by suezahn
Disclaimer: All characters depicted herein are the property of Lucasfilm, Disney, etc. My only profit is in the form of readers' feedback. Please be generous!
Note: This story was originally written in 1994 and has now be revised and updated for consistency with the rest of the Kismet Series. A very special thank-you to my lovely proofreaders: Erin Darroch and Marjorie Joyce.
Original version won STAR aWARdS Best Short Story 1994.
"What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?"
—Vincent Van Gogh
If there was one thing Princess Leia Organa hated, even more than the Empire and all its minions, it was feeling useless. Hence her mood.
Leia felt her tolerance level shrink in frightening proportions as she worked her way through the busy, narrow corridors inside the main Command Center installation of the new Rebel base on Serricci. Often, in the course of her walk, she was forced to make way for hurrying personnel toting a wide variety of equipment and supplies. It appeared like a well-rehearsed deployment. Though rushed, their pace was far from frantic. Any uncertainty that might have overshadowed the relocation of a base had seemingly been forgotten in the elation of an enormously important victory over the Empire. Several planetary days had passed since the climactic destruction of the Empire's most lethal weapon to date, the Death Star. The news and political shockwaves from that Rebel victory, and Imperial defeat, were still rippling throughout the galaxy. Soon enough, the Emperor would send out his stormtroopers to seek retribution. But for the time being, the backwash and subsequent disorder among the Imperial higher ranks were allowing the Alliance a brief period in which to relocate in an orderly fashion. Morale was at its peak; mixed in with the noise of shuffling feet; storage crates being sealed, unpacked, and their contents distributed; and orders shouted, one could hear the sounds of laughter and animated conversations. Even so, each able body was focused on getting the base up and running as quickly as possible. Each able body, that was, except for the last princess of Alderaan. Everyone had a task to see to, a responsibility to uphold. Except for Leia.
For whatever reason, her name had not appeared on the new roster of duties. Thus forced to watch as the new installation around her buzzed with activity, Leia had reached the maddening conclusion that the Alliance generals themselves, out of some misplaced sense of paternalism or sympathy, had tacitly agreed to neglect assigning her duties. As if she had served her usefulness to the Rebellion by simply surviving to become their living icon. As if she had no further skills to lend now that she was effectively exiled from public and political circulation. As if she were a child.
The only thing Leia hated more than feeling useless was to be patronized into being useless. Granted, it was a feeling she had rarely experienced until now. In addition to having been a member of an influential monarchy, she had worked hard to become a newly appointed senator in the just-disbanded Senate, as well as a secret mover within the political realms of the Rebellion. In that sense, she was neither accustomed to nor tolerant of being pampered. For this reason, she was making her way, however slowly considering the clogged hallways, towards the Command Center's War Room. She had every intention of telling the well-meaning generals exactly what she thought about being coddled.
Of course she mourned Alderaan. Of course she hadn't slept at night—how could she when ghostly voices of loved ones infused her thoughts whenever she had a quiet moment? Work was exactly what she needed most to help take her mind off the pain. Did the High Command think her incapacitated with grief, or that she should be? If anything, the unfathomable loss had strengthened her determination to see the end of the Empire; the deaths of her family, her people, and her world would not be in vain.
The more she walked, the more she noticed how, after warm words of greetings or a slight bow of respectful acknowledgment, the soldiers and staff returned to their tasks, for all practical purposes ignoring her. A pedestrian to be maneuvered around. An obstacle.
Leia stopped, finding herself within the threshold of the War Room. However, with her destination within sight, the various staff and troops still busy with assembling all the communications and tactical equipment, she felt her desire for a confrontation fade. After all, stomping in and demanding to know why they were treating her like a child would only confirm any suspicions that she was in need of rest. Better to let this particular incident pass. Perhaps wait until they had finished setup and begun operations out of this new base before stating what she was capable of doing. If necessary, she would then tell them what they could do with their ideas of setting her on some pedestal for the oppressed of the Empire to feel sorry for.
