All the Way – Chapter 1
by Justine Graham and Erin Darroch
Okay, Hotshot.
Of all the words Leia Organa had ever said to Han Solo—and she had said quite a few over the years—none had ever packed quite the same wallop as those two. She couldn't have stunned him any harder if she'd hit him with a force pike, he mused, running the heel of his hand idly over the worn metal curve of the Falcon's yoke.
His distracted gaze wandered unseeing over the familiar landscape of the ship's flight console as he waited for the main computers to finish the comprehensive systems analysis he'd just initiated. The myriad winking lights blurred in his vision, and the soft whirs, clicks and beeps of the ship's multiple integrated computer systems faded into the background as he pondered over Leia's kiss and the two simple words that had preceded it—the ones that were repeating on an endless loop in his brain.
Okay, Hotshot.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and shook his head.
Wow.
Even now, hours after she'd breathed consent and invitation against his lips and then laid a kiss on him hot enough to melt solid permacrete, those words still rang in his ears and reverberated in his bones, as if his body were a gong lately struck by a mighty hammer.
It wasn't so much the words themselves, but the promise and intent behind them that made Han's whole world tilt off-kilter. The suggestion that finally, finally, after so much time wasted in denial and posturing, circling each other with their claws out like a pair of warring Nexu, it seemed that Leia was ready to—
—uh…ready to do what, exactly?
He chewed on his cheek, lost in thought. It wasn't clear what the princess was proposing with that murmured phrase. He wouldn't call it a surrender—not from her—although it sure as hell felt as though they'd been at war with each other ever since the disaster at Ord Mantell.
No, Han decided, it wasn't in Leia's nature to give up, no matter how weary she'd become of the tension and strife between them. And she wouldn't expect him to yield his ground, either. That was territory they'd already covered more than once, and it was clear that there were some things they were never going to agree upon—and the necessity of his imminent departure from the Alliance was one of them.
Okay, Hotshot.
What the hell did it mean, then? He would call it a signal of truce, perhaps. It was a respite for him, at least, from the non-stop bombardment of heavy artillery that was Leia's fearsome verbal arsenal—and if he knew her at all, it was probably also a preliminary step; a bridge to some sort of negotiation she was planning to initiate. His stomach tensed in anticipation, as he wondered why their encounter in the circuitry bay had resulted in such a wildly different outcome from all the other times over the past few weeks when he'd tried to nudge open the door that she'd so firmly and furiously slammed in his face.
Now, with her gentle and clearly affectionate parting kiss still warm on his cheek, Han was left on his own in the cockpit to replay the earlier scene over and over again in his mind, feeling more than a little baffled. Scarcely a day after they'd had it out at the top of their lungs in front of numerous eyewitnesses and within earshot of everyone in the Command Centre, he had decided to chance his arm—and his charm—one more time. Helpless to resist the compulsion, he'd laid siege to her defenses yet again, despite knowing full well that his timing couldn't have been any worse.
And just like that, she'd dropped her shields and let him in. Apparently, somewhere in between that heated shouting match in the South Passage and that scorching kiss in the circuitry bay, something had happened to change Leia's mind. But what?
Well, seven hells, Solo, take your pick, Han thought with a dry chuckle. Checking the progress of his scan with a cursory glance, he then slumped down in his seat and allowed his thoughts to wander.
So many momentous events had transpired in the last twenty hours, he'd scarcely had time to process them all. They had come within a hair's breadth of dying under an avalanche of ice in the depths of Echo Base, and then they'd squeaked clear of the Empire's grasp in an encounter so close it still made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end to think about it. That harrowing flight had been followed by a desperate dive for cover, which had nearly resulted in them all being digested in the gullet of a colossal Exogorth. Then they'd escaped a deadly asteroid field with what looked like half the Imperial fleet in pursuit, hurtled the Falcon at top speed directly into the path of an oncoming Star Destroyer, and found their escape by masquerading as Imperial trash—all of which now seemed utterly inconsequential, compared to Leia's kiss.
Well, kisses, plural, Han amended with a private smile. That first one had been purely impulsive on his part—a suicide move, really, considering their dire circumstances and Leia's continuing, vehement and ridiculous denials of what was going on between them. But there was something about her that he had no power to resist, no matter what the stakes or circumstances.
She was angry with him; that much was clear. But he also knew that her anger stemmed from hurt and, to a certain degree, embarrassment. He figured if he was responsible for that—and he knew without a doubt that he was—then he also had the power to make it better.
