Thawing Out
It started as a private joke almost a standard year ago, just weeks after they set up operation on the ice ball known as Hoth.
Like the relentless snow, Han drifted into her office after a bitter afternoon recon patrol, a musky whiff of damp tauntaun clinging to his cold weather gear. He reached into his pocket then wordlessly placed a small jar on her desk, the upside down lid serving as its base. Sparkling specks of white and silver suspended in liquid created a miniature snowstorm within the glass vessel.
She recognized his bold block lettering along the bottom edge, dark ink spelling out the single-syllable identifier: Hoth. He sauntered out the door, pleased to hear the musical sound of Leia Organa's laughter following him.
The Hoth globe was a permanent fixture on a corner of Leia's desk, explained away to inquiring visitors to her office as a joke from the rank and file. On more than a rare occasion, she'd find it in her hands, having absent-mindedly picked it up, the glitter within swirling as she contemplated its creator.
A snowstorm in jar. A perfect metaphor, she thought, for the bearer of the gift. Ironic and funny. Roughhewn but gorgeous. Inexpensive yet classic. Unpredictable but often calming. And, the source of a growing flurry of emotions Leia worked overtime to tamp down.
Han worked overtime, too, punching the clock with a steady, workman-like effort to get her to the place where he hoped that she, willingly, would meet him - even ground on which to build a relationship based on friendship and laughter and sex and things he didn't even know that he needed but reckoned he would want with her. Han simply knew that he wanted to be with her and wanted her to want it, too.
He couldn't find the words so he took on missions for her cause and brought things back for her. Nothing over-the-top or too personal. Simple items that felt like treasures on the brutal remoteness of Hoth. Fresh fruit and hard-to-find sweets. A decent bottle of wine. (She'd discovered he had a surprisingly sophisticated palette for someone who preferred grain rather than fruit-based libation.) Hair pins and elastics that she'd discover in the Falcon's fresher waiting for her use during her trips onboard. Gourmet tea or the latest fashion or outdated news holozines. (She'd smiled at the thought of him buying copies of Galaxy Fashion or Style Today from some grimy starport newsstand. Knew he wouldn't be embarrassed to do so and, if taunted by a sarcastic vendor, would be more than ready to fire back a smart ass retort.)
These presents were always delivered with discretion, downplayed with a simple, "Hey, Princess. Looky what I found the other day…."
When Han could find them, the gifts came with a bonus: a cheap, fake snow-filled paperweight. The ubiquitous souvenir represented his runs to Chandrilla, Sexton V, Lasos, the Moon of Krexin and so many more. Once, to his great delight, he scored a Corellia Dreadnaughts' logoed version. Chewie would bitch about the time he wasted scouring the portside shops and fuel station minimarts to seek out the silly item.
Now numbering in the dozens, the growing collection of galaxy-wide travel trinkets were housed on a shelf in her private quarters where no visitors could question their source or meaning.
Real, fresh food was prized in the freeze-dried, ration-filled world of Hoth. That morning, the Falcon returned loaded with enough cases of questionably obtained nerfburgers and fixings for the entire base population. The delectable bounty instigated an impromptu party that Wedge Antilles dubbed "The Ice Picnic." Rogue Squadron pilots flipped burgers and manned bars that seemed to magically appear in the Mess Hall. Music blared on the com system and dancing, drinking games, and tellings of tall tales ensued as a much needed, morale-building holiday atmosphere enveloped Echo Base.
Leia sidled up next to Han. He had been leaning against a wall, sipping a bottle of ale and chatting with Dyson Tont who worked the flight control tower. She waited to speak to him after Tont made his farewells, carrying with him a mess hall tray piled high with burgers for the on-duty tower crew.
"I suppose I don't want to know how you," she cleared her throat for emphasis, "procured this latest shipment?"
Her query was met with a slow grin. "Ahhhh….a great 'procurer' never spills his secrets, Sweetheart."
He passed her the bottle and she took a small sip, wincing slightly at the strong hoppy flavor. "Let's just say there's a summer camp full of Imperial officers' brats who'll be wonderin' why there ain't any nerfburgers served up during their fireside singalong tomorrow tonight."
A short, tinkling laugh escaped her as she handed him back the bottle. "This," she waved her hand toward the room filled with partying Rebels, "is the best gift ever." Deep brown eyes locked on golden green as she reached over and took his free hand, giving it a warm squeeze.
Han smiled down at her, squeezed back and, gentle-like, replied, "Your welcome, Leia." He kept her hand in his for a few beats before releasing it.
They stood together in silence for a few moments watching self-appointed DJ Wes Janson take song requests from the revele
"Couldn't find a globe on Draxar," he intoned, nonchalantly.
"I suppose they're not always available." Leia lightly touched his arm to be sure of his attention and softly added, "They're highly prized, you know."
The corner of his mouth turned up with that. "Got somethin' better. S'on the Falcon." He caught her eye and held it, seeing her hesitation, added, "Really. No funny stuff. Can't bring it to you. Gotta go to it."
Leia's lower lip curled beneath her teeth, considering the invitation as she looked around the room at the partying Rebels whose rare respite from the day-to-day drudgery was the result of Han's thoughtful thievery. "Okay," she nodded and they made their way to the hangar.
Once aboard the ship, he directed her to the cockpit where he began flipping on the systems, pointed to the co-pilot seat. "Strap in, Sweetheart."
"We can't just leave base! Han? Where are we…"
He held up a finger as a signal to quiet her. "Trust me," he calmly replied, hitting the com button to signal the tower, "Millennium Falcon to Tower."
"Tower to Falcon," a burger-filled mouth mumbled back. Dyson.
"Hey, Dyson, can you open the south bay doors and give the Falcon clearance? Be back in an hour or so."
"Roger, that. South bay opening. You're clear to go, Han. Burgers are great, by the way. Com when you're heading back and we'll open her up for you."
"Roger, Dys. Thanks and go easy on the grub. Don't want you chokin' before you let us back in from the cold."
With that, the Falcon sailed out into the bitter cold, dark skies landing within moments on a flat, icy mesa overlooking Hoth's vast frozen landscape.
Han dimmed all lights, running only the cabin heat and windshield defrost cycles. Within seconds the frosting view screen cleared to reveal Hoth's snowscaped beauty and the diamond-dappled snowflakes floating through the star-filled cobalt sky.
Leia was transfixed by the scene until Han's deep voice broke the quiet, nodding at the view.
"Your snow globe, Princess. Hoth at Night."
Gracefully she disengaged from the co-pilot seat and approached him, settling onto his lap. Leia wrapped an arm around his neck and rested her head against his shoulder. They held each other in silence, free hands linked, content to watch the snowy show together, each contemplating how to navigate this new peace they seemed to have found in their stormy relationship.
END