With a resigned sigh, Leia turned around and headed back through the hallways and out into the sticky humidity of the Serriccian jungle at mid-day. The Command Center was one of several low pre-fab buildings lining both sides of a paved thoroughfare that led to clusters of circular clearings in the surrounding clearings where groups of fighters, transports, and other parked starships were hidden.
The main road was still cluttered with an odd mixture of storage crates of varying sizes, flight personnel, deck crew members. In one of the closest clearings, she could see where one scarred and distinctively shaped freighter of Corellian make and questionable stability rested.
Despite her black mood, or maybe because of it, she could not stop a little smile from forming upon seeing that rattletrap of a spacecraft. The Millennium Falcon's looks were misleading, Leia grudgingly admitted to herself. She was still alive—the Rebel Alliance was still alive!—due in part to the Falcon's hidden abilities and the talents of her captain. Han Solo might have proven himself to be insufferably smug, inexcusably insubordinate, and generally irritable, but as a pilot and hired gun, he was good. Damned good. And he had yet to ignore her.
Goddess, am I that desperate?
The Millennium Falcon seemed to beckon to her, an island of possibilities amongst the hustle of the flight line. A mixed assembly of metallic packing crates was still stacked haphazardly around the entrance ramp and lowered forward freight elevator, awaiting the deckhands to inventory their contents before unpacking. Underneath the shadow of the freighter's flank stood Han Solo, in the middle of what appeared to be a very expressive conversation with his Wookiee copilot.
Argument, Leia amended as she watched Chewbacca throw both his hairy arms into the air in frustration, roar loud enough to cause deckhands and troopers to halt their work in startled fear, then turn and trudge up the entrance ramp to disappear into the freighter. Solo bent over and picked up a metal tray full of tools, then placed it on top of a nearby waist-high storage crate, appropriating it as a workbench. Chewbacca reappeared, a micro-fusing unit under one arm and what appeared to be a blackened electronics panel under the other. He strode up to the makeshift desk and, resuming his angry tirade of barks, set the panel down, and plopped the micro-fuser next to it. With a final resounding hoot, he returned inside the ship.
Still unsure of her next course of action, Leia glanced down the other direction of the flight line to the clearing where the two remaining X-wings of Red Flight were assigned, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Luke Skywalker, a much more appealing option, but his ship was currently on the constant, rotating patrols he and Wedge Antillies were flying until a new supplement of ships and pilots could arrive. She had only known Luke for a couple of days, no longer than the Corellian smuggler, and yet she felt as if she already knew him on a much deeper level—his open-mindedness, his comfortable presence, his steadfast determination, and, most of all, his predictability.
Leia looked back toward the tall smuggler. Solo was clad in a simple white shirt and he'd long ago lost his black utility vest to the tropical heat. His dark blue military-cut trousers, with Corellian-style striped piping down the outside seams, were tucked into shined black boots, and he sported that low-slung, custom-made blaster rig as if it were a natural appendage. He cut a rather striking figure that almost demanded her attention. He was so…unlike Luke.
Han seemed to sense her stare, for he looked up from his work, then turned sharply to zero in on her. For what grew into an immeasurable instant, they locked gazes. Then he flashed a grin and made a half-serious attempt at a military salute before turning away, resuming his work.
Princess Leia blinked as the surge of unanticipated electricity that had nailed her to the paved roadway during the smuggler's stare expended itself. Curiosity, embarrassment, and a touch of anger replaced it. She supposed that she looked rather lost standing in the middle of the flight line. Drawing a breath in preparation, Leia set a course for the Corellian. If nothing else, she could exercise her recruitment efforts once again; the Alliance was going to get her help, whether they wanted it or not.
Han had known something was up from the moment he'd sensed her standing in the road looking around. Once again he was surprised by her physical appearance; she looked so different from the elegance of the award ceremony the other night, or the traditional Alderaani senatorial gown she was still wearing when they had first met, back on the now-atomized Death Star. Instead she was wearing a very simple pair of tan Alliance-issued fatigues, a size or two too big, and her hair was pulled back a bit too severely into a carefully wound coil of braids. She looked like she belonged more in the greasy service pit of the Falcon rather than some royal court. She looked ready for business.