Or maybe, his inner cynic suggested, you'll just make things worse.
He gave a rueful shake of his head and released a heavy sigh. Watching the princess struggle with that valve, the way intense effort twisted her delicate features into a grimace, he had succumbed to the impulse to risk another overture, despite all of the Leia-calibrated warning klaxons clanging in his head. That demonstration of resolute industriousness and dogged determination was so much of what defined Leia for him, and it was something he found as attractive as it was admirable. Her laser-like focus in such moments was incomparable. When there was work to be done, she simply got on with it, setting aside all other concerns or distractions. He'd seen that focus in battle, and he'd seen it up close and very personal on Ord Mantell.
A chirp sounded from inside the breast pocket of his flight jacket, interrupting his thoughts. A quick check of his comm showed that Chewie was beginning to wonder if he'd gotten lost on the way back from the cockpit. He glanced at the chrono in the dash and blinked in surprise to discover that almost thirty minutes had passed since he'd left his co-pilot alone in the engineering bay, up to his shaggy forearms in the exposed inner workings of the damaged shield dampener.
They had just about completed the complex repairs when the well-meaning Wookiee, apparently sensing Han's preoccupation, had made a studiously casual attempt to bring up the subject of the kiss he'd witnessed as he'd dangled from one of the Falcon's upper maintenance hatches. The big lug undoubtedly had some weighty Wookiee wisdom to impart about the situation, but Han had been in no frame of mind to hear it. Gritting his teeth in response to his friend's rumbling query, he had promptly retreated to the cockpit under the pretense of retrieving some essential tools. He didn't want to talk to Chewie about it; he didn't want to talk to anyone.
Except for Leia, of course.
The trouble was he had no idea how to even begin the conversation he wanted to have with her. He had taken a big gamble with that kiss, wildly hoping for a favourable outcome—but never anticipating such a warm and encouraging response. After all, they had barely spoken a handful of civil words to each other since Ord Mantell….
Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on the console and pressed the heels of his hands to his temples, hoping to dispel the last traces of headache that lingered there. He rubbed the back of his neck, rolled his shoulders and tilted his head from side to side, stretching tense muscles until the pain finally began to ease. He released a sigh and wished it were as easy to eliminate uncomfortable memories.
Although weeks had passed since that fateful expedition, he was still kicking himself over the events that had transpired there. They had come close to taking their evolving relationship to the next level—but they'd also veered perilously close to cashing it in at the business-end of a bounty hunter's blaster. Every time he thought about what he had lost in those few frantic hours, he felt a pang of regret so strong it made his stomach ache.
Yet in truth, it wasn't their frantic struggle for survival and their harrowing escape that made the mission to Ord Mantell stand out in Han's memory. Instead, it was the recollection of the evening before all of that happened—of Leia's warm weight sprawled deliciously atop him on that hotel sofa, the feeling of her flushed skin beneath his fingertips, and the way her supple body had melded to his and responded so ardently to his caresses. The instant her lissom frame was in his arms, the scent of her skin and the taste of rich Alderaani wine on her lips had overtaken his senses, setting off a chain reaction that made him quickly lose sight of his initial resolve to keep a clear head and maintain a careful pace.
He'd taken things a little too far and too fast that night, he knew, but he shouldn't have been surprised; he never felt fully in control of anything when it came to Leia, least of all his own feelings. She exerted an irresistible force over him, one he could no longer chalk up to mere sexual desire. Although the physical attraction had driven him slightly crazy over the past couple of years, there was something else in his relationship with the princess that he'd never experienced with anyone else. The initial spark that had flared between them at their first meeting had warmed to cautious trust in the aftermath of Yavin, and then to mutual liking as they began spending more time together. For reasons Han had yet to fully understand, he'd stuck around after that first battle, taking on additional work for the Alliance and moving from base to base with Leia. Their bond had strengthened with every subsequent mission, deepened and taken root. It had grown steadily with every shared risk, every triumph and every defeat, until one day he realised that it had flowered into something wildly unfamiliar, something spectacular and terrifying, which he had no idea how to handle.
Even more bewildering was the fact that the more time he spent in Leia's company, the less gripped he felt by wanderlust, and the more his habitual aversion to attachments weakened. Not only that, but he'd found himself actively supporting—even embracing—the hopeless cause she held so dear, to restore the Republic and bring peace and justice back to the galaxy. He had discovered, to his dismay, that Leia's passion was infectious. She was absolute in her commitment and so driven towards her goals that, the longer he spent in her sphere, the more he experienced unexpected shifts in his thinking. He'd actually begun to believe that her rag-tag bunch of idealistic fools really could achieve the unthinkable—the complete and total takedown of the Empire.
