The mission hadn't even started yet, and Han was already irritated. He stalked up the ramp of the Millennium Falcon, slamming the hatch shut behind him. Chewie was posted in the cockpit, running the pre-flight checks. In the main hold, his three passengers had dutifully strapped themselves in on the accelerator couch, ready for take-off. They weren't the problem.
Half of an intelligence-gathering team under her Worship's command, they were headed to some planetary celebration on Korfo II, where the festivities would provide cover for a meeting with prominent sector leaders about tampering with a new Imperial mineral mine. Han had planned a route that wouldn't take them anywhere near the remains of neighboring Alderaan without adding any flight time, and he was feeling damn proud of himself right until the moment he saw the obliterated planet's last Princess stride through the hangar, travel bag in hand, and climb aboard the second pilot's compact cruiser. With the other half of her team.
He'd assumed he would be transporting her. Much as her Royal Highness loved to disparage the Falcon at every opportunity, she almost always seemed to find herself aboard his ship for her missions or for transport between bases. Han suspected she requested it. All the other members of High Command were assigned to one spacecraft or another at random, and not even the lower-ranking officers travelled with him as frequently as she did. Or maybe she couched it as volunteering, ever the martyr, pretending to relieve others of the indignity of travelling on what she so gleefully called a "bucket of bolts". He didn't mind. Whatever mental gymnastics drew her to the Falcon, Han flattered himself to think he'd earned a spark of her favor – however deep down she buried it – and that someday, if he was patient, the winds would blow to his advantage and fan it into flames. He liked to imagine her finally overcome, in the Falcon's cockpit, frantic, or undercover in some secret place, cold façade melting away and nothing in between them. Until then, he made sure not to tease her about her magnetic attraction to his ship. Better to act like it was the most natural option for all involved.
In the meantime, he'd discovered that the Princess was the type that only relaxed when in transit. Like the suspended time spent travelling between encrypted coordinates didn't count towards her grand plan for galactic liberation, so she could finally switch off and give them all a break. If the flight lasted more than six hours, she slept. The first time Han had ambled into the crew cabin to use the fresher and found a small, uniformed figure curled up on top of his covers, he'd gone a little weak in the chest. Since then, he'd learned to proceed with caution when she went suspiciously silent, lest he be ambushed by another adorable sight. He'd learned to knock. On shorter flights, or after she woke up, she would furiously type on her datapad for about an hour, shoulders rigid, fine brows furrowed, then each of her systems would gradually shut down until she found herself nestled in the cockpit, staring at the stars with him. Han loved it. They could sit in silence or talk about the planets they'd each visited, what they knew of their histories, the trouble they'd gotten into during their travels. As long as they avoided the subject of the Revolution itself, she was witty and spirited company, and he would find himself wishing she was always there with him, lounging at his side. The metal ship didn't feel quite as rusty and cold when she trailed a finger along his welding work and asked if he'd ever seen the lights on Utapau. And yet, without fail, these interludes always ended the same way. Some stupid argument would inevitably seize them – No, you got it all it wrong. It's like this... That's not a fact, Highness, that's your opinion – then a temper would flare, sweep them up, and the moment would be ruined. Leaving him with the strange feeling of being shipwrecked, yearning for things between them to get back on course, despite his rational mind's warnings that there was no course and there was no them.
But there would be none of any of that this time, apparently. Just 30 flight hours with three spies he didn't know, then half a day of loitering at the docks while they did their thing. Han had watched them file aboard, two girls and a boy not much older than Luke and Leia. All of them, he'd been told, recently defected from various Core World intelligence agencies after just a few years in service, disillusioned and hungry for revolution.
"That's the crew cabin," he'd told them, pointing at it. "Sleeps three. I'm going to sleep on second watch, don't let me find anyone in the middle bunk."
Han strapped himself in the pilot's seat. "Let's get this over with," he said to Chewie, and they blasted the ship into space. It was a clear jump into hyperspeed as soon as they punched through the stratosphere, no moons or anything orbiting the Alliance's latest outpost: a grey rock in the black, empty fringes of the Outer Rim. The nearest star flickered faintly in the distance.
The Falcon's two-man crew locked the coordinates, the shields, and the shield fail-safes in minutes. Now there was nothing left to do but keep watch for the next twenty-one hours before they hopped into the trade route. Hyperspace stretched out in front of them, endlessly elongated and deceptively static, bathing the cockpit in its frozen rush of light. Han sank back in his chair, propped a leg up on the control panel.
Two nights earlier, he had been sitting outside the hangar with Luke, killing time before the would-be Jedi's patrol. They talked engines and X-wing modifications and why it was so hard to find any parts worth a damn on Tattooine. Her Highness strolled up to them and dropped onto the gravelly ground beside him, passing them each a ration of starfruit immunity gummies.
"These expire soon, so the Quartermaster is handing them out. It's a free-for-all in the canteen."
