A/N: This is a short vig, which is kind of a sequel to 'Not Forgotten', to keep you going because I have no time to write right now. I'm letting you know that I haven't forgotten my other stories, but they may be a while in being updated. xx FoH.
--
Han Solo wrung his hands and stared at the chrono. What in hell was he supposed to say to her? All he said so far was 'hi' and then promptly fainted.
Real suave, Solo.
The next thing he knew, he'd woken up on his bunk on the Falcon, still dressed, without her there. So Chewie had tried to help him out by feeding him, but that had ended in absolute disaster. It seemed he couldn't even keep water down.
It had felt like a lifetime. No, it had felt like an eternity. All of it spent in agony and darkness, all of it wondering where they were, where he was and how long he had been there.
Six months.
That was what Chewie'd said, wasn't it? But he must be wrong. It couldn't've been six months. But, Han mused, it certainly felt a lot longer.
He shivered involuntarily at the memory. For that was what had woken him. And the cabin lights had been out when he awoke. Now That had been scary.
For one, horrifying moment, he thought that it had all been a dream, that he was still trapped, that he was still a grotesque trophy on a slimeball's wall. But Chewie must have heard him. For Chewie came to him, even as he cried out hoarsely and had held him while he brought up bile and hard lumps of carbonite that had formed in his stomach from the toxins that had leaked into his bloodstream. He didn't like that idea one bit. Chemicals pervading his skin and seeping into his blood, freezing him from the inside out, poisoning him with-
Stop it. You're safe now.
He knew it, but it didn't make it any easier to accept.
And now she was coming. She was about to come to him and talk to him and he had no idea whatsoever about what he should say to her. He had been gone for six months. And so much had changed. Even though his sight kept fading in and out, he could tell that much.
For all he knew, she had moved on. There was someone else. That had been why he said what he'd said. For he had no idea if she'd find him. No idea whether she'd ever see him again. He had thought he was going to die, and he didn't want her to throw her life away looking for someone she would never find.
But she had found him. She'd come for him. He was alive and he had her to thank.
But was she just searching for a lost friend?
She and Luke had seemed awfully close for the few minutes he'd be conscious. Awfully close.
He looked at the chrono again.
Dammit. If she were true to her word, and he knew she always was, unless that too had changed, then she would be here in less than ten minutes.
Kest, I must look a mess!
He staggered unsteadily to his feet a lurched toward the fresher, taking a clean set of clothes with him.
Leia couldn't accept what was going on around her. For six months she had waited. Six months she had hoped and prayed, and, with each passing day, it seemed less and less likely that she would ever find him.
She had played every conversation they had ever had over ad over in her mind over the past six months, and it had been hell. She had wanted to take back all the horrible things she had ever said to him, wanted to go back and kiss it all better. Kiss him all better. But maybe she would get the chance…
For now – now – he was back! Alive! Recovering!
A lot had changed in the past six months. Leia had very nearly given up the will to fight. Only the awful nightmares she'd been victim to had fuelled her lust for the search. She dreamed at night that she could hear him screaming, on the scan grid perhaps? Or just in that awful place between life and death where he hung helpless in suffocating darkness.
Whatever it was, she knew she had to find him, find him and get him out of there before he went mad. He had been close to insanity more than once. She had felt it. But she was sure her voice, as she called to him in those dreams, must have reached him.
There were so many nights she had woken up alone, drenched in sweat, catching herself before she called his name. Once she had forgotten. She had woken, called for him, searched for his warmth. But she had found herself alone, so alone. And she had cried into his pillow. She hadn't even washed the covers for those first few weeks, often wearing one of his shirts around the ship. His wardrobe was full of clothes and, if she rationed them, she had learned, they would last for a long time. But, as time had gone by, they had all been cleaned, run through the cycle, and scoured of any trace of him.
Sometimes, when she was alone, she would run her fingers over her own lips, press a little harder and close her eyes and, just for a moment, he would be there. It would be his hands on her face, caressing her body as she had known for too long that he wanted to.
But then she would wake. And then she was alone again.
She hadn't worn clothes in Han's bed as she'd slept there, for these were the sheets on which Han Solo slept, this mattress, his mattress. Some part of him must remain there.
And she wanted to feel if there was something to feel, touch if there was something to touch. She didn't want whatever remained of him to be lost on meaningless material. If she slept without those garments, then she was just that little bit closer to him, he wasn't so far out of reach.
