Companion piece to my one-shot "Sweetheart." Rape/non-con warning for the subtext.

Asking

"…Does it spark your imagination to think of Han asking to kiss Leia?"

There was a time when she would've declined the invitation with a cool "I don't much enjoy parties," and even now she could still feel that response rolling through her body – her shoulders easing back, her chin tilting up, her eyebrows rising just a tinge in that luxurious skeptical way that commands attention. Collected, mild, just the tiniest bit superior. And she did almost always decline – she didn't much love staying sober while others were drunk, and she liked even less the prospect of losing control of herself in front of the recruits. And if they weren't drunk, they were exceedingly awkward around her, which she understood. She wouldn't know what to say to herself, either.

But now she found herself shaken, made uneasy and too vulnerable by the long, dark months on this freezing planet, the increasingly grim situation with the Alliance's resources, the ache of loneliness and cold that permeated into every interaction – no one wanting to spend too long in any one place, lest they become frozen there. She was off her game; her tone in briefings was less removed sophistication and more barking, her barbs with Han not so much clever as flustered and nasty. Her cuticles bleeding, her hair all split ends.

So, when Luke invited her to the latest base social event – he always invited her, even though she always declined – all she'd been able to say was some lame excuse about working late. Which meant she actually had to work late, because she wouldn't be caught in a lie. Which meant she was spending her night here in this office of empty terminals, the bright blue light on her face, her eyes tired and numb. She was sitting still long enough that the motion-activated lights had clicked off some time ago, but still she peered at the unforgiving screen.

The days were slipping together, here. Mess had been serving the same food for a few days now, which not only hurt morale but also made each day evermore indistinguishable. She wore the same uniform, did her hair the same way. Could only really measure time by the shrinking nub of her crappy liner pencil, the prickle of hair on her legs. It felt like it had been years. It couldn't possibly have been years. But it had been, hadn't it?

Suddenly, there was a hand reaching out beside hers, holding a cup – she lurched back, almost falling out of her seat, and yelped, triggering the lights and almost blinding herself as a result.

"Easy, sweetheart," Han said lightly, his eyebrows high.

"You cannot do that," she hissed, her eyes struggling to adjust. "You absolutely cannot scare me like that."

"I thought you heard me," he said seriously. "M'sorry."

"It's fine," she said tightly, trying to ease the rigidity out of her body.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine, Han." She looked up at him, frowning. "What are you doing here?"

"Brought you a cup of wine," he said, shifting uncomfortably. "Since you skipped the festivities."

"Have you been drinking?" It slipped out of her mouth suddenly from some buried place, the same place that had made her rigid moments ago.

He frowned slightly. "Sort of a weird question to ask, but no. Not my crowd."

"Ha. Me neither."

"What, you kidding? This is your rebellion, these are your people."

"Not my peers. And I don't like parties much anyway."

"Yeah. Me neither." He shifted again. "Mind if I sit? Not pulling you from anything important, am I?"

She exhaled heavily and pulled the rolling seat from the next terminal, offering it to him, before taking the cup. "No." He sat, still peering at her, while she looked into the cup, her thoughts drifting.

They were silent for a long time, and then he said, "You're not gonna demand to know why I followed you up here…?"

She looked up at him, startled. "Oh, I––"

"Or drink that?"

She bit her lip. "Do you want it? You could have it."

"Something on your mind, princess?"

"No. I… no." She tried to will herself to say something clever, something harsh even, but nothing would come.

"As long as I've known you, don't think I've ever seen you at a loss for words."

She gave him a tiny smile. "Oh, you've known me that long, huh?"

"S'been a couple years now, hasn't it?"

"I suppose it has been."

They sat in silence for a bit again, her swirling the cup idly, still enough that the lights went out again.

"Can you stand up?" she asked mildly.

"'Scuse me?"

"I can't set it off by standing, I'm too short. Can you stand up?"

He laughed, stood up briefly, and the lights returned. "So, do you spend a lot of time sitting alone in the dark, or…?"

"When it suits me," she said.

"It does. But the lights do, too."

"Do what?"

He looked at her, not teasing or flirtatious or wicked – genuine, calm. "Suit you."

She flushed, turning her eyes away. "Han."

"What?"

She shook her head wordlessly, touching the pieces of hair that had fallen from her braid.

"Not too talkative tonight, are ya?"

"Han, why are you here?"

"Thought you might like company."

"Han."

He shrugged, looking away. "I know you get in a sort of shitty place whenever this kind of stuff is happening, so I figured…"

"You know everything about me, then?"

"Not everything."