"Thanks," Han and Luke had replied in unison.
The conversation quickly turned to Alliance gossip. Luke had needled her for details about the next change of base, and she'd batted his questions away easily, amused by his attempts at slyness. Sorry, that's classified. It's in one of twelve sectors. The climate there is neither hot nor cold, nor rainy, nor dry. You'll find out when everybody else does! Han had been a little surprised when Leia didn't get up after Luke left. Instead, she told him everything about the Korfo II mission and let him poke and question the Alliance's plans until he was satisfied it was as airtight as could be. Then they sat and watched the faint shift in lights as the planet's star disappeared under the horizon, and she didn't leave until one of her aides came looking for her. Han had gone back to his ship feeling glad that they would start this mission with a truce. Now he felt oddly cheated.
Maybe they'd switch transports on the way back. For… security? The Alliance was always inventing convoluted new rules and protocols for their missions. That was a thought. And maybe it would be better to get her after the big spy-op, he mused, assuming it went well. She'd be all pleased with herself, tired out, less likely to pick fights.
I'll take my nap now, Chewie yawned, stretching his long, furry arms overhead. He thumped Han on the shoulder and hauled himself out of his seat, barking the Wookie good-night blessing over his shoulder. Han heard him repeat it to their passengers as he lumbered by them on his way to his hammock in the second hold, to a chorus of confused replies. Thank you? Yes, please?
Then, silence.
Rebel security protocols said avoid all unnecessary transmissions. That meant no filling the time with long-range comms to fellow travelers, no connecting to public spacecasts. He wouldn't risk it anyway, with Jabba's bounty presumably still hanging over his head. There was no telling who was keeping an eye out from him, who would sell him out they crossed paths. Best to keep a low profile. What a stupid thing to do, Han thought for the thousandth time, slumping down further into his seat. To skip out on the Hutt like that, promise him payment for the lost spice shipment then vanish. Had it been a full year? He hadn't even kept track. Even when he let it gnaw at him, it felt like he was mad at someone else. A past version of himself, frozen in a different time, handing a bad decision over to him across a fault line.
What should I do? He'd asked the parts trader he always slept with in Mos Eisley, in the early dawn hours after Jabba had finally released him. Han's feet had carried him through the dusty streets on autopilot. Now the pleasant glow was fading fast. You'll figure it out, she said, rolling onto her back. But my husband will be home any minute. She tossed him his pants. He swiped a bracelet off her dresser on his way out and pawned it. Later, on the day he met Luke and the old Jedi, he'd been out looking for trouble – because he hadn't made any progress on the debt, and when luck ran out, only trouble could change the game – but he hadn't known what he was getting into, hadn't noticed the door slamming shut behind him. He should go back and pay it – should have gone back months and months ago. But the more time passed the harder it was to imagine leaving, getting sucked back into that ugly life. He looked back at that specter of himself and felt nothing but dread.
A shriek of laughter issued from the main hold, snapping Han back to the present. Flying over-excited terrorists around the galaxy wasn't a bad gig, but sometimes they made him feel ancient. Unlimited energy, and when the enemy was unavailable they bounced it around amongst themselves. Most of these freedom fighters were just as bad as first-year Empire recruits. All over each other. Worse, they were doped up on morals in addition to the adrenaline-pheromone soup and the universal appeal of fitted uniforms. Even he liked those uniforms. They concealed so much that just a glimpse of throat became fascinating. His thoughts drifted to slender Royal napes, pearlescent skin peeking out of tall collars. Dark eyes flashing when they caught him looking.
Seven months ago, her Worship let slip that there had been a boy on Alderaan, son of a viscount or a duke or some other, that his parents had requested the match but that they'd discovered a real affinity for each other. She'd put the formal courtship on hold when she was elected Senator, then severed the relationship completely, on her father's orders, when she swore her allegiance to the Rebellion and could afford no liabilities. She never saw him again. Although she didn't say so exactly, the way she trailed off implied that he'd died on Alderaan, like the rest of them. They'd been sloshed, Leia and Luke, because the contraband punch had been stronger than ever that evening – not that it was ever consistent – and they were both born lightweights. They sought refuge on the Falcon, clambering up the ramp with their arms around each other. Han fought the urge to pry them apart, poured them water, settled them on the couch across from him. Leia was a revelation that evening. He was a good kisser, she hiccupped, I think. Even Luke laughed at that. You think? She pulled away from him slightly, rested her little chin on her hand and said Well, I've never had a chance to compare, in a hazy, wistful tone, as though she often yearned for the days of palace make-out sessions, and Han couldn't help himself. Sweetheart, you're surrounded by chances, he scoffed, waving towards the party outside, away from Luke, and jerking a thumb back towards himself. Then he looked on with dark delight as she snapped out of her reverie, spine stiffening. He liked the red in her cheeks better than her mournful longing, even when she called him names, cursed his ill breeding and the ditch he was born in, and stormed off in a flushed, tipsy huff. He shrugged and watched her swish out the door, while Luke shook his blonde head, horrified. You can't talk to her like that. Han went to bed that night wondering how sheltered a twenty-year old dish had to have been to be missing out on chances, and what in the stars she was waiting for now that no royal Daddy was around to pull her strings.
