Dinner

by CorellianBlue

(first published 2001, revised 2020)

Warnings: sexual references

-1-

Leia Organa had just fixed the last clip into her hair when she heard the main hatch to her cabin cycle open. As she was standing in the refresher suite, she was unable to see who had entered, but she both knew and sensed through the Force who it was. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror; it was Han.

Leia adjusted the clasp that held the thick roll of hair against the back of her head. General Han Solo, she corrected herself. And hopefully, he would look like a general, for he should be in his formal mess dress uniform instead of the habitual spacer clothes he insisted on wearing despite his recently acquired rank.

"It's only me," Han called out.

"Won't be long," Leia answered, touching up her make-up as she spoke.

"Take your time."

The stylus of her lip liner came to a halt and Leia's gaze slid towards the living area of her cabin. She may have been eager to appear at a formal function on the arm of her lover, but she knew the sentiment was not mutual; Han was not looking forward to the next few hours. She could understand his attitude. It was Leia who had been invited to attend the celebratory dinner by Mon Mothma, not Han.

The guest list for dinner was impressive, comprising the upper echelon of Alliance military officers and civilian representatives currently assigned to this Task Force. Some of the guests had their spouses or partners collocated with them, and they were also invited. Han would be attending the dinner as Leia's partner, as he was not senior enough to warrant a separate invitation. Although a general, Han's rank was a field commission assigned in the desperation of war and now only 73 days old. Compared to Dodonna, Rieekan, Ackbar and Madine, Han was a 'wet-behind-the-ears' novice, as green as an Academy freshman.

Not for the first time, Leia wondered how much exposure Han had had to formal dinners such as the one they were about to attend. She had shared enough meals with him to know that he had table manners and she expected his time at the Imperial Academy would have exposed him to the ceremony of formal mess dinners. But it had been so many years since then and she knew from experience that Han had little time for airs, graces and social niceties. She suspected it would take quite an amount of effort on his part for him to survive the evening. Or behave.

Leia ejected that disloyal thought from her mind. In that regard, Han had changed since he had been rescued from the carbonite, and particularly during the nearly two Standard months following the Battle of Endor. Granted, he still wore the uniform of a smuggler—shipboard trousers, open-necked shirt and vest—but he now had a mantle of responsibility, if not respectability. The young fighter pilots under his command respected him with a level of awe that bordered on hero worship. Han took his squadrons through their paces, providing them with instruction and training as the Task Force mopped up pockets of Imperial resistance. And although he was not comfortable with military discipline, his men readily followed and obeyed Han solely due to his natural ability as a leader. Leia honestly believed he would channel his innate personal qualities to help him make it through the evening, if not for his own standing then because he loved her.

Leia dabbed the small perfume bottle against her pulse points, an extravagance she had allowed Han to 'procure' for her. He had been elusive about exactly from where he had obtained the perfume, but because he took great pride in giving her something personal and the scent was subtle but exotic, she had not questioned him.

As the fragrance mixed with her own skin chemistry, an unexpected surge made her feel seductive. Well, sensuous at least, despite the long flowing gown that covered most of her body. Lately, she wasn't used to wearing so much clothing around Han.

Leia re-appraised herself with a critical eye. The dress wasn't too conservative, compared with some of the outfits she had worn. The bodice was low cut to sufficiently display more than a glimpse of cleavage, the skin-tight sleeves showed the shapely length of her arms, and the skirt fell in soft pleats to the low slippers on her feet. Set off by a small silver chain that hung from her neck, the rich blue color of the dress would match perfectly with Han's uniform. At that thought, Leia smiled at her reflection and moved from the 'fresher suite.

Han was standing at the desk, absently scanning through a file on the data terminal. With his back towards her, he didn't notice her entrance and she took the time to stare at him approvingly. His broad shoulders filled out the smartly tailored, short-cut jacket, the style of the jacket, in turn, nicely revealing his narrow hips and compact rear. The matching dark blue trousers were creased and well-cut, complimenting his tall, lean form, and he had attached the red Bloodstripes down the outer seams as he was entitled to do.

