Leia woke up late to the sound of wailing.
Ben's wailing, coming from the living quarters.
Karabast, she muttered under her breath. What time was it?
She checked her chrono. 1230.
Ugh. Again?
Blinking back the sleep that threatened to pull her under once more, she groaned as she sat up.
Ben's cries came more fiercely now, mixed with a few choice babbled syllables he'd been trying on for size lately. The cold, empty spot beside her in bed told her Han was out there with him. That was a relief. Their son had an escape artist streak; at least this time he wasn't crawling around the house all on his own, looking to see how much trouble he could get into. Still, her heart sank. They were all about equal parenting, but it seemed like Han had been shouldering the greater burden as of late.
She fixed her eyes on the light streaming through the window, trying to get them to adjust. It didn't really help. Her head still hurt; the room was still blurry. She forced herself to get up anyway.
Han looked at her apologetically when she finally lurched into the living quarters. "I was tryin' to let you sleep," he said. "I guess this little ruffian had other ideas. 'M sorry, sweetheart." Inexplicably, Ben had already stopped crying; he was now contentedly perched on Han's hip, tugging at his hair.
"I'm sorry, Han, I should have been up hours ago; I should never have made you take care of Ben this long—"
"Hey," he interrupted, acting affronted. "Made me? I chose to spend time with this little guy." He ruffled Ben's hair. "Besides, you needed to get some rest."
She didn't argue; she was too tired, and it would be a losing battle, anyway. He knew she'd been staying up half the night lately, unable to sleep. For no good reason, she thought angrily. It wasn't so much that she couldn't get any sleep when she lay down; it was that somehow, dragging herself into bed seemed like a near impossible task. She'd distract herself with pointless research or dumb holonet shows, watching the hours tick by, too weary to go through her bedtime rituals, too anxious to let her mind rest. Too afraid to face the possibility of another nightmare.
"Rest is overrated," she grumbled. "I need some caf."
She headed for the kitchen, but Han stepped in her way. "I've got it, sweetheart. You go sit down."
She tried to step around him, but he blocked her again. Her ire spiked. "Han, stop it."
"Go sit down."
"Why? How incapable do you think I am? Last I checked, I don't have the virus."
"Leia—"
"Just let me do it."
He raised his free arm placatingly. "Okay. Sure." He stepped aside, frowning. She had probably pissed him off, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She stepped into the kitchen and fumbled around in the cabinets for the ground caf. There wasn't much left in the container, she noted with alarm. She should have ordered some more days ago. The way everything was in the galaxy right now, it would take forever to arrive. Somehow, the prospect of less caf over the coming days made her feel breathless, almost dizzy. She leaned against the counter, trying to get ahold of herself.
She was almost always on edge these days. Funny how the end of her time as a soldier didn't signal the end of that. Truth be told, she didn't know how to stop being that way.
It had gotten better, for a time—it had taken awhile for things to settle down before she had Ben, and in the meantime her Jedi training had helped her learn new techniques to calm herself (even if it simultaneously stirred up some deeper fears). Then there was that honeymoon phase of life with their new little family, that shaky and awkward but ultimately hopeful step she and Han had taken together into new territory. It had been a deeply happy experience overall, even if hard at times. Being together was a gift, thanks to a galaxy newly at peace, and she had treasured this weird, messy, beautiful, strangely domestic era in their life. She would miss it, when it was gone.
But all the same, she yearned to get back to work. She felt in her bones that she still had more to give to the galaxy, if only she had the opportunity. Han was itching to get back in the cockpit, too. It was past time to forge a new normal with her family, where they could all be who they fully were as they found new ways to grow and love together.
Apparently the galaxy had different plans.
During her parental leave, she'd taken time off because she chose to, and she'd been okay with that. She'd never expected this pandemic to come in later and take so many choices away. When people started getting sick on Corellia, no one had guessed how quickly it would spread, stopping the whole galaxy in its tracks. They'd been quarantining now for almost a month, and she didn't know how much longer she could stand it. She even found herself missing the polite, insistent prattling of her protocol droid, T-2LC, who lately more often than not sat powered down in their home office with nothing to do.
