Author's note

This is my first story in over 20 years (!) so please be kind. It's just a little scrap of a thing that was floating around in my mind (I don't get much time to write these days) but I wanted to contribute something back to say thanks to all the others whose stories I've enjoyed. In particular, I want to shout out to ErinDarroch, whose work motivated me to get back into Star Wars fanfiction, as well as to KnightedRogue and Cicatrick - you both inspire me and terrify me with your talents!

-YT


Amidst a tangle of white satin sheets, Leia dreamed.

Colours, feelings, sensations and sounds all assaulted her consciousness, a pattern repeating over and over.

Bright, clinical white…

Flashing red…

An orange glow, a dull metallic grey…

Terror… Betrayal…Desperation… Grief…

And somewhere, over it all, Han screaming, raw animal screams that rang in her ears, stifled her breath, ripped her heart into pieces.

Han…Han...where are you?

Leia opened her eyes with a rough gasp. Cold light from Bespin's two moons streamed in through the enormous windows, spilling onto the bed and casting eerie shadows in the unfamiliar room. She blinked, disoriented. After forty days on the Falcon crawling along at sublight speed, she was unused to any sort of natural light. What had happened? A pit of dread sat heavy in her stomach and her breathing was erratic. A sheen of sweat cooled on her bare skin. The echo of Han's screams still rang in her ears.

Han…

Leia turned her head to the side, half expecting to see an empty bed, or worse, Han injured or sick. But Han lay peacefully beside her, one arm carelessly flung out to the side. His bare chest rose and fell rhythmically, his skin warm, his lean body relaxed.

Safe.

Adrenaline still coursing through her limbs, Leia swung her feet out of bed and padded to the small kitchenette to get a glass of water. With shaking hands, she held the glass to her lips and sipped the cool liquid. She felt vaguely like she might be sick. The dream had been so vivid, so real. And yet, she could recall nothing specific about it. Only that Han had been in terrible danger and she could do nothing to stop it.

It's because he's leaving… And you know he might not come back.

Leia was not so naïve to think that Jabba, one of the most dangerous crime lords in the galaxy, a being who prided himself on his ruthlessness, would be prepared to forgive and forget, even if Han paid off his debt. She wasn't sure that Han believed it either, although – on the surface at least – he retained an irritating confidence in his own ability to talk his way out of trouble. Even when she'd rigorously catalogued the list of Jabba's most notorious paybacks, late one night lying naked in Han's bunk – the time he'd disembowelled a contractor who was skimming spice off the top of his shipments, for instance, or the time he'd fed a competitor to his pet Rancor piece by piece – Han had simply spread his arms in an exaggerated shrug.

"Hey, Your Worship, it's me!"

And then she'd had to kiss that insufferable smirk right off his face.

Up until now, she had tried to push the lingering dread of Han's imminent departure out of her mind. The trip to Bespin had been filled with such newfound joy, such rare pleasure in the midst of war and grief and loss. She had wanted to live in the moment, to enjoy this thing – whatever it was – with Han while it lasted. So she had distracted herself with the taste of his skin, the heat of his mouth on hers, their shared, ravenous need for each other, the quieter, precious moments where they whispered and caressed and she'd thought her heart would explode with the intensity of what she felt for him.

But the trip to Bespin had been borrowed time. Stolen time. And their time was up.

Leia set the glass down on the bench and hugged her arms around herself, shivering in the cool air of the apartment. Creeping back to bed, she crawled under the sheet, scooting over to bury herself against the warmth of Han's chest, tuck her head under his chin. He stirred sleepily, brought his arms around her, mumbled her name against the crown of her head. There was an ache in her throat, so piercing that she could hardly breathe. You're going to lose him.

"Han," she whispered. "Han…Are you awake?"

"Nope."

She kissed him softly on the collarbone, trailed feather light kisses up his neck to his jaw. He hummed appreciatively, his eyes still shut. Her fingers brushed across the flat planes of his stomach, drifted lower. She had his attention now. He tilted his head down towards her, blinking, hazel eyes warm and a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. But when her eyes met hers, he frowned.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

That damned man can read you like a book, she thought ruefully, covering his hand with her own, not trusting herself to speak.

"Leia?" he said again, more sharply this time, concern creeping into his voice.

She knew she was worrying him, but instead of answering she pulled him to her, kissed him fiercely, desperately, until they were both breathless. She pressed her forehead to his, closed her eyes.

"Nice try, Highness, but I'm not that easily distracted," Han's voice rumbled in her ears. "Spill."

She let out a joyless little laugh, leaned back to find him looking expectantly at her, shifting green-grey eyes roaming over her face.

"Please don't go," she whispered finally. Han sucked in a sharp breath, gathered her tightly into the circle of his arms.

"I don't want to go," he said helplessly. "But Leia, I have to. I can't see you hurt again because of me. I can't."

His voice cracked on the last word and Leia's heart squeezed. She knew the spectre of Ord Mantell haunted him still. Han resolutely refused to talk about it, but she'd heard from Luke and Chewie that he'd been frantic, devastated. The anxious wait before they'd known if she'd recover from her injuries was the only time, Luke had told her, he'd ever seen Han cry. She knew that if he perceived her to be at risk, he'd stop at nothing, nothing, to keep her safe. Even if it put his own life in danger. She both loved and hated him for it at the same time.

Pulling out of Han's embrace, Leia sat up, hugged her knees to her chest.

"Han…" She was almost begging now. "Something terrible is going to happen, I can feel it." She glanced at him over her bent knees, knowing how she must sound. She couldn't articulate it, this crushing, terrifying sense of dread, her overwhelming fear that she was about to lose him.

"You can feel it?" Han laughed, incredulous. "C'mon, Sweetheart, you sound like Luke!"

"Han, I'm serious. I have a really bad feeling about this."

Han groaned, rolling to his back and covering his eyes with his forearm. "Where have I heard that before?"

Leia was silent, waiting for him to snap out of Obnoxious Han mode. Finally, he raised his arm slightly, peered at her suspiciously with one eye.

"I'm frightened," she said in a low voice. "If you go, I'm worried you won't come back."

"Ah Sweetheart…" Han reached out and tugged her hand until she lay down beside him again. His eyes were solemn gold as he kissed her once, twice. "Leia," he murmured, "Nothing and nobody is going to stop me coming back to you," he said softly. "I swear."

Oh Han, she thought, you stupid, stubborn nerf.

Out loud, she said, "Kiss me."

He readily complied, and she let herself be swept away, to lose herself in him.

"Han…" she whispered as they moved together, and again like a mantra, "Han…Han...Han..."

"I love you," he gasped hoarsely into her ear. "Leia, I love you. I promise I'll come back."

In her mind she cried, I love you, too, Han, I love you I love you I love you, her heart soaring at the enormity of what he'd just said, but she found herself unable to speak. Instead, she clutched him tighter, captured his beautiful mouth with hers, arched her body against him, trying to convey her feelings with touch where her words had failed.

But later, when they'd come down from their high and she lay wrapped against Han's chest as he snored softly, she whispered it into the warmth of his skin, closing her eyes against the futile tears.