Han suddenly became aware of Leia's presence and he turned around, offered her a broad smile of white teeth that lit his eyes and made her insides melt. What that smile couldn't get away with wasn't worth knowing about.

Han whistled appreciatively at her through his teeth. "Look at you."

Her cheeks flushed at his compliment, but she was more concerned with voicing her approval. "Look at you."

She made a scene of taking his hand and holding it out to gain a better view of him. The crisp whiteness of the tab collar shirt contrasted well with the jacket, and the gold rank clasps complimented the hazel of his eyes. He had even affixed the miniature decorations he had received for partaking in the Battles of Yavin and Endor. For the first time since his commissioning, he looked like a general.

Although the uniform fit well, it appeared he had had some trouble with his hair. He had parted it dead straight and down the middle as opposed to the left-side—a small miracle, Leia imagined—yet the telltale signs of dampness suggested his hair had not given in easily, having to be tamed with a liberal amount of water. When it dried, it would no doubt return to its usual scruffy self. None of it mattered; in her eyes Han could be bald or as hairy as a Wookiee and he would still be handsome.

"Give me a twirl," Leia encouraged.

He ducked his head with an uncharacteristic touch of embarrassment and dropped her hand. "Cut it out."

"No, go on," she told him. "I want to appreciate all of you."

She placed her hands on his hips and gently pushed and pulled until he compliantly turned around in a circle as he whined, "Leia…"

She drew him to a halt when he was facing her again.

"You look beautiful," she told him.

"That's what I'm s'posed to say to you," he complained.

Sliding her arms around his waist, she pressed herself up against him. "Then tell me."

He shook his head in exasperation. "You're not s'posed to tell me to tell you. I'm s'posed to come up with that on my own."

"Don't you think I'm beautiful?" she teased.

He wrapped his arms around her lower back, returning her loose embrace. "Of course, I think you're beautiful. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever known."

"Then tell me."

He grimaced apologetically. "The moment's kinda gone."

She almost laughed. "The 'moment'?"

"It should be spontaneous. I'll tell you you're beautiful when you least expect it. Then you'll know I really mean it and I'm not just sayin' it cos you told me to."

Leia waggled her head at his weird logic. "All right, then. But let's get back to you." She tilted her chin and looked up at him. "This beautiful man," she raised her eyebrows as she emphasised her description of him, causing his face to screw up as if in pain, "has materialised inside my cabin, decked out in regulation-correct ceremonial dress, so I want to know what you've done with my scoundrel?"

He shrugged a shoulder. "I'm his replacement. The stand-in. Had to give your poor guy the night off cos you've worn him out, Princess. His knees are shot to hell and he's got sheet-burns on him in places you don't wanna know about."

Leia did not doubt his portrayal of himself. Once Han had recovered from the hibernation sickness—both physical and psychological—caused by his ten-month entombment in carbonite, their sexual exploration of each other has picked up from the point they had left it during their four-week flight to Bespin. On that front, they literally could not get enough of one another.

"Plus," Han continued, "he was not lookin' forward to eatin' with some of the bigwigs you'll be havin' dinner with. Told me he'd most likely take out some dinner guests with a few well-timed blaster bolts." He gestured his head down towards his right thigh where his gun-rig usually sat and proudly said, "You'll notice, I am unarmed, so I won't be tempted either."

She smirked at him.

Han persisted with his explanation about the scoundrel who would not be accompanying her to dinner. "Not to mention this'll be the first time he'll be expected to behave himself in mixed company and he can't just act the way he usually does when someone pisses him off, like he might in a Mos Eisley cantina. That means, no punches thrown."

Leia was all too aware that he was referring to her expectations of him and attempting to allay concerns she might have. A part of her felt guilty for even entertaining such doubts about him.

She moved her hands up to his neck. "Hmm…sounds like an onerous job."

"Believe me, it is," Han agreed.

His response had been a little too quick for her liking. She wondered if he was expecting anything from her in return and decided to call him out on it.

"I trust you're being well compensated for your efforts."