Unfortunately, even if it weren't for the pandemic, she had still been semi-exiled from the Republic government. Oh, it wasn't as though it were official or anything—people still treated her with utmost respect, and she still counted several of those in leadership, Mon Mothma and Ackbar in particular, as dear friends. But the truth of the matter was that she had been gradually, quietly sidelined, ever since Kashyyyk. She did not regret in the slightest her actions at the time, but her angry outbursts and rogue behavior were not forgotten. The new government had truly taken off after the Battle of Jakku, right around the time Ben was born, and she had missed out on much of that formative time. After her parental leave was over, she had simply not been invited back.
That hurt.
Despite all that, she'd done her best to liason with the Alderaanian remnant, to take care of their needs and ensure they had adequate representation on Chandrila. In fact, she still had work to do on that, even if the virus had put much on hold.
But lately, she'd been doing nothing. She'd just been sitting around at home: restless, fatigued, and oddly enough, terrified.
The daylight outside the kitchen window disappeared into clouds, dimming everything around her.
It was strange. She'd been through countless battles; she'd seen so many horrors. And yet here she was, with a different kind of fear, one that seemed to have gripped her in ways deeper than she could have imagined. Not fear of the pandemic, per se, though of course she was worried about her family, about everyone she cared about, about the entire galaxy.
No, even more than that, Leia was terrified of who she was, of what she'd become. She hardly recognized the woman in the mirror anymore. The woman who was no longer consumed by the fight for galactic justice. The woman who had nowhere to channel her grief anymore, and no giant, all-important cause to distract her. She was alone with herself, now, and the longer this went on, the more she hated herself.
Swallowing, she forced herself to move. She dipped a measuring spoon into the ground caf, brought it to the caf maker. Her hand was unsteady, though; some spilled out on the counter. She muttered a curse under her breath and stabbed at the controls to get the thing running. It would do.
This pandemic had stirred something deep inside her. Instinct had kicked in—she needed to be back on the front lines, leading, making a difference. She needed to fight. But she couldn't fight, not this time. Not when the enemy was a virus instead of an evil Empire. She felt desperate to do something besides sitting locked away at home. She'd always done something. But there was nothing for her to do now, no role they wanted her to fill. None of her skills that might be useful were needed. The true soldiers, this time, were the medics, the farmers and food suppliers, the workers providing what everyone needed.
She couldn't fight. But she couldn't seem to make herself back away from it, either. She was stuck.
The air felt heavy, thick. The smell of caf filled the room. She stared half-seeing as it slowly dripped into the carafe.
Why?
Why couldn't she back down? Why couldn't she just be content with isolating with her family? That was what was needed of her, after all. That was the way she was making a difference.
The problem was, it didn't feel like enough.
It was never enough.
As long as she was fighting, she could at least say she was working to make Alderaan's sacrifice count. Working to atone for her part in all that.
No, she challenged herself. That's not how this works; you know better, now.
She sighed and turned away, shaking her head. She didn't blame herself as much as she used to. At least, not on the surface. She'd come a long way since those first few years, in no small part thanks to Han. But still, shame had settled inside her core and refused to budge, no matter what she told it; it was shaped like a pointed finger forever turned inward, whispering of "should haves" and "should nows," never letting her rest.
Those whispers had only gotten stronger lately, as the paralysis set in. The feeling of being trapped between fight or flight had settled on her as a heavy weight. She was depressed, she'd come to realize with a shock. It was hardly the first time, but she didn't ever remember it being so destructive to her functionality, not even at her lowest of lows. In addition, her anxiety was hitting insane levels. Wartime levels; maybe even higher. Little things made her jump, took her right back—a sound that reminded her of blaster fire. The smell of something burning. The unexpected chime of the door. Ben's cries.
For kriff's sake, a slight note of anger in Han's voice was nearly enough to make her panic and react to him in ways she hadn't in years. Any hint of disappointment or even simple requests could send her into a meltdown, as she tried to prove to him (and even more so, to herself) that she really was capable, that she wasn't as much to blame for everything as some inner part of her clearly still thought.
The clouds outside drew closer, and she felt, more than heard, a faint, distant rumble. For a moment, she remembered lightning on Appenza Peak, her old bedroom windows thrown open to see it. She pushed the image away.
To Han's credit, he seemed to have caught on that something was amiss with her, moreso than normal. He'd been taking on even more responsibility with Ben lately, not snapping back (well, at least not usually), and treating her with vastly more grace than she felt like she deserved. His attempt to let her sleep in this morning warmed her heart, but at the same time, it speared her through with guilt like a blaster bolt. She should be better than this.