What kind of princess is this, anyway?
Solo had a moment to contemplate that question before she appeared directly across from him, alternately eyeing him and the burnt-out electronic panel between them. "Your Highness," he ventured.
Even though the title he'd used was appropriate, Solo still seemed to imbue it with a hint of insolence; at least he was proving predictable in one respect—that being a lack of respect. Leia felt his gaze roving over her body and tried not to be self-conscious. "Having trouble this morning?"
"Ah, Chewie's in one of his moods." Han made a deprecating gesture towards the overshadowing hull of the freighter above them and, by implication, his currently defenseless copilot. "Good help's hard to find."
"Indeed."
Solo's hazel eyes narrowed as he easily interpreted her subtle jab at his continued refusal to officially sign up. Every instinct told him that if he responded to such bait, he would be letting himself in for what he already referred to as The Battle Royal. Instead, he simply returned her gaze.
As soon as the princess realized that Solo intended to do nothing more than stare, an unnerving response by itself, she attempted another tactic. "I see they've unloaded your ship."
Solo made a grunt of acknowledgment, then returned the majority of his attention to the blackened electronics board before him. "Almost. The forward freight lift access panel took a hit during the battle and it keeps shorting out."
Solo rummaged through his collection of tools, found a fine-pointed chrome pick, and began to carefully scrape away carbon scoring from around the tiny conduits and conductors. "How are you?" he asked by way of small talk as he scraped a little more carbonized metal away, but then he paused to look up when he heard no response.
Upon closer inspection, he could detect the face makeup she'd used in an effort to hide the telltales of a sleepless night. She appeared to be debating whether or not to answer his inquiry, as if unsure of his intentions. Well, he would put her fears to rest on that point; he could be irreverent and sarcastic, but he would never poke fun at the events surrounding the demise of an entire world or her emotions relating to the event. Acquainted with loss, he softened his tone. "Seriously. You okay?"
Leia nodded, remaining silent, not taking her eyes away from his until she became uncomfortable with their rather intimate study of one another. He'd already caught her in a couple of weak moments over the past couple of days and she was painfully reminded of the fact.
When the princess finally glanced away, Han did as well, returning to his work. "Good," he said quietly.
Solo seemed content to leave his questioning at that. Feeling grateful for his not showering pity on her like everyone else seemed to want to do since her rescue, Leia tried to sound casual as she peered a little closer at the damaged panel between them. "How are your repairs coming?"
"Okay, considering. Sure could use a bigger crew right now, though."
Leia gave a single nod and watched as Solo laid aside the delicate instrument he was using and picked up the set of shielding microscopes draped over the micro-fusing unit. He donned the protective goggles, shoving the scopes into their upright position. Drawing a thin cable from the side of the unit and, using the clamp at its end, he attached it to the near corner of the electronic panel. He then picked up the stylus-shaped micro-fuser in his right hand, nodded his head hard, and the 'scopes snapped back down into place with a little audible click. It took him only a few seconds to gain his bearings with the magnified vision before he set about bonding metal to metal, the fizz and crackle of superheated fusion echoing through the surrounding area of the hangar.
Leia reflexively blinked as the brilliant light flared, then squinted as she watched the blue–white flash of the welding etch shadows across the spacer's face, giving it an almost gunmetal sheen as if sculptured rather than live flesh. The visual made her breath catch in her throat as the blue light suddenly flashed red–orange in her mind and she experienced the distinct, chilling feeling that she had seen such a face before.
With one last sizzling pop, Solo broke the weld and then stepped back as he shoved the hinged, awkward goggles above his forehead and set aside the micro-fuser. With a sigh, he began: "Chewie won't even—" He stopped mid-sentence upon seeing her face. The Princess looked like she'd just seen a Rancor up close.
Leia shook her head, dislodging the haunting image, and avoided Solo's eyes. "I'm sorry. What were you saying?"