She could forgive him for that almost arrogant reply on Bespin, for she had come to understand what he meant by it. He hadn't meant it as a comment to brush her off. He had meant it as a solemn statement. Those two words meant that all those arguments they'd shared, all the exasperation they'd caused each other, all the anger they'd harbored, had all been meaningless to him. He knew, without being told, that she loved him, he knew, without needing to hear it, that she always would. And she remembered seeing in his eyes as the platform descended, everything she needed to see, everything he needed to tell her but hadn't been able to. She had seen the terror and the anguish, the fear for her and his friends, the anger towards the one who would do this to them.
But she had seen, too, the words he could not say to her. For he knew – she had seen it as he looked at her for what, for all they knew, could have been the last time – that if he told her, if he confirmed what she already knew, and they were then never again to find each other, that her life would have ended in that chamber. The words echoed in her memory.
'I know.'
He had given her the chance to move on, to forget him. To get on with her life and win this war for people like him, who were giving their life as innocents to an evil greater was possible to conceive.
She remembered his face, frozen into a grimace, and she always would, for it was burned into her memory. The expression of agony, the failed attempt to instinctively protect himself as the freezing process began. That face would haunt her for years to come.
But now, now she was going to see him as a man once more, not a plaque. Nor a trophy. This man, the man she loved.
But so much had changed. Would he still want her? Had the ordeal changed him? Perhaps he would want nothing more to do with them. Perhaps he would say his thanks and be on his way. Or maybe he would have considered his feelings in all that long time and decided she wasn't worth it.
As the Falcon hove into view, she looked down at herself and straightened the creases in her trousers. Whatever happened, she wanted to look nice.
He heard her steps on the deck as she approached his cabin and he tried to appear casual. But he felt anything but. Perched on the end of his bed, he had lost his white shirt in favor of a tight black tee that had served as his undershirt when he had worn an imperial uniform all those years ago. The material was thin and comfortable. His skin was objecting to anything scratchy at the moment – another effect of that blasted carbonite.
He almost stood to welcome her, but he found that he could not make his legs obey him and remain steady. So instead, he sat up as straight as he could and stared at the door. The footsteps hesitated. As an after thought, he ran a hand over his face again, even though he had already checked for times for remaining stubble. There was none. Surprise, surprise. Then he huffed into his palm and checked his breath. He couldn't remember washing, shaving, brushing his teeth and hair and dressing so fast in his life.
But here he was. He hoped he was presentable.
Leia stood outside his cabin and drew a deep breath. Then she knocked.
The first time Han tried to answer, nothing happened. He cleared throat and tried again.
"Come in?" he said.
The door swished open surprisingly slowly and yet far to fast at the same time. And there she stood, a vision in her issue clothes. Blue trousers, beige shirt, hair in a cute little coronet.
She smiled a little, but didn't say anything.
"Uh…Hi," Han said, as brightly as he could.
A little more warmth came to her eyes and she took a step closer.
"Hi," she responded. "How are you feeling?"
He shrugged.
"Pretty good, considering," he answered.
She nodded.
"Well you look pretty good-"
She stopped herself just to late.
"what I mean is…I meant to say…"
"You look pretty damned good to me, too, Leia."
He heart skipped a beat.
'Leia'.
"Han…" she started, exactly when he said "Leia."
They both laughed but had no idea how to continue. Han sighed softly and looked down a moment.
"Are you sure you're alright?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said, a touch of amusement in his voice. "But I'd be better if I didn't have to keep lookin' up atcha. My neck's kinda sore."
He patted the mattress beside him.
"You're too tall right now," he explained. "Come siddown."
She chuckled softly.
"Me too tall for you?" she said. "I like the sound of that."
Instantly, she heard him say those words so long ago on the Falcon.
'Scoundrel? Scoundrel? I like the sound of that.'
She hoped he hadn't noticed her blush at the memory, and she hoped he couldn't see the longing in her eyes. But she realized, as she saw it in his, that he must have remembered too.
And yet, there was something else there, in those eyes. They were darker. They had more lines around them. There was a touch of gray at his temples, where there should not have been, where there wasn't before. But she knew from other men that the agony he had suffered could turn hair white. Han only held this toch of gray. Without thinking, she reached up and touched the gray.
"You noticed too, huh?" he said, the humor a shadow of its former self.
There was another long silence.
"What's wrong, Han?" she said eventually and, when he looked at her, she almost didn't need to hear the answer.
