Thinking is what Luke said Han was doing. Well, if he'd done anymore since isolating himself to watch the moonrise, there was no indication. Leia supposed her own thought process must take longer.

She was feeling better. Moving gave her control and she relished the activity. Han had watched her shoot the remote target from across the space of the Falcon's lounge, rear resting on the edge of the engineering station. His arms were folded not in the watchful manner of a teacher but as a relaxed member of an audience. At her request, he set up the training target for a mobile level, and she was inordinately pleased with her progress. Of course, she hadn't a blast shield over her head like Luke had, but she could hit something that moved- it was just a matter of watching it, learning it; the remote had what Han called 'giveaways', and she had clued into the pattern and noise of the triggering function.

Her gloating look had not gotten the response she expected. Maybe he was thinking.

"This ain't real life," he said.

She scowled at him. "You make a pretty big target yourself," she snapped.

Of course he liked that, and hours of wondering what made him smile would not be long enough to tell Leia why. It hadn't even made sense!

"You enter a room," Han said, like the beginning of a story. "Your eyes have to adjust to the light, your ears are reacting to the abrupt shift in noise. You're on your feet; you can move fast. That's the only thing going for you."

Leia stared at him. Admittedly, she was still wondering why he had smiled, and now she was tallying the number of words he spoke because it seemed like more than usual; the timbre of his voice was soothing and alluring while he built suspense with his description.

"You're Princess Leia," he added detail to his story, "and there's an assassin after you."

Leia waited with baited breath. Obviously, in his story she was going to be shot at.

"Bam. You're dead," he shrugged and spread his palms like it was an unfortunate accident.

Her eyes were aggressive. "No, I'm not. I am aware. I see him, I hear him-"

"Yeah, and he moves nice and slow and waits for you to learn his pattern before he fires."

"- and I shoot him, plain and simple."

"He's already shot you! Probably five times!"

Leia drummed her fingers on her thigh. She felt cheated. "I suppose, superior smuggler that you are, you are prepared for assassins."

"Hells, I'm just a smuggler. Princesses are big game."

"Smugglers have bounty hunters."

He bowed his head in gracious acceptance of her comment. "The last one I met had the decency to talk to me first before I shot him."

She huffed, wondering if there was any truth to the story, then waved at the space between her and the targeting remote. "Is there an assassin setting to this thing?"

He liked that too. "Where's your blaster when you enter that room?"

"Holstered," she answered, shaking her head rapidly because it was obvious. "I'll get shot right away if I walk in and it's pointing to the room at large."

"Right." For some reason, the image seemed to amuse him. "It's all in the draw."

"Show me," she said.

He nodded and slid off the edge of the station to reset the controls. "It's on high speed, random pattern, and a second delay after it makes its target, which is the gun. Try it like this-" He took the training gun from her and left the lounge. The remote was zipping around crazily.

Han re-entered, the training gun tucked into the top of his pants. The remote had darted under the game table when it fired. Han rolled to the floor on his shoulder and the beam missed him, but not by much. He came out of his roll on one leg, in position to spring to his feet, and the training gun was in his hand. She didn't see him pull it out. The remote zipped from its spot, darting like a hopper out from the hedge Leia used to hide in, this way and that, but Han hit it before it tried again.

It was a nice display, Leia had to admit. Damned if she was going to do so aloud, however. "Should I applaud?" she said dryly.

There was no aggravating him when he knew he was good. "Sometimes you're not going to be able to fire." He glanced under the table from where the remote had fired. "Angle's wrong. Or, there's innocents in the way."

"Smugglers aren't innocent," she said. It was another nonsensical thing to say but he had her on the defensive.

"Assassins often have a leg up," Han ignored her comment. "Part of bein' a good shot is knowing how to get shot at."

She nodded. "And not get hit."

Han nodded back at her. "That's the idea."

"There are simulators, aren't there?"

"Yeah. They're actually kind of fun."

"Fun," she said bitterly. "We're at war." She sighed at length. "I'm thirsty."

Frank statements of physical condition also made him smile. "Whiskey or water?"

"Water. Then whiskey."

She downed the water quickly. The physical exertion made her feel... engaged with her own body. Tired, but in a powerful, useful way. She watched as Han poured a few fingers of whiskey in her cup. She lifted it to him, meeting his eyes. "To the Death Star," she toasted.

The cup was automatically at his lips, but he paused. "You're sure?" he said.

Leia stopped her own drink and listened to herself. Perhaps- was it inappropriate? She gave him the same answer she had told Dr. Renzatl. "The Death Star is the reason for everything now."

He didn't smile. "I guess it is."

"You meant to free Chewie," she took a small sip, "didn't you. I don't believe you can have regrets about that."

Han's eyes strayed away from her and she heard him exhale into his cup. "Overall, no. Parts, yeah. Hard to describe."

"I understand," Leia said. "Like me and the plans. You had to do it, even if it killed you, because you wouldn't be able to live with yourself if you didn't."

"The difference between you and me is I came out of it with Chewie." He just said it, as a fact. He didn't apologize and he wasn't afraid to hurt her.

"And I..." she didn't want to say it, but she nodded. It did hurt. But so did not saying it. "Maybe someday I can say I came out of it with something."

Leia wondered what that could be. Victory? Not that, not exactly. Victory would rid the galaxy of the Empire but it couldn't bring Alderaan back. There wasn't anything else she could think of.

"Do you regret anything about us taking you off the Death Star?"

He had phrased that interestingly. She liked it, and she showed her appreciation. "Parts, yes. Overall, no."

"I know," Han said. "Hard to describe."

"Yes." Maybe the whiskey was emboldening. Leia was noticing things like he had long fingers, and his lower lip was fuller than the top, and the proper color of his eyes was hazel.

"You don't strike me as a whiskey drinker," he said, amused again.

"I'm not." She raised the cup again and let the alcohol enter her mouth. She was more familiar with wine. That taste was smooth and effortless. Whiskey is how Han Solo would taste, she decided. Strong, and ever-changing, from the pretty golden color to the bitter bite at the end that took her breath.

He nodded and watched her swallow. The thinking was showing; something seemed to be on his mind. "How long are you on Buteral?"

She had to clear her throat; she swallowed too fast. "As long as it takes." Her voice came out husky. "Why?"

"Just wondering. I can drop you dirtside now if you want, but I thought since I got to wait forever for clearance you might as well go down in the shuttle that brings the journalists in the morning."

"That's fine," she said. "Are you going to talk to General Rieekan?"

"I'm willing to listen," he said shortly. He didn't want to talk about it; Han Solo wasn't one to hope out loud, and Leia got the feeling he didn't use to have to seek out work often. Jobs came his way, like General Kenobi seeking a fast ship to Alderaan...

Trouble is contagious, he had said. And she worried most of the night, hearing the sounds of the hammock rings rub against the ropes where Chewie slept. The whiskey gave her weird dreams, and in all it seemed the Empire was winning. Her father sat in his favorite chair, but he was flanked by storm troopers; Han was trying to swing but dodging blaster bolts that shot out of the branches of her favorite tree; Chewie was a chess player, forced to battle the Mantellian savrip.