What the hell? Then Han shrugged the feeling away, forcibly ignoring the raised hair on the back of his neck. She was under unimaginable stress, Alderaan and Imperial detainment and everything else; it was no mystery if she was acting a little wonky. Hell, he was surprised she wasn't still curled up in a corner in the forward hold of his ship, where she'd spent most of their hyperjump trip from Yavin IV. He had to respect the kind of strength that kept her upright and still functioning. "I was saying that Chewie hates doing this little stuff, but that's where we sustained most of the damage."
"I see."
"I'm not crazy about it, either. Time-consuming, you know?" Han turned the panel, studying it carefully. Then he looked back up at the princess, experiencing his own little flash of insight. Leia's effort to remain inconspicuous and yet involved was just short of blatant to someone who'd developed loitering into an art form. He knew her type—if she'd had any type of pressing matter to discuss with him, she would have done it by now. A teasing grin finally inflected his tone as he offhandedly commented, "What's the matter? They forget to give you something to do?"
Caught off guard, Leia debated whether to be angry by his insinuation—no matter how accurate—or continue with their more open discussion. She settled for halfway. "They must believe that everything is already in good hands."
Solo snorted in undiluted disdain, unimpressed. "These the same ones who decided to wait with the evacuation until after we had an award ceremony to celebrate?"
"It would appear to be that way," Leia answered, feeling no compunction, on the other hand, to defend those same generals who'd ignored her usefulness. It was the least she could do, really.
Solo rested his right elbow on the makeshift workbench and, unmindful of the black grime on his hands, rubbed a knuckle against his cheek in thought. "You're looking for something to do."
Leia had trouble drawing her eyes away from the streak of black grease left behind on his cheek. And that scar on his chin was intriguing. "Well, I was—"
"How are you with a micro-fuser?"
"I don't know, but if you're doing it, how hard could it be?"
Solo's eyebrows rose in genuine surprise at her teasing response, and he had to throttle back the first answer that came to his head. She actually sounded willing to give it a try, which was more than he had expected from such a proposition, and his estimation of her inched up a bit further. He reached up and removed the micro-optics headset. "There's only one way to find out, Sweetheart."
Leia could not decide which disturbed her more—the too-familiar moniker or the suddenness with which she found herself in unfamiliar territory. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Solo explained slowly as he stepped away from the stack of crates and indicated with a wave of his hand that she should take his place, "I'll teach you how to use a micro-fuser."
"But I…." Leia glanced back down the flight line in hesitation, half-expecting the entire Alliance High Command to be standing there, shaking their graying heads in disapproval. "I should probably…."
Solo tempered his brief flair of excitement, seeing that she might still back out. "You're going to get your hands dirty, Your Worship, if that's what you're afraid of."
Leia's eyes snapped back to meet his, a spark of anger and mischief now present in them.
"Captain Solo, you should seriously reassess your priorities."
Han was pleased to see they were synchronized in thought. "In other words, what's a little dirt?"
"You could say that."
"I just did."
Leia grimaced and rolled her eyes skyward, or in this case, toward the underside of the Millennium Falcon, asking the gods for forbearance. Whether or not the gods noticed was debatable, but Han did, and he was definitely on his way to a full-blown infatuation; that expression was nothing if not inspiring.
With a final shrug, Leia committed herself to this new course of action and stepped around the stacked shipping crates, accepting the goggles Han handed to her as she passed. She paused long enough to fiddle with the headband adjustment before fitting it over her head. Just when she began to worry about how ridiculous she might appear wearing a set of bug-eyed goggles, Solo stepped up beside her and gently grasped her right hand in his left. He placed the micro-fuser in her hand, then proceeded to shift her curled fingers until they were positioned properly.
Solo pointed to the fine insulated cable clamped to the panel. "That's your grounding line. The first thing you need to do is hook this up to whatever you're working on, so long as it's metal. This button here," he said as he touched her finger that rested over a small stud, "is your feed. When it's activated and the stylus tip touches the same metal that your lead's connected to, the circuit's completed and you'll get an arc. All you need to do is touch or draw where you want a fusion. That's basically it. Real simple, huh?"
