LXXXVI. Eyes.
In her eyes, she's a child.
Behind the stress and the world-weariness, she holds an innocence that few see. Sometimes, he finds himself lost in them, staring across the table at a briefing. She'll catch his gaze, and suddenly there's still good in this Force-forsaken galaxy.
Though she's a master of hidden emotion, he can always find the truth there. It's beautiful, really, that she's retained that youthful clarity. It also makes it hard to forget that she's too young for the responsibility heaped on her.
Whenever reality gets too dark, her eyes are proof that purity can still survive.
LXXXVII. Nose.
"Really, Solo. It's not important." She pointedly turns away, but he follows anyway.
"Come on, Worshipfulness. At least tell me his name."
With an annoyed sigh, she turns around. "I never said there was a 'his'."
"That doesn't mean there isn't. The girls from Maintenance said-"
"The girls from Maintenance say a lot of things," she says darkly. "Remind me to dock their pay."
"So they were right," he says triumphantly. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be so worked up about it."
"I'm not 'worked up'," she growls. "Now take you nose out of my business, before I do it for you."
LXXXVIII. Ears.
She hears so much about herself, she hardly needs a mirror anymore. There's the praise and criticism given to her face, of course, but it's the whispers in the hallways that really tell the truth. People are always more honest when they think their subject can't hear.
Apparently, her hair is much envied. Her wardrobe, however, is not. She's currently dating Solo, Skywalker, Antilles, and that medic from Yavin. (She can only laugh at those rumors.) Her schedule is filled beyond the humanly possible. (If they only knew…)
And her heart is frozen. Some days, deafness would be a blessing.
LXXXIX. Throat.
He looks different from this perspective.
They're crushed together in yet another awkward situation, because fate's sadistic and the Rogue Squadron has a sick sense of humor. Thanks to the box under her feet, she's now elevated to just below his jaw. It's an interesting change from the usual spot in the center of his chest.
It's a nice throat, ignoring the crude comments that flow from it, and the bloated ball of hot gas it supports. It's strong.
Stubborn.
Clean.
Self-centered.
And it smells good…
Maker, I'm smelling his aftershave. She joins him in pounding on the closet door.
XC. Skin.
The first thing he really sees is skin.
He's imagined her in less, of course, and he's not afraid to admit it. But not even his twisted imagination could strip her more naked than she is now.
She shifts uncomfortably, and he can see scars, ones he would never expect to view on her pale, tiny body. Some of them look all-too recent. What have you done for me? he thinks, with a shiver of guilt.
Two years ago, he would have enjoyed this. But now that he sees her, he just wishes he could give her some real clothes.
Eyes- Han, RotJ
Nose- Leia, ANH-ESB
Ears- Leia, ANH-ESB (Special thanks to Trans-Siberian Orchestra's 'What Good This Deafness', from the rock opera Beethoven's Last Night, for the inspiration fro this drabble)
Throat- Leia, ANH-ESB
Skin- Han, RotJ