They'd had similar conversations before they had become lovers, about payment he demanded for services rendered when he'd been a paid contractor for the Rebellion. He ignored her prod, but from the look he gave her she could tell she had hit a sore spot.

"Your guy also wasn't too keen on all those eyes gawkin' at him, wonderin' what the hell he's doin' on your arm when he obviously doesn't deserve to be there."

Ouch. His comment made her feel about a centimeter tall. She'd told him before that she loved him and didn't care what anybody thought about their relationship. It troubled her that he continued to harbour negative beliefs about his suitability—for want of a better word—as a partner for her.

"So," He gave her a resigned smile. "He got me to turn up instead of him." He shrugged again. "This is it. This is all you're gonna get."

"And what's in it for you?" she pressed.

He held her gaze and told her, "I'm doin' it for love."

Leia swallowed away the lump that had formed in her throat. "Love?"

"Yeah, I'm only here cos I love you. That other low-life might pretend he does, but it's the one who shows up dressed like a waiter—that's the one who really loves you."

Leia's heart melted at his honest response. He had told her precisely what was happening here. Han Solo was not at all comfortable with dressing in formal, military attire and accompanying her to dinner in the role that would clearly define and declare him as her consort, and here he was, because he loved her.

"I want to kiss you," she softly said.

"You can do that," he acknowledged.

"Except I'll mess up my make-up and then we'll be late."

He pulled her closer. "Or you could let me kiss you and mess up your make-up and we could decide not to go. Then you can go under me, or on top of me. Or I could dig up those binders you used on me on the way to Bespin. Remember that?"

She did remember that. Her brazen request had surprised herself and delighted him. Han, do you, by any chance, happen to have a set of binders? She'd never seen him move as fast in his life when, naked, he'd rushed out into the Falcon's main hold and hunted around before returning triumphantly to their cabin. She'd been meaning to ask him what he'd done with those not-very-secure-but-undeniably-effective binders they'd used quite a few times.

"Whatever you want," he promised, his tone low, meaningful and full of intent.

Leia was not surprised that he was trying to get them both out of the dinner, despite his declaration to be there for her. Han—always on the lookout for opportunities to change the odds in his favour— never gave up.

Leia drew his head down so she could kiss his cheek, placing a print of her lips on his skin that she was tempted to leave in place and show off to the other dinner guests. Unable to stop herself, she allowed her hand stray down to the seat of his trousers. He allowed her to play for a while, before grabbing her wrist and holding it aside. His gaze smoldered with barely contained desire.

"Uh-uh, Sweetheart. You handle the merchandise; you have to buy."

He was going to play it this way. He loved her and would go to the dinner with her and behave. Or she could act on her desires and fondle him—no doubt bed him—now. But not both.

Leia gave him a petulant pout, hoping to appeal to his more basic instincts. "Can't I have a pre-emptive fondle? A taste for later?"

He tightened his mouth into a thin line, forced a smile. "Nope."

Taking his hand, she pressed his palm against her breast, encouraging him to cup her firmly.

"What if I let you handle me at the same time?" she suggested, her other hand returning to his backside.

Softly growling deep in his throat, his fingertips delicately caressed the bare skin above her low neckline. "You want me to make a mess of myself."

"I like it when you make a mess of yourself." Leia's smile was sensual and teasing as she stared at him through heavy lashes. The temptation to turn her focus to the front of his trousers weighed heavily on her mind.

"I think those binders are somewhere in the back of my closet. Maybe in my blaster storage locker. You remember that, too, don'tcha?"

Another reference to another sexual activity they'd undertaken during the same flight.

He leaned further towards her, his voice a warm rumble in her ear. "Let's give dinner a miss. I'd prefer to eat in, anyway. Prefer to eat you."

She squeezed his rear again. "We can't not go. We're expected."

He lightly pointed out, "You mean you're expected."

Leia immediately dropped her hand from his rear and turned away from him, forcing his hand to slip away from her chest. She was not backing down; did not want to set a precedence where Han thought he could sweet-talk—or sex-talk—his way out of doing something he found uncomfortable. Especially after he'd only just declared he'd be there for her because he loved her.

