disclaimer: not mine. need I say more?
rating / warnings: T / graphic depictions of violence
characters / relationships: Leia Organa, Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, Chewbacca, Carlist Rieekan, Mon Mothma / Leia Organa & Luke Skywalker & Han Solo
notes: Hahahaha should I be starting yet ANOTHER WIP? NOPE. Am I? You bet your ass I am. I've actually been working on this one for a while, and I'm planning on hammering quite a bit out tomorrow, so it shouldn't be too long before I update again. But uh. Yeah. Sorry y'all. At least I'm back in the SW fandom? Speaking of which... *waves* Hi! Long time no see. Missed you all :heart:
Chapter 1: The Wolf
The Rebel base's main cargo hangar, buried a hundred feet beneath the ground, hung with the mechanical hush of midnight. The dozen ships docked on the cracked and pitted permacrete floor sat silent in their berths, only the soft whirr of the banks of processors and computers lining the walls and the faint hum of air circulating through the vents disturbing the shroud of quiet. The large floodlights mounted on the walls were dimmed to the night cycle's low yellow glow, throwing shadows across the floors and up the walls, and leaving large pools of darkness lying soft and comfortable beneath the bellies of the freighters. Above, the ceiling was lost to the shadows, the double sliding doors that sheltered the ships and hid the hangar from the outside world swallowed by the night's darkness.
Han Solo—captain of the Millennium Falcon, smuggler, and sometimes mercenary, as well-known for his roguish smirk as his foolhardy luck—let loose a colorful curse. He lay half-hidden beneath the secondary life support unit in the aft hold of his ship, his legs and scuffed boots stretched out amid a clutter of tools and loosened bolts, while the boxy, grill-covered piece of machinery—which he had taken down from its hole in the wall and propped up on two mismatched pieces of durasteel—hid his torso and head.
An echoing bang followed the curse, and Han cursed a second time. A hand emerged from beneath the unit, and he fumbled around with the tools lying by his left thigh, sending two bolts and a wrench skittering across the floor. He huffed, wriggled his hips out from under the machinery, and reached for the wrench again, a muttered, "Why's Chewie never around when I need him?" muffled by the circuitry and plastisteel above his head.
"Need a hand?"
A second bang came from the underside of the life support unit—this time from Han's forehead slamming into the bottom paneling. "Kriff," he spat, this time as much from pain as irritation. Reaching up to wrap his fingers around the bottom edge of the front grill, Han slid out from underneath the propped-up unit. He sat up quickly, looking for the source of the voice.
A stocky, blond-haired man dressed in a general's uniform stood in the doorway. His hands were folded loosely in front of him, and his eyes were a sharp, slate-blue that, in the low, yellow light, appeared almost silver. The hair at his temples was just beginning to grey, and though he was clean-shaven, Han could imagine that his beard would have threads of silver around his mouth.
"Um," Han said, and blinked. Of anyone who he might have guessed would interrupt his repairs in the dead of night, an only-vaguely recognized general was about as far down the list of expected visitors as Han could imagine, somewhere just above Imperial Stormtroopers and Jabba's cronies—and about as welcome as either. He stood warily, snatching a rag from where it hung on the edge of the life support unit, and wiped his greasy hands on the stained and ragged cloth. "Unless you can strip and reroute a coupling wire, or take away my headache, I'm fine," Han said with a small, sideways smirk. "What can I do for you?" he asked, taking a step over the scattered tools and toward the general.
"I do not believe we have had the pleasure of officially meeting, Captain Solo," the general said. He took a step forward as well, closing the gap between them to a scant half dozen feet, and extended hand as he did so. A small, warm smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
"Don't think we have," Han agreed casually. He eyed the general warily, gauging the older man's smile, his cool blue gaze—and he wondered if the calm bluntness he saw was a mask, or the man beneath the mask. "You seem to know me, though," Han said after a few seconds of silent appraisal, raising his eyebrows, "even though I don't know you." He curled his own lips into a short smirk—a taunting, challenging smirk that never failed to rile the princess of Alderaan—and crossed his arms.