"Everything's different, now," he said quietly, seriously. "Everything's changed. Lando's got a guilt complex. I don't remember him even having a conscience before. The Kid, well he…He's not a kid anymore. I may not've been able to see that good, hell I still can't, but I know he was doin' some pretty amazing stuff back there. I don't know what's goin' on anymore. I don't know where I am in the big scheme of things. I don't know who I am. If it weren't for Chewie I'd think I was in a parallel universe. It's all so different now. It's all changed."
"Have I changed?" she asked softly.
"Have you?" he answered, his voice small and, perhaps, even afraid. "Have we?"
She laced her fingers with his and raised them to her lips, kissed them gently. Then she raised a hand to touch the gray at his temples once more.
"It'll grow out, if that's what you're worried about," she murmured good-naturedly as she stroked the silvery hair.
"What about you?" he said.
She looked at him, puzzled.
"Will you outgrow me? Have you outgrown me?"
She lifted her other hand to his other temple and slid her hands back until she cradled his head.
"There's one thing that will never change, Han: The way I feel about you."
She brushed her lips against his, unsure of quite what to do, but she opened her mouth a little.
At first, he was hesitant, unresponsive.
She drew away to look at him, at the place his lips glistened where she had touched her tongue to them.
"What is it?" she said, terrified that she had misread the signs.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Sorry for everything. I never meant to hurt you…"
She shook her head.
"You haven't hurt me. I don't believe you ever will."
"Leia," he said miserably, and buried his face in her neck.
She soothed him for a while, stroking the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and then she crooned softly in his ear.
She felt him move and touch his lips to her throat, to her ear, to her jaw, and then he stopped, eyes cast down, afraid to look at her. She watched him a moment, waiting for him to look up but he only closed his eyes. Still she waited. When he did not look up again, she tucked her hand under his chin, lifted his head and kissed him, long, slow, warm and soft. And this time, he responded in kind. He had never tasted anything so sweet in all his life.
He gave a soft groan from the back of his throat and opened his mouth, twisting his body to reach her more fully, his mouth pressed to hers. How was it her tongue could taste so wonderful, her breath breathe the life back into him? Her lips reassured him, gave him reason to live and her hands in his hair, his arms around her waist, it was all so unreal. But it was true, all of it. This was no dream.
Almost lazily, it seemed, her hands wandered to the hem of his shirt and pushed themselves underneath to trail up and down his back. His hands did the same, pulling her tight against him.
Quite suddenly, she pulled away.
Han sat there a moment, gasping. Did she want to stop? Had she changed her mind? What had he done wrong? Or perhaps she was trying to let him down gently. But then,
"Arms up."
It was said in the most tender way he could ever have imagined and, like a small child, he obeyed, raising his arms above his head so she could lift his shirt over them.
She stopped for a moment to marvel in the sight before her. He was thin, pale, but he was here. The muscle beneath her fingers, although diminished, was still impressive. And he looked so cute with his hair rumpled from the shirt being tugged over his head.
She ran her hands over the sharp collarbones, the smooth pectorals, the ridges of his stomach, and then around his waist and to his head once more.
She took his hands, then, and raised them to her own collar.
Cautiously, almost fearfully, he began to undo the buttons, slowly working his way down until he could slide the shirt back off her arms. Then she kissed him again.
He closed his arms about her, as she closed hers about him, and gradually, they sank down to the covers of the bunk, mouths still connected, electricity still flowing between them like a new kind of life.
His trousers began to feel a size too small when she struggled a moment with the clasp, as he did with hers, and then she removed what clothing remained on him.
Han looked at her where she hovered over him, watched her silently as she removed her undergarments and lowered herself against him, one leg either side of his body, still making him wait.
She smelled different now, still intoxicating, but in a different way. He reached up and covered the warm alabaster of her breasts with his palms, kneaded softly. She pressed her hands to his stomach and stroked a little lower with each movement, drawing a soft sound of pleasure from him. She lowered her head to his once more, but he did not kiss her. Instead, one warm palm left her breast and settled on her face, his eyes searching hers, the honeyed-hazel alight with a fire she had not seen before.
He wanted something from her. He wanted to hear something from her.
And she knew what it was.
Pressing her lips to his forehead, then the bridge of his nose, then his lips, then drawing away, she touched his face with her own hand and said what he wanted to hear.
"I love you," she whispered.
Han nodded, the tension seeming to leave his body, the agony of the last months draining from his eyes at the chance to assure her, to give her what he waned to give her, tell her what he wanted to say.
"I know," he whispered, "and I love you, too."