"We're both expected," she explained, rounded back towards him. "I accepted the invitation on behalf of us both. You and me. Han and Leia."

Han sighed in resignation, clearly annoyed that his ploy had not worked.

"And what did the old mistich have to say about that?"

Mon Mothma had not been overly warm towards Han since it had become apparent that he and Leia were lovers. At times, the former Chandrilan senator had been outright hostile towards him, suggesting that Han was taking advantage of the younger princess and that her relationship with the former smuggler was no more than a seedy infatuation born out of their enforced confinement of a four-week flight to Bespin.

Leia could understand Han's animosity towards Mon Mothma—his use of the Corellian insult indicated the extent of his bitterness—but she knew this was not the way to go about swaying Mon's opinion of either him or their relationship.

"General Solo—"

Han noticeably bristled at the way Leia used his rank to get his attention.

"—may I recommend that tonight you refrain from calling the Commander-in-Chief of the Alliance to Restore the Republic as 'the old mistich'."

"Recommend anything you like," he grumbled, half-turning away from her, "this ain't your High Command. Unless…" He fully turned his back on her and aimed his words down at the deck, as if he didn't quite want her to hear what he was about to mutter under his breath. "You wanna convene your meetings here from now on. I'll just wait in the 'fresher 'til you're ready to beckon me over, have your way with me before you table the next agenda item."

Leia silently stared at the back of his head, watched his shoulders slump as he sunk his hands into the pockets of his trousers in direct contravention of proper military bearing. She wondered if he realised how ridiculous he sounded, and if he was being deliberately argumentative in the hope that she would tell him she didn't want his company if he was going to act this way. As difficult as he was being, Leia had to admit she still felt empathy towards him; his anxiety levels were disturbing the usually calm demeanour he projected in the Force.

Han looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes gleaming as if he had thought of a new idea. "Hey, perhaps I can call her a 'mistich' behind her back?"

Leia relented and moved around to face him. "You can call her anything you like, as long as it stays in that warped little mind of yours."

They shared a small, mischievous grin, but he couldn't let the matter go.

"So," he began, "C-in-C's lookin' forward to seeing me, huh? The new kid on the block. Gonna welcome me with open arms?"

Leia shook her head, slowly and fondly. "Han, I love you. I don't care what she thinks. And neither should you."

He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't."

Leia laced her arm through his. "Then let's go, General." She tenderly wiped the smudge of lipstick from his cheek.

He grimaced. "Yeah."

"But before we do, there's one thing I have to fix."

Han rolled his eyes. "Are you going to be long? Cos if you are, I'll take a nap." He yawned and stretched elaborately.

Leia was tempted to stick her finger into his mouth. Instead she favoured him with an overly sweet smile. "Not long."

She stepped away from him, considered her task for a moment, then reached up and messed his hair, first using one hand to tease the strands apart, then deciding she need both to toss and tumble it, air-drying it as best she could. Han didn't seem surprised, accepting her grooming technique with quiet resignation, staring upwards as if he could see what she was doing.

Leia raked her nails through his hair, settling it into the style—or lack—that she was more familiar seeing him with, moving his part back to the left side of his head. She finished her work by teasing his hair across his forehead, stepped back and eyed him critically. A brush or comb may have helped, but she knew damn well he infrequently used one himself.

"Finished?" There was a wry turn to Han's mouth.

She nodded and met his eyes. "M-hmm. It's the latest look for all the local nerfherders. They call it 'The Scruff'."

"You know, Princess," he told her, his smirk a mix of benevolence and menace, "it's a good thing I love you."

Leia had to agree. "I know. You're a lucky man."

"Is that what you call me?"

"Amongst other things." She pushed a tendril of her own hair back behind her ear. "Shall we go?"

He gave a long-suffering sigh, as if he was the most put-upon man in the sector, if not the galaxy. "You're the boss."

"Mm, I like it when you say that. You should try 'submissive' more often. It suits you."

Hands still jammed in his pockets, he stuck out an elbow in offering. Leia promptly latched onto his arm and steered him out of the cabin.