"Ah, my apologies," the general said. He dropped his hand, accepting Han's blunt refusal, and instead clasped his hands behind his back in a loose imitation of parade rest. "My name is Carlist Rieekan of Alderaan." At that, a shadow flickered through his eyes—something small, and dark, and horribly, cruelly blunt, like a hammer blow of strangled pain—and Han felt his heart twist, unlooked-for, in his chest. "I sit on High Command," he went on, before his smile twisted, a flash of bitterness against his openness that Han could not translate, "though that position is only temporary."
"Temporary, huh?" Han asked, uncrossing his arms, unable to resist rising to the bait of that unexpected admission.
The general did not blink, did not speak. He simply stood there, quiet and calm before Han, his bright eyes as blunt as ever, yet hung now with a veil that Han could not reach past, could not see past. Interesting, he thought, for half a second stumbling in his self-assuredness, uncertain of what the veil meant, or the bluntness.
"So," Han said, raising his eyebrows and drawing back into comfortable, well-known territory where he was lord and manipulator, "what is a general and temporary member of High Command doing here on my ship in the dark hours of the night?"
"I am here with a proposition."
The first flickers of a frown stole Han's smirk. "A proposition?" he echoed. A breath of silence—and then Han laughed, sharp and too-loud. "I'm sick of being errand boy for your suicide squad," he said, ignoring the tingle in his spine that whispered, Liar. "You lot seem to have an elevated idea of my dedication to your little cause."
"You would be paid well, of course," the general said.
"No amount of money is enough to get me to risk my ship on another supply run or wire-brained escort mission. I've done plenty in just helping you lot get off Yavin and to this new base, and the Falcon's been the one to pay for it."
"Then I suppose it is a good thing this proposition does not require your ship."
Han, mouth already open to rebuff the general's certain attempt at persuasion, fumbled, slack jaw falling into what felt disturbingly like a gape. "Not a supply run, huh?" he asked, wrapping his lips and tongue around the words as if they were foreign, sharp-bladed daggers. "And not my ship?" His eyes narrowed. "If you think I'd agree to fly anywhere without the Falcon, then you're even more delusional than I thought."
"The choice of ship could be negotiated," the general said easily, the faintest of curling smiles just visible in his eyes for the first time since he had introduced himself. "And as I said, no, it is not a supply run. Do I have your interest?"
Han distinctly felt that he had walked, straight and willing, into a clever trap.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Han shrugged. "You have my interest, yeah," he admitted. "What would this mission be?"
"A three week trip to a Mid-Rim planet," the general said. "Five days' flight to the planet, five days back, and a little more than a week on-planet. Your primary assignment would be pilot and bodyguard—there to make sure that Skywalker and her Highness, Princess Leia, didn't accidentally get themselves killed. It—"
"Wait just one minute," Han said, interrupting the general. A frown curled his lips. "I would have to work with her royal pain in the-"
"Tread carefully, Captain Solo," General Rieekan growled, cutting him off, soft and quiet with deadly warning, his eyes flashing bright and sharp. For the first time since he had introduced himself to Han, the calm and friendly composure gave way, crumbling and dissolving before a cold, hard-edged flare of anger.
Han swallowed what he had been about to say. The general's response had been unexpected, and more than a little startling, leaving Han momentarily off-balance for the third time in as many minutes. Though he had only known the man for minutes, Han had not thought to see such hard, biting ire in him—he had seemed too open, too calm, too steadfast. I suppose it makes sense, though, he decided, collecting his thoughts. If he's Alderaanian, he wouldn't want anyone talking bad about precious princess.
He did not apologize, but when Han spoke again, his tone was less abrasive than it had been. "Look, General," he said, pulling his hands from his pockets to motion in a vague shrug. "You should know by now that the princess and I don't exactly get along."
"I know that you two argue, yes," the general said evenly. "Just as I know that she respects you, and trusts you."
Han snorted. "Trusts me? Respects me? Yeah, right."
"You may be surprised."
"Why would she?" Han raised his eyebrows over a crooked, deprecating grin.
Silence seized a breath, two. Then, with a tone edged in steel but laced with warmth, the general said, "You and Skywalker freed her from hell, Captain. It would be impossible for her not to trust you—even if she may not particularly enjoy your company."
"So what you're saying is that she trusts and respects me, but she hates me," Han said. Even he was surprised at the traces of bitterness just tangible on the edges of his tongue, clinging to the corners of his words.