Moreover, he had come to believe in she thought they could win, then he was inclined to stifle his own cynical doubts and believe that victory was indeed within their grasp.
And so, to that end, he'd decided to commit, to pledge his skills and resources to help that dream become a reality. And he'd told Leia as much, not long before the mission to Ord Mantell. Although he'd long resisted close examination of his motives for that decision, a thought floated up unbidden from the depths of his mind where he continually tried—and continually failed—to keep it buried. Not for the first time, he ruminated over the inescapable truth of his present circumstances and inwardly winced at the pang in his chest.
His comm chimed again, interrupting his endlessly looping thoughts once more. Withdrawing the device from his pocket, he squinted at the tiny string of Aurebesh text that glowed from the display.
[*The princess has just finished calibrating the subspace transceiver. Now would be a good time to go speak with her.*]
Han rolled his eyes and huffed his exasperation to the empty cockpit. Realizing that Chewie wasn't going to let up, he thumbed the device off and jammed it back into his pocket, ignoring the twinge of guilt that accompanied the action.
He couldn't really blame his friend for trying. Chewie only wanted to help, and Han wasn't the only one looking for reasons to remain close to Leia. It was no secret that the Wookiee was unabashedly happy to be part of the Alliance, honoured to do his part in helping to overthrow the Empire that had terrorized his home world and enslaved his people. Similarly, it wasn't difficult to see why the camaraderie that existed on the Rebel base appealed to the sociable Wookiee, and even Han couldn't deny that the idea of a slightly more settled life held a certain allure.
In fact, to his utter surprise, he had found himself thinking the strangest thoughts in the months just prior to Ord Mantell—positively domestict houghts. He'd begun musing over the possibility of a life beyond the constant struggle for existence, without the ever-present backdrop of oppression and war. A real life, with a purpose and hope for the future—a life with him and Leia together at its centre. He'd picked up enough subtle signals from her to suggest that, just maybe, she was imagining that sort of thing, too. If he allowed himself to think about it, that fervent wish had been a large part of his decision to stay, affording him the chance to bide his time and continue along their present course for as long as it took them to actually talk about those things. Out loud. To each other.
But the encounter with two would-be assassins had changed all that, turning Han's thoughts away from the possibility of a life with Leia to the horrifying prospect of being responsible for her death. That brush with the bounty hunters had been a pivotal moment, a flashpoint that had knocked Han off his trajectory and sent him spinning on another course—one that led him inexorably away from the princess. Risking his own neck was one thing; risking hers was entirely another, and it was a chance he simply wasn't willing to take.
The computer finally completed its analysis with an ominous series of low beeps. Straightening in his seat, Han reached for the dash and scrolled through the readout, gnawing on his lip and frowning as the extent of the damage to the Falcon became clear. There was considerable work to be done on multiple fronts if he hoped to repair his ailing ship, and of course those tasks had to take top priority. But he couldn't shake the memory of Leia's passionate kiss and those boldly whispered words that had set his blood on fire. Nor could he quell the stubborn hope that flared anew in his heart, that somehow—he had no idea how—their faltering relationship might be set back on course. Nothing would change his firm decision to leave her behind under the relative protection of the Fleet when he went to deal with Jabba, but in the wake of that kiss he found himself wondering if this unexpected detour might give them a chance to regain some of the ground they'd lost in the weeks following Ord Mantell. If only he could tell her….
—Tell her what, Solo?
Han grimaced as his mind veered sharply away from the tender topic and all the complications it entailed. He found himself glancing around the cockpit at the flickers and flashes of various warning indicators that lit up the dash, the twinkling lights of the side panels and all the overhead displays. Ruefully, he had to acknowledge that the inside of his head had gone just about as haywire as the systems on his ship.
But he had stewed over the matter long enough.
Heaving a weary sigh, he gripped the arms of the pilot's chair and then pushed himself to his feet. The computers hadn't yet finished their deeper scans, but he'd seen enough to know that they weren't out of danger yet. Now was not the time to sit around contemplating the sorry state of his love life. Striving to put the princess firmly out of his mind, he headed off to the aft engineering bay to rejoin Chewie and get back to work.