Leia was nodding, practically glowing with this new knowledge, no matter how trivial. Someone had found her to be worthy, even if it was a stubborn, conceited smuggler who refused to officially link himself with the Rebellion. "And the macro-fuser?" she prompted. "It works on the same principle, only on a larger scale?"
Solo nearly laughed, finding her mood infectious. "Right. Ready to give it a shot?"
"Yes...but on this? Isn't this panel important?"
Solo shifted around to stand behind her and took hold of her right hand in his own right. With his arm wrapped around her, he watched over her left shoulder and guided her hand over the electronics board. "Don't worry about it. I won't let you do anything the Alliance treasury can't refund or replace."
"That's reassuring," she muttered dryly, trying very hard to ignore his loose embrace and the deep rumble of his voice saying that nickname again as a not entirely unpleasant shiver raced down her spine.
Solo chuckled, tightening his arm around her slightly. "The trick is to rest the tip of the stylus on the spot where you want to start before activating the feed. Then you won't accidentally fry something in the vicinity, and your hand will be steadier so your weld line will be straighter." He reached up with his left hand and lowered the 'scopes over her eyes, adding, "There's a T-shaped conduit, with four current lines leading into its tail and one leading out each arm towards the center. There's nothing else in the neighborhood like it, so…."
"I think I see it. Oh, it's broken free from the mounting."
"Right. You're going to refasten it, then reconnect the leads." Solo paused for a second, then shifted around her as he reached for another tool from the stack of instruments within the tool tray. "Here," he mumbled, pressing it into the palm of her left hand and positioning it correctly since her view was limited by the goggles. "You'll need this to hold that conduit in place while you work with the micro-fuser. Now, go ahead and find your bearings."
Though Leia had found the particular micro-circuit on which she was to work, it was more difficult to adjust to the magnified vision and her now distorted perspective. "Umm, the trick's in figuring out exactly where your hands are."
"That'll come with practice. One hand at a time, left one first to pinpoint your spot…then go ahead and fuse the conduit to its mounting." He released his steadying hold on her hand, but did not pull away, finally taking advantage of his position to appreciate being so close to the princess. Despite the ever-present odors of a fetid jungle, and the lingering acrid smoke of macro-fusers, he could detect the delicate perfume she wore. Stirred, he pulled away a little, unsure of his own reaction. No, that was not quite accurate—he had no doubt about the strong attraction he was feeling toward her at that moment. The mystery was why her. Of all the women he could pick in this bunch of do-gooders, some of whom had openly hinted at being open to a tumble in his bunk, why was it the one woman who presented terms and conditions?
That teasing comment he'd made to Luke after they'd escaped the Death Star, "A princess and a guy like me," suddenly didn't seem like such a crazy idea, although the implications left him unsettled. Lust was a familiar feeling. What wasn't familiar was how he felt whenever he thought of how she looked while wielding a blaster like a Mandalorian mercenary, or when she wore that low-cut gown as she'd draped a medal around his neck in gratitude both personal and official, or now, as she eagerly jumped into his anything-but-regal ship repairs. Lust was threatening to transform into something he had no need or use for. Utterly ridiculous, anyway, since she was still a princess, his desires and her dirty hands and Alderaan's destruction notwithstanding. And what was he? A disowned Corellian, an ex-Imperial naval cadet, a smuggler and space jockey.
Solo reflexively blinked as the princess finally triggered the micro-fuser, and the bright light washed over them, the sharp crackle helping to clear his muddled brain.
When she stopped seconds later, the princess sighed, then shrugged and shoved the goggles up. "Well, it looks okay, but perhaps you should take a look to be sure."
In wordless agreement, Han removed the goggles from her head and held them up to his eyes, leaning forward to study her handiwork. He straightened back up, then handed the goggles back to her. "Whether you like it or not, Sweetheart, you've just found yourself a new vocation. It looks great."
Leia radiated pleasure. "Yes, but does it pay well?"
Solo gave her an overly shocked look. "I thought you said money wasn't everything!"
"That's not what I said. I have no problem with an honestly earned reward. So long as it's not excessive."