"What Leia—what the princess—feels toward you," the general sighed, "is not my concern. What is my concern is her safety. And her safety is what I am considering here—why I am here talking to you tonight."
It took two heartbeats for what the general had just said to truly sink in—and when it did, Han felt vaguely as if he had been smacked upside the head.
"General," Han said, lifting his voice to cover his surprise, and taking a step forward to jab a finger into the older man's chest, to mask his sudden uncertainty, "if you think Leia Organa would let me keep her safe, you don't know the girl nearly as well as you pretend to."
"Stubborn as she is—and despite what she would have you believe—even Leia Organa cannot watch her own back."
Han huffed a sigh, and changed tactics. "Nothing you've said so far has convinced me why I should agree to go on another mission for you guys. You really don't pay well enough for the risk."
There was another long pause as the general gathered his thoughts. Han could watch it in his eyes—see the older man collect his bearings, review the conversation, assess and reassess, consider every angle of the situation. He's being careful, Han thought. Then, He really wants me to do this.
"Captain Solo," General Rieekan began, "as you are not officially a part of the Rebel Alliance, there is no way that I can order you to go on this mission. That certainly allows you a degree of freedom that none of our commissioned soldiers have."
Han narrowed his eyes. "Are you trying to threaten me, General?" he asked.
"On the contrary," the general said. "Because of that, I am asking you to take this mission. As a personal favor."
"And what does a personal favor from a temporary member of High Command mean?"
The general smiled—but it was a small, sad sort of smile that made Han want to scoff and beat a hasty retreat behind his prickly walls of inconsideration. "A great deal more than you might think," General Rieekan said.
"Look, General," Han sighed, "even if I decided to do this—and I'm not saying I have—I'd have to talk to my copilot first. I'm not taking on any mission that Chewie isn't game for."
The general's smile shifted, and his eyes brightened, clearly pleased despite Han's assurance that he hadn't made up his mind. "Who do you think it was told me where to find you at this late hour?" he asked.
"Wait, so you've already talked to Chewie?" Han asked.
"I saw him in the hangar."
"And you can speak Shyriiwook?"
"Not well," the general said. "But I accompanied Senator Organa to Kashyyyk a number of years ago, and I learned enough to get by."
"Wait, Leia's been to Kashyyyk?" Han asked, surprised. She'd given no indication that she knew much about Wookiees.
"Ah, no," General Rieekan said, with a small shake of his head. "It was her father, Bail Organa, who was Alderaan's Senator before her."
"Oh."
Han had heard only a little about the late Bail Organa—mostly off-hand comments, followed by sudden silence—but he had seemed like a good man. The general, it seemed, had also known him—and well. The air in the Falcon's hold seemed suddenly heavy with a great many unspoken words, and untouched memories that Han had no business glimpsing.
"Well, General," Han said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "I take it there's a reason you felt the need to convince me of this mission tonight, rather than wait until morning?"
The general blinked, returning squarely to the here and now, and the task at hand. "The mission debriefing is tomorrow morning at 0600 hours," he said—and then he quirked an off-hand, dry sort of grin. "I thought you would be more receptive to my proposition if it did not come after me waking you at 0500 in the morning."
Han snorted. "Probably right."
He hesitated, considered. And then Han sighed, and gave a shrug. "Fine," he said. "Chewie and I'll be at your debriefing tomorrow morning."
"Thank you, Captain," the general said, with a surprisingly large smile. He extended a hand.
"I'm not saying for sure I'll do it," Han said, not taking the offered hand. "I want to see just what I'm going to be getting into first."
"I understand," the general said.
Han nodded, and at last he grasped Rieekan's proffered hand. "Now, if you don't mind," he said dryly, "I need to finish this."
"Of course," General Rieekan said. "Goodnight, Captain. I appreciate you giving me your time."
Han watched as the general turned and departed. "Yeah, I'm sure you do," Han muttered to himself once he thought the general was just on the edge of hearing distance. Whether the older man heard him or not, however, the general did not hesitate or turn back at the door as Han had thought he might—as Han had expected. He simply strode out into the shadows filling the corridor, back military straight, pace settled into the same rolling stalk Han had long ago noted in Leia.