Where was the Leia that sucked it up and helped saved the galaxy? Where was the Leia who had commanded troops and put her life on the line again and again? Yes, that Leia had suffered greatly and had been dealing with no small amount of PTSD, but somehow she'd gotten through and fought despite it all. Perhaps that Leia would have stayed up most of the night as she'd done the night before—probably intent on the distraction of supply charts and strategies instead of wandering their flat aimlessly—but that Leia would have also forced herself awake the next morning and worked until she practically made herself sick.
That Leia had definitely not been healthy, but she was functional.
At least that Leia got stuff done.
Now, she was useless. She was just as haunted by everything that had happened, if not more so, but she had nothing to do, nowhere to run.
Nowhere to run. Trapped.
Her neck was hurting again, and her arm—the places the torture droids had once injected her. The muscles in her shoulders and back felt tense, hard as a rock. She had a headache. The room spun a little. In fact, the room seemed not quite there. Was she really here?
"Leia?" Han appeared in the doorway, Ben still on his hip.
"I… I think I need to go sit down," she mumbled.
He nodded, brows knit. "I'll bring you a cup of caf when it's done."
She stumbled over to the couch, feeling vaguely relieved as it embraced her. Idly, she watched as the sky outside grew darker, more ominous. Force, she hoped it would storm. She could hardly take the thick stillness.
Minutes passed. She heard the sound of the caf maker finishing its work, Han rummaging in the cabinet, liquid being poured into a mug. He brought it out to her, and she took it, set it on the table beside her to cool. She sat back, hands over her eyes against the pressure, and managed a nod. "Thanks, darling," she murmured.
He was being so sweet, so caring, and she was so, so grateful for him.
She also hated it. She hated that she had put him in a position where he felt like he had to do everything for her and Ben. Where he had to take care of her as if she were another child. He was suffering, too; aching to get back out among the stars, haunted by the reports of the sick and dying in the slums of his old homeworld. She should have been able to deal with all this herself.
But… she couldn't. Not right now. Everything hurt. She could barely even catch a good breath, for kriff's sake. She tried breathing in and out, slowly and deeply. Did it help? Perhaps a little, but it was hard to tell. All she wanted to do was curl up in a fetal position and just… not be there. Not be her, this new, useless Leia. She started to curl in on herself, but then she remembered curling up in a ball on the floor of the Death Star cell, and she stopped.
No.
She could almost feel the gaze of the cell guards, hear the breath of Vader. Instead, she leaned forward and focused on her breathing again—how was it possible that it was even shallower than before?
"Sweetheart? You okay?" Han's voice came through the static in her head.
She started to nod, hands still over her eyes, then stopped. After a moment, she shook her head no instead. She felt deeply ashamed, but that was the truth of the matter—she wasn't okay. Not at all.
Vaguely, she heard Ben babbling on the floor, the sound of him handling and biting some things that were most likely toys. Han must have distracted him for the moment. She decided she didn't have the energy to care all that much what Han had given him to play with; she'd trust his judgment for now.
"Turn around," Han said, sitting beside her. She felt his hands start to rub at her neck, her shoulders. She let out a shaky breath. It felt so good.
His touch was also real, here, now—unlike Vader, the guards, the cell, or that room of horrors in Cloud City. She remembered the exercises Luke had taught her, and she tuned into the sensations, focusing on them, letting everything else fall away. Emptying herself of all but this moment, his hands, her muscles… she was a cup to be filled up.
Her breath finally slowed, deepened, and tears filled her eyes. Gratitude, relief, frustration, grief… it all threatened to spill out. Her breath hitched again.
"Breathe, Leia. It's okay."
"What the hell is wrong with me?" she whispered. "I'm so sorry, Han, I don't know why I'm like this, I don't know who I am anymore…." She turned and lay her head on his shoulder, and he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her.
"Sweetheart," he said finally, "you've been through a hell of a lot of trauma. My guess? Now that you're forced to relax, now that you can't fight, it's all tryin' to come out, shoutin' at you to deal with it. That's probably a good thing, you know, because it means you're safe now. You've gotta take some time to heal."
Reluctantly, she nodded. She recognized the truth in his words. He'd clearly learned a lot in his own therapy sessions post-carbonite, as much as he'd complained about them. Maybe it was time to look into that for herself again, too. She could hardly be any more of a mess.
"I… I don't know what to do," she said. "I don't know how to deal with it. I've been a terrible person to be around, lately, and I'm so sorry, I don't know why I can't just manage—"
"Sshhh," he said. "It's okay, sweetheart. I know. We're in this together, okay? Let me help you. Let me help you rest."