"Then you've got nothing to worry about—nobody's getting rich doing this, I can tell you that much." Han leaned forward to rest an elbow on the crate top and studied the rest of the damaged components, then met her dark eyes again. "Listen, I'm serious about the job offer. Those generals may not have a clue, but I do. I could use an extra hand getting this bird back up and flying. As for wages…maybe we could work something out?"
Was that a sexual proposition?! Taken aback, Leia broke eye contact and fidgeted with the goggles in her hands, suddenly acutely aware of the humid heat once again, then shook her head. "I appreciate your confidence in my abilities, Captain, but I should—"
"You know," Solo went on, ignoring her weak protest. "The sooner me and Chewie get this old bucket back in mint condition, the sooner we can start some of those smuggling runs you mentioned yesterday. Like those medical supplies from Findior?" He straightened up again and stepped around to the other side of the stacked crates, idly sifting through the collection of tools in the tray, being none too quiet about it. "I don't trust those service droids the deck officer keeps trying to push off on me, and these repairs could take a while."
Leia regarded Solo as he spread out the various tools on the makeshift table, apparently sorting them according to size, but she knew what he was actually doing. The first rule of negotiations was to know when to stop talking. She glanced down at her hands, now indeed sporting their own traces of black grease and carbonized soot. Then a deeper meaning dawned on her: the dirt was rather symbolic in a way. The reality of the rebellion was grit, and comradeship, and a struggle to keep one step ahead of death. Catchy but empty sound bites and political acrobatics would not win a war, but hard work could; in a very profound way, this little exercise had been her own initiation into the Rebellion proper. She was now an outlaw in the truest sense of the word, just like every other Rebel, or smuggler, and there was no going back. There was nothing to go back to.
She looked back up to find Solo watching her, tools abandoned. Who are you? she wanted to ask. He was obviously no simple freighter bum; he knew the price she'd paid to reach this level of personal commitment. "I'll help you, Han, on one condition: You continue to help us."
Solo's expression turned darker and unreadable for a long moment. Then he shook his head in wonder, the hint of a crooked smirk appearing. "And they call me a mercenary."
That comment made Leia smile. "I wasn't the youngest member of the Imperial Senate for nothing, you know."
"Indeed." Han mimicked, right down to the raised eyebrow and Coruscant accent, the epitome of inflated political importance. See-Threepio would have been impressed.
Not about to let the Corellian get away with that back-handed slap, Leia aimed a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the Falcon. "There's no question that this rusted hulk of yours requires a miracle, but just for the sake of curiosity, what else needs work?"
Han acknowledged her solid touch in their verbal jousting with an amused snort, then pointed to the damaged components between them. "Half that board was blown when those sentry TIE Fighters landed a couple lucky shots during our escape from the Death Star. You've got to track and fix every conduit on there. Think you're up to it?'
"Of course."
"Of course…a princess that knows one end of a blaster from the other, can bargain like a Bothan, programs a navicomputer, and masters a micro-fuser in one try. What else do you do?"
Leia was rescued from having to find a dignified answer to such a leading question by the sudden appearance of Luke Skywalker. She hadn't even noticed his X-wing landing or his approach. He was still dressed in his bright orange flight suit, although it was already opened down the middle in a concession to the heat, and his helmet was tucked under one arm.
"Hi, Han! Princess?" Luke glanced skeptically at the dirty condition of her hands, and her close proximity to his new friend who might yet be a potential rival, unsure of how to interpret what he was witnessing.
"Hey, kid." Solo scooped up the tools that only moments ago he'd made such a show of organizing, and dumped them back into their tray.
"Luke! I was looking for you." Still pleased with her new skill, and with what had to be the most civilized conversation she and Captain Solo had yet shared, Leia waved a greasy hand and beckoned the blond man closer. "I wanted to congratulate you on being named flight leader of Red Flight."
"Thanks, Prin—I mean, Leia." Luke corrected himself with a smile. A great deal of his shyness had already faded since the awards ceremony, when Leia had pulled him off to the side to explain to him that she was only human, and because they had been through some extraordinary events together, she regarded him as a close friend. She had made it very clear that she expected to be treated in the same manner. Luke had taken her words to heart. "I just hope I can live up to their expectations. After all, I'm not a Jedi yet."