For months, Han didn't understand why he couldn't get over it, the doe-eyed Princess and her mysterious restraint. He thought about it whenever he saw her. It had been nearly as long since he'd been to visit any of his safe bets, or given a ride to a comely intergalactic hitchhiker. He'd been halfway down the walkway to his usual haunt on Bestine station II, six months ago, when he realized that he just didn't feel like playing the game that night. Like the effort of paying for a beer, scoping out the joint, and making the requisite small talk just wasn't worth what would come next. Like it wouldn't even scratch the itch. He'd stood still in the middle of the station corridor for a good, long moment, trying to work out what his problem was, before giving up and turning back.
That was quick, Chewie had chuckled, flashing the extra-toothy grin he used to signal an attempt at human innuendo. Wookies didn't normally employ low forms of humor. What do you know? Han had snarled, and retreated to his cabin. It was self-preservation, he'd decided, scrubbing his face in the sonic shower. He knew he wouldn't have been able to get out of his head. This distracted feeling would surely pass, but in the meantime, it was better to lie low than to show up and perform poorly; he had a reputation to maintain among the female riff-raff that frequented the trade route tap-cafs, after all.
That had been his type. He liked them nasty, so that it was a relief when they left. He'd never felt the impulse to put a hand on their shoulders when they frowned, or to pull their braided hairstyles apart when they laughed.
Leia laughed a lot more with Luke than she did when she was alone with Han, but then, Luke was like that, warm and easygoing and bringing the best out of everyone in his orbit, so that even princesses fell into easy giggles with him, their eyes closing blissfully as their shoulders shook. Han was observant, keenly aware that the farm boy shared some ground with her that he didn't. A Princess and a guy like me? No.
But what was it, exactly, that formed the gulf between them, if the Princess had no palace, no wealth, no future?
"What will you do afterwards, if you win the war? You think you could be a bureaucrat again, after all this?" Han had once asked her, during one of those quiet moments in the Falcon's cockpit, watching her from the corner of his eye. He'd been ferrying her to negotiations on Tinnel IV, a planet he normally avoided because it brought him too close to his native Corellia, and she was all decked out in borrowed formalwear, a deep red tunic cut straight across the tops of her shoulders. Her hair looked very soft, swept down in a loose arrangement, and from the moment she sat down with him, all he could think about was putting his hands in it. But he'd made a mistake.
"IF?" Leia instantly went rigid. So much for soft hair ever sliding like silk though his fingers. Han felt that first thread between them snap, unravel – and it made him angry, so he pulled on it. Angry that she would do this, that she would twist his words when he was trying to be nice, get her claws out over nothing, on purpose.
"Well…" he said, turning his head to look her right in the face, and they were off. Racing each other to the precipice, until she was worked up into a righteous, regal rage and he couldn't find the brakes.
"Does it even matter to you," she seethed at the end, "if the Republic is restored or not? If your so-called friends the Wookies ever regain their right to self-determination – "
"Hey, you don't know anything about – " but Leia was on her feet now, standing over him and glowing hot, her large eyes ablaze, turning his protest to ashes.
"Do you even believe in anything that we're doing? Do you believe in this at all?"
"I don't… Yeah, I…" Han fumbled lamely, scorched. "I believe… that you believe. I'm here, aren't I? I believe in you."
Leia looked at him oddly then, her retort dying on her lips. They were silent for a heartbeat, before she cleared her throat and finally looked away. "I don't know what that's supposed to mean," she said quietly, to the control panel. Then she gathered her jacket and walked out, leaving him staring at the chair she'd been so comfortably curled up in, just moments before.
Twenty minutes later, Han still hadn't moved. He heard her chatting amiably in the main hold with Chewie and her insufferable protocol droid, and he let out a sharp breath. What did they believe that he didn't? Chewie believed in three things, Han knew: his next meal, revenge, and loyalty, although the latter was strictly rationed. He had pledged a life debt to Han for rescuing him, the conditions of which they'd never quite elucidated – and since then, the fearsome Wookie had seemed perfectly content to follow Han around on the most lowly and craven of misadventures. No sign of morals there. Droids believed what they were made to believe. Han believed in survival, although, when it came down to it, rarely at others' expense. That was noble, wasn't it? He could have left Leia in her cell to die. Most other drifters would have. He could have pulled her from the Death Star, then taken advantage, bargained with her life, seen how much more he could squeeze out of the Alliance for their fair Princess. He hadn't. And here he was now, serving her cause. Why did this idealist only see the worst in him?
More soon!