"I can't, there's so much I should—"
"I'm serious. You need to rest." Han sighed. "You're already a hero, Leia. You've helped save the whole goddamn galaxy. It's okay to rest now. You need it."
Leia stared at the wall. Then, finally, in a small voice, she said, "I'm afraid if I let myself rest, I'll never be able to rise up and do what I need to do again." A few moments passed; when she continued, her voice was edged with panic. "What if this is actually the real me? What if I never fully deal with it? What if I just… waste away, and become someone people pity?" She blinked back tears again. "I can't stand the thought of people's pity. Like, 'Oh, she fought in the war, she was a great leader, it's a shame what she's let herself become—'"
"Leia, stop it. First of all, no way is anyone gonna pity you like that. Again, you're a hero. You will always be a hero. People know who you really are—" he held up a hand to stop her from interrupting—"and that person is the person I still see before me right now. Someone's who's incredibly strong. Someone who will always fight for what's right. Someone who, right now, is fighting a battle inside that's, oh I dunno, at least as big as any she's ever fought on the outside. It's just that now, fighting looks like rest, like sleeping in late, like letting your husband help you. Like cuddling and feeding and loving on a baby. Like muddling through the day however you can while processing all the hell you've been through."
The tears were falling, now. Leia shut her eyes, burying her head into Han's chest. She tried to let his words sink in.
"We're a team, Leia," Han said, his voice filled with conviction. "Things are hard right now, but we'll get through this together. You don't have to have it all figured out on your own."
She exhaled, nodding silently. She'd probably need to be reminded again before long, but for now, his words were enough to fade some of the shame.
A flash came, then a low rumble. Shakily, she stood up and walked over to the window, watching as the first few drops of rain pattered against it. Han followed, coming up to put his arm around her as they looked out on the storm together. She leaned against him.
It calmed her, somehow, seeing the tumult outside. It always had. She could almost smell the rain, feel the rush of the wind. She half wanted to rush out on their bedroom balcony and let it all drench her. Unfortunately, she was all too aware that their flat was near the top of one of Hanna City's few towers.
Maybe she would later, once the lightning had passed. She would go out with Han, Ben in her arms, and teach her son how to laugh in the rain.
Her breaths were starting to come more fully now.
"Mama," a little voice said, and she felt a tug at her pant leg. Ben had crawled over and was holding his arms up to her. She reached down and picked him up, pulled him into her embrace.
"I love you," she whispered, and her heart felt suddenly full. He wriggled around, untamed as always, twisting in her arms so he could look out the window along with them, mouth open wide in wonder.
"Da," he said, pointing a chubby little finger at the wild sky.
A bolt of lightning shrieked down from the clouds, followed by a clap of thunder that shook the whole flat. She caressed Ben's curly head, ready to offer comfort. No need; he seemed to be enjoying the show as much as she was.
Another bolt of lightning struck the outskirts of the city, spectacular in its vivid starkness. For a moment, she felt like a finger of that light was breaking through, piercing the dense, sluggish dark inside her, leaving a far deeper imprint than the silhouette still burning in her eyes.
It was right then that she knew it: this heaviness wouldn't last forever. Someday, perhaps not as long as she feared, this time of intense processing would be over. She'd get up from her rest, get back to being her more functional self again, and work once more to heal all the wrongs of the galaxy. Perhaps by then, she'd be doing it wholler, wiser. More healed, herself. And maybe, just maybe, the galaxy would be even better for it.
But in the meantime, she would tend to her wounds and embrace the lightning as it came.
In the meantime, she would finally learn how to rest.
Notes:
Thanks for taking the time to read this! I hope it encourages you like it did me, especially in these uncertain times when so many of us are dealing with the trauma of our own pandemic.
I literally wrote this as part of my own therapy for PTSD, so please be kind. If you are considering leaving a comment about how this "proves" Han and Leia were bad parents or that you think Leia would never struggle like this or need time to process her trauma, please refrain and take your false and harmful negativity elsewhere. It's hard enough for anyone struggling with PTSD to take the time to heal as it is. Thank you.
For those of you who are struggling with PTSD and/or other mental health issues, I see you. You are not weak; you are strong. You are fighting an incredibly difficult battle. It's okay if you weren't productive today. It's okay to rest. It's okay to take the time to heal. You are worth so much.