"Kid, they wouldn't have given it to you if you were a Jedi."
Leia gave Solo's closest foot an admonishing nudge with her own, then pointed an adamant, grimy finger at Luke. "No one is asking for more than you're willing to give, Luke. As far as I'm concerned, you've already surpassed that. You've earned your advancement, as much as any other flight leader. So," she stated with a tone of finality as she retrieved the micro-scopics, "I don't want to hear another word about expectations."
"That means no more whining," Solo clarified once again.
Leia gave up on subtlety and jabbed an elbow into his side.
"Hey, I'm paid to be precise, not tactful!"
"Indeed!" No one, especially Han Solo, was going to do a pompous politician better than herself if she could help it.
Han failed to stifle his laugh, which Leia discovered was very contagious. She had doubted she would ever laugh again, and yet Solo had just managed to find it within her. Choking back her own snicker, she glanced to Luke, only to find that his expression of bafflement at their interplay was enough to set her off on a new wave of giggles.
"I don't get it," Luke muttered, unsure of whether he was supposed to be laughing as well.
"I don't doubt that, Junior." Solo anticipated the princess's second elbow jab and gracefully avoided it by stepping back around her. As he passed by, he landed a friendly pat on her ass. "I'm making sure Her Highness here earns her keep."
Taken off guard, Leia jerked away and bristled in defense. No one had ever dared touch her like that! She fumbled for words. "Captain Solo, I would hardly—"
"She's not too bad, actually," Solo plowed ahead, tipping his head as if in honest consideration as he confided with Skywalker.
Luke knew better than to respond. His blue eyes simply shifted to witness the expected explosion.
Leia locking a frigid glare on the Corellian. She did not understand him, not a whit! Just when she'd begun to find him tolerable, even interesting, he'd gone and acted like an uncouth scoundrel! She continued to stare at him, half-convincing herself that he might apologize.
Although belatedly realizing that he may have committed a tactical error, Han plunged ahead. "Naturally, she's got lots of potential for improvement."
"You're too kind," Leia responded coldly, forfeiting her last thread of hope for a truce. She set the micro-scopics down. "Thank you for your informative instructions, Captain, but I'm needed elsewhere."
"If you say so, Your Highness." Han bowed ever-so-slightly, then added, "Just remember what I said."
"Have no fear, Captain. I'll see that you receive all the assistance you deserve." Feeling quite livid by this point, she hesitated, her eyes going to their still-silent audience. Luke, I can understand, she concluded with certainty. He wouldn't do an about-face at the speed of light. He wouldn't make her smile one moment and have her fuming the next. "Luke, if you're free, perhaps you would be interested in joining me for dinner tonight?"
Skywalker practically snapped to attention, surprised to realize that she was addressing him. He'd been so fascinated by the strange relationship between the Corellian and the Alderaani. "Oh. Umm. Sure, Leia. I'd be honored!"
"Good." Leia paused a second longer, debating whether to say any more, then changed her mind, turned decisively on her heels, and headed back down the flight line.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Luke glanced at his other new friend, whose eyes were still fastened on the princess as she marched double-time toward the Command Center.
"Huh, that's gratitude," Han mused, shaking his head. "I teach her a new skill, and she invites you to dinner."
Luke shrugged. "Maybe it's your technique," he suggested, trying not to gloat but enjoying a little retribution for all the naiveté gibes he'd been suffering from the smuggler. "Considering she—erk!"
Luke had turned to join Solo in watching the princess walk away, and instantly spotted the huge, finger-splayed handprint that graced her behind; the black smudge stood out like a suggestive beacon against the tan of her trousers. Luke looked on in morbid fascination as one after another of the deck crew along her path halted in their work. The loud, resonating clatter of dropped tools hitting the pavement followed in her wake.
Luke eventually turned back to Solo, his eyes widened in disbelief. "One war at a time isn't enough?"
An easy grin still graced Solo's face as he continued to appreciate his living finger painting. Then he shrugged. "How are you with a micro-fuser?"