"You know how to set me off, you know what makes me feel 'shitty'––" She felt herself flushing with something like anger, something like humiliation.

"I know that you've been like a zombie for the past few weeks, and that Luke says you're never at meals – but no, princess, I don't know everything about you. And you make sure of that."

She rolled her eyes. "Because you wear your heart on your sleeve."

"Didn't say I did. I'm right though, aren't I? About you wantin' company."

"Yes. You're right."

"Good. Now. Go ahead and drink that, alright? You can relax for one night."

She raised her eyebrows, feeling confidence surge back into her features. "Are you trying to get me drunk, Captain?"

He snorted. "You would be the type to get drunk off of one drink."

She sipped lightly, ignoring the comment. "Thank you. This was – kind."

"Not so bad one-on-one, am I?"

"Am I?" she asked, half-serious.

"Not bad at all." He touched her knee, just barely, his posture suddenly serious. "I'm sorry you've been having a rough time of it lately, Leia."

She tried to ignore the way his use of her name made her feel – like butter, like a rare warm day, like herself. "It's nothing, I'm fine."

"It isn't nothing, and you aren't fine. Just." He caught her eye carefully. "It's okay, alright?"

She looked away. "Who is this tender Han Solo – where did he come from?"

"Tender, huh?"

"You're being very kind," she murmured.

"Not very kind. Just observant."

"No. Kind." She sighed softly. "For checking on me, coming after me. Thinking of me. For. Everything."

"Everything, you say?" he said, teasing softly.

"Brightening my grim plight of an existence," she quipped. "You are kind. You think you aren't, or rather you like to pretend that you aren't, but you are."

"You know everything about me, then?" he echoed quietly, teasing.

"I know enough."

He was very close to her then, his eyes bright and engaged, not mischievous or wry. "Enough to what?"

"To know you're worth spending time with, I suppose," she murmured.

He gave her a crooked smile. "Well. You are too. Worth three years at least, you could say."

"At least?" Her voice trembled only the slightest bit. How much longer will you be here, Han? How much longer will you stick around? And what will happen to me – not if you leave, even, but if you stay?

"Mm. Mhm." He leaned just a tad closer, tucked a piece of her hand behind her ear, and she felt her heart pick up even greater speed. What if you leave, what if you stay, what if you leave, what if you stay? "Leia?" he said softly, looking at her intently.

She bit her lip, looking at him with wide eyes: what if you leave, what if you stay, what if you leave, what if you––

"Leia, can I kiss you?"

She felt weightless, she felt bloodless, she felt so happy and so, so unhappy and––

"Oh, Han," she whispered. "Why did you have to ask?"

His voice was lower, more masculine than she'd ever heard it, and she felt her stomach surge. "Sweetheart––"

"If you hadn't asked I – but I can't – no, Han."

"But––"

"If it had just happened? Had been something that happened, if I hadn't had time to think, I would've – I can't––"

"I just…" he said in that same voice, touching her hair just barely, "I didn't want to spook you."

"Spook me?"

He gave an uneasy, sympathetic half-laugh. "'Cause I know a lot about you, remember?"

She felt her whole body surge with overwhelming sadness and relief and warmth and anxiety – had forgotten about her nasty, hissed confession to him just hours after they met, when she'd torn into him for calling her sweetheart. Had forgotten she told him that awful thing while deliriously tired and devastated, the thing so awful she shut down whenever thinking about it, the thing nobody knew except for medical and, apparently him. The thing he'd never forgotten, apparently, even though he'd never said a word. Or looked at her like she was pathetic, or fucked up, or unfortunate–– "Oh, Han."

She felt her head nod forward uncontrollably, resting the top of her head on his chest. He was incredibly still, as though he was trying not to move – as though shifting just slightly would make her catch herself and jerk away. After a moment, he put one arm gently around her waist, his other hand patting, then petting, her back.

She wasn't crying, or shaking. She wasn't even sad. She was just – tired. So, so…

"I could fall asleep like this," she whispered in spite of herself.

He laughed quietly, and she could feel the vibration of that laugh. "Not like I have anywhere to be."

"Mm." She moved just the teensiest bit closer and closed her eyes.

He stroked her hair lightly, his breathing slow – she could guess the expression on his face. Stoic, restrained, unreadable. Looking straight ahead. But she could read him. He was right, she knew him, just like he knew her. She did.

"Han?" she murmured.

"Yeah, princess?"

"Thank you," she said quietly. He knew her. She knew him. Something like lovers, something like friends. Everything blurred together here, the way you couldn't tell the snowy landscape from the snowy sky. "For asking."