot-tinged man who didn't seem to understand romantic sentiment. Everyone else was curious. Theo Isolder hadn't been seen in a while, he was apparently out of town with his mother, and it was tempting for Leia to tell herself that she and Han were safely lost together, that no one could reach them, track them, affect them: that they were lost together in space.
XXXXXXXXXX
Leia and Han were feeling rich. They'd just gotten paid at the same time, and her money from her parents' estate had been released. It was early on a Saturday morning; Leia had woken first, and was lying on her side, spooned into Han, reading through a pile of letters seeking etiquette advice when a broad hand stole to groping life against her torso. Leia gave a scolding rustle of paper. Han leaned over her shoulder, squinting sleepily at the letter, then pressed close behind her in a way that left no doubt about his eagerness for her work to be over. "Lemme help, Princess," Han muttered, against her spine. "Then you'll be done faster."
"Why sure, Flyboy." Leia's tone was indulgent. "This woman is having a conflict with her neighbor about her flowers." She put on Han's growling voice. "Ahhh, hit 'em with a wrench."
"Oh, that's me?" Han asked, as his fingers wandered. Leia shivered, but nodded, her flushed face sweetly mulish. "Okay, then, Sweetheart. Here's you." He spoke in his own morning voice, rough and husky, into her neck. "Dear Reader, I was about to answer your goofy-ass question but then my husband said something like God, Leia, you make me so fuckin' crazy...or maybe he recited some Shakespeare, I don't remember." She giggled; he stroked the crease behind Leia's knee. "And I was shocked, I tell you, Reader, shocked to find that I'd married such a...a scoundrel," Han murmured, feeling her quiver with repressed laughter and then a restrained sigh as his hand trailed up her inner thigh. When he raised an eyebrow at her, biting softly on her earlobe, Leia elaborately rolled her eyes, looking back at the letter—though blankly, Han saw, and with a catch to her breathing.
"Yeah, yeah," Han said fondly. "Roll them doe eyes while you can, Sweetheart—" Leia gave a squeak of thrilled surprise as he hitched one of her slender legs back over his hip. "'Cause I'm about to roll 'em straight back in your pretty little head."
XXXXXXXXXX
They often spent mornings off together, wrapped up in each other. And sweet afternoons, too, dreamy and long, in that high upstairs bed, in squares of sun or listening to rain rattle on the roof he'd made. But this morning, for the first time, they were lazy, playful. A lightheartedness took them, the loft ringing with laughter, with vocal, loving inventory—the chicken-pox mark next to Leia's navel, Han's absurdly long toes—as though they were growing surer of one another, safer.
Hesitantly, hopefully, Han asked her when she'd started to really like him—y'know, Princess, like that. And it seemed to Leia she always had—trailing her fingers over his scar she told Han she'd found him handsome the moment they met, which obviously pleased him—but consciously wanted him? She'd had to stop to think of the specific moment.
Finally she said it had been in the parking lot of Chewie's diner, only the first week she'd been back from Starwood. Han had strutted towards her in insolent advance, shaking his preposterous head of hair in dismissal of something she'd said that was none of his business in the first place, when his boot skidded on a patch of oil. His mouth and eyes popped wide and round but Han didn't go down; those long limbs flung out as he executed a sudden, flexing leap, landing him true and clean on the ball of one foot. He'd looked straight at her. She'd expected the strut to resume, then, at least a mocking bow in her direction, some comment about a royal command performance. But instead Han laughed in disbelief. Laughed so openly and happily into her stare that Leia had had to laugh back. Something in his gangly grace, his satisfaction with his body's response, had disarmed her, intrigued her.
This memory had beguiled and unsettled Leia more than the swagger that the other girls sighed over. The way Han had looked to her and laughed, it was as though it was all for her—his natural athleticism, adaptability, sense of fun, his ingeniousness, considerable beauty, his defiance of little things like the law of gravity—he was all for her. As though the whole routine had been an invitation, a mating dance. As though Han had made of himself an offering, to her. And that was when she knew, Leia said, that she wanted to share his marvellous body, too. Han was so silent, then, that Leia worried that perhaps she'd offended him, or come up short against some expectation, but then he drew her close and kissed her for a long while, then tucked her head under his chin until they slept again.
XXXXXXXXXX
It was noon by the time they curled together drinking coffee and sharing a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and toast, surprisingly good—Han was getting proficient with the big cast-iron pan he'd found in the stove's drawer. "I ain't ever gonna be beat by somethin' I know I can get," he said, with a careless shrug, kissing a smear of jam from her thumb, when Leia complimented him on his quick learning curve.
As he chewed, Han couldn't stop crowing about his paycheck, six bucks an hour was absolute riches—"and that's just to start, Sweetheart, I got no ticket, but wait'll I get my journeyman scrip, I'm gonna buy you the biggest ring you ever saw, and then—"
Leia looked at her tiny fingers. She didn't even wear a wedding band. "I don't need some huge ring, Han," she said, doubtfully.
For a moment, Leia thought Han looked hurt, but the knit brow vanished almost at once, so fast that it seemed impossible to address. He swigged the last of the milk from the bottle, tossed away the last crust of toast. "Well I wanna—I dunno, celebrate. C'mon, Princess, get your little..." Affectionately, impatiently, he tapped her rump, then unfolded his long frame from bed, grinning shameless and naked down at her. "Let's go throw around some cash."