Vaguely, he wondered if the stalk was a shared trait among all Alderaanians, or if he just had the luck of finding the only two who did.
Despite what he had told the general, Han did not go back to work on the life support unit. After checking his chrono, he gathered up his tools and cleared away the litter of stripped wires and discarded rags. Then, after washing his hands in the small sink tucked into a small alcove just off the door, Han headed back to his cabin.
He lay awake in his bunk for nearly an hour after climbing between the rough sheets. Just what am I getting myself into? he asked himself half a hundred times.
He had run a handful of missions for the Alliance in the four weeks since Yavin. Mostly cargo transports—ferrying both goods and people from the small moon to the new base—and helping the rag-tag bunch settle into their new home. But he had declined every other offer, from two intelligence runs to commissions. Though Chewie seemed comfortable enough with the rebels, Han had remained adamant—they would not get involved beyond helping move bases, and then they were clearing out to go pay back Jabba.
So why did you agree to even go to the debriefing? a treacherous voice asked snidely in the back of his mind.
What the hell else was I supposed to say? Han shot back. He draped an arm over his face, hiding his eyes and muffling his breathing with the crook of his elbow. The general was very insistent.
The general…
He did not know what to make of the general. At first glance the general was an easy man to read—steadfast and loyal, but not stiff, and lacking the cloak-and-dagger veils that Leia and every other politician Han had met used to shroud themselves. In fact, while Leia was as much a politician as they came, the general had seemed just what his title suggested—an old soldier, well-worn and scarred—not what Han had come to suspect from a member of High Command.
And yet, there was something cold beneath the general's exterior—something Han could not quite identify. The general was something more than just an old soldier. His eyes were unguarded, easily readable—but the more Han thought back over their conversation, the less certain he became that he had truly understood what the general was thinking. He had been frank—or at least had seemed truthful—and yet he had still danced a master manipulator's waltz. The waltz simply had not been shrouded in fog and half-parsed words as Han was accustomed to from politicians.
What was his game? Han wondered. If he could figure that out, he could figure out the man.
You already know, the snide voice told him.
And Han did. He simply wasn't sure he believed it. Men in power didn't pull strings or play games that strong for the personal sake of one person.
"She trusts you," the general had said, and there had been something in his eyes…
Wolf's eyes, Han decided. The man has a wolf's eyes.
Why the hell do I even care what he wants though? Han wondered. Why do I even care that he cares about Leia? She's just a tiring pain in the ass.
But he knew that wasn't true. She was more than just a thorn in his side, despite what he said; she was Luke's friend, and his…what? What was she? Friend was hardly a word that could describe their spit-and-fire relationship. She shouted, he smirked, and then he laughed when her face turned red and her fists clenched at her sides. They spent time together when they both were on base because of Luke—not because of each other.
And yet, as Han rolled onto his side for what felt like the nineteenth time, he could not help but remember the feeling of her ribs through the sheer material of her stained and torn dress four weeks past, when he had held her in the women's 'fresher while she puked her stomach into the sink. The world had been halfway to hell and death hung over them like the looming shadow of night, and for the first time he had realized just how fragile she was—had caught a glimpse of the girl beneath the veils of fire and ice and acid. He could not help but recall the way she had trembled, nor the way she had, for those few moments, seemed so small and fragile, as if no more than a push of his hand would send her shattering into a thousand white shards.
"You freed her from hell," General Rieekan had said.
We did, didn't we? Han thought. The memory of the detention block flashed through his mind—the sterile walls, the cool air, the metal tang of pain and fear that had dripped from every wall.
He groaned. Just because we saved her then doesn't make us responsible for her now, Han told himself sternly.
No, the treacherous voice crooned, and crawled its way down his spine and along his ribs. But maybe it means you want to be.
Han turned over onto his stomach, and buried his face into his lumpy pillow. I promised Rieekan I'd go to the meeting in the morning, he reminded himself, not that I'd run the mission. I don't have to make up my mind until then.
With that final, hardly reassuring thought, Han forced his breathing to relax into an even cadence, and, surrounded by the near-silent hum of the slumbering Falcon and the musty scents of engine grease, Wookiee, and recycled sweat, he at last drifted into an uneasy sleep.
end notes: What did you think? Are you happy to see me back? Comment and let me know!