From a Certain Point of View
Han always had an uncanny ability to sense things about to happen. Often described as good luck or superb timing, it was something that he had grown to count on and trust in his life. He wore this ability as a badge of distinction, as something that not all beings were granted at birth yet he had been well-endowed with.
His life, as of late, hadn't brought that specific talent to the forefront. Princess Leia had been exercising a few different endowments of the ship-less pilot. But he found on one particular morning that lack of use had not caused these inert skills to fade. A prickling at the back of his neck and an overall sense of something amiss woke Han up one morning, as good as a cold bucket of water and the roar of a mad Wookiee would have.
The first thing he noticed was that the bed was empty. Waking up to the warmth of Leia's body had been something else he had become accustomed to. Just what dance their bodies played during the night, Han could not be sure, but by the time he woke in the morning it was usually to a pile of hair tickling his nose and to the back of his knee pressed up against the back of her thigh. On rare occasions he woke to the sight of her face, eyes open, mouth curled up in a smile, which always made him wonder if he had been snoring or drooling or any other such embarrassment.
It was not unusual for them to make love in the morning, as if the mere fact that they woke up together in the same bed was cause for a celebration. These were the moments they shared without a day's history behind them, of work or hours of separation, of conversations, arguments or any other such interactions. It was painting the clean slate of morning with their want for one another and setting the tone for the day ahead. It was their version of a sunrise.
They never spoke during that particular morning ritual, knowing that the day ahead would be filled with sounds and voices and noises of all kinds. It was almost as if they could pretend that this was all there was in the universe, him loving her and her loving him and there was no need for words because there was nothing else as important as that moment and nothing else to come after it. If Han allowed himself to admit that he had fallen in love with Leia, it was during those times. Maybe it was because he felt safe to fill his mind with thoughts he was not ready to voice during a time where they had mutually agreed to remain silent.
Han picked his head up and glanced at the chrono on Leia's nightstand across the other side of the room. It was early, very early. He rolled onto his back and over to his own nightstand, extending his long, naked arm and flicking on the table lamp.
His eyes protested to the sudden brightness and as he blinked and propped himself up against the headboard behind him, her image slowly came into focus. She was sitting in a chair near the window on the other side of the room. Fully dressed in slacks and a blouse, she sat crossways with her legs swung over the arms of the chair. She was staring at him. In the millisecond it took for him to grasp the situation, he recognized the sensation that had caused the back of his neck to quiver. It was tension.
"They aren't coming to you anymore."
He blinked his eyes trying to get both her and her words into focus.
She spoke into his silence, "It's been almost two weeks."
Finally following her meaning, he ran his fingers through his hair and twisting his body to face her, he rested on an elbow as he sighed and said, "That's a good thing, isn't it?"
"You would think."
He was confused; by the empty bed, the conversation and the violent undertone of her words. "What does that mean?"
She sighed heavily as her eyes dropped down to her hands. "I don't know."
"Are you angry with me?"
She brought her eyes back up to meet his and said, "No." She stood and walked towards him, slowly, cautiously as if approaching a prisoner behind a plate of transparisteel.
Han turned his body as she walked around the room and sat on the bed next to him, he lay on his side, his legs bent and her hip pressing up against the tops of his thighs. He recognized the signs of the woman that he had not seen in months, the woman that would rather chop her own head off than say what she knew she had to say.
She let him take her hand in his and he was looking down at her fingers when he heard her say, "I spoke to Roman."
His eyes darted up to find her looking at him. "And?"
"And…some of what you said may have been true. But I certainly don't think that it could've ever gotten dangerous."
He wanted to ask for every sordid detail. He wanted to hear what Roman had said. He wanted to ask her if she had told Roman who she was in a relationship with. But he refrained.
Her body flinched and she whispered, "I have to go," as she tried to pull her hand from his.
"To see Roman?" He wished to take them back as soon as he said them, to take not only the words that had left his lips but the tone of their deliverance. He tightened his grip on her hand, preparing to fight for her presence next to him.
Her body slumped in a tired exhaustion and she left her hand in his, limp and lifeless as if voiding the fact that he held anything of value to her. "I can't have this conversation with you. Not today."
He studied her hand in his, unable to meet her in the eye. "I'm sorry I said that. I just…care about you."
After everything that had been said and done between them, the teasing questions, the smug answers, this was the closest he had ever come to telling her how much he loved her. The words ringing in his head sounded pathetic. They hit him like a slap in the face, a dismal representation of his feelings for her. If he had screamed at the top of his lungs that he had never known love or life until he met her, it would still not be sufficient enough to express his feelings. So to whisper something so meager and commonplace, seemed like offering spit in place of a well of never-ending, pure, clean water.
"Well, your caring about me has complicated everything."
Her tone was soft and sweet and perhaps even sad. The words hit him, however, with a more ferocious slap than his own and they brought his eyes right in line with hers. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Her face was cut in stone, her eyes the only sign of shimmering life. "Leia, what's going on?"
"That's what I intend to find out." This response was cool and calm as if on the other end of an entirely different conversation.
He fought to catch up with her, replying as calmly as possible, "You're not making any sense."
"I know. And I'm sorry. But…"
He saw the first sign of a crack in her demeanor as she forced herself to swallow whatever words she had intended to say. She took her hand from within his and he let it slide out from within his grasp. The fisting of his now empty palm was his only response.
She continued, "I'll explain it to you as soon as I understand what it is that I have to explain. Until then…and I know I've asked this of you far too much. But, until then, you'll just have to trust me." And then she stood and looked down at him. "Like I trust you." She said the words like an accusation, hurled them at him as if they had pointed edges.
"Leia." He flung the covers off his body and swung his legs over the side of the bed as he sat up. Whatever he had wanted to say dissipated at the tip of his tongue as he looked at her. She was angry and confused and defiant but above all that, she was scared. He drew in a deep breath and grabbing both of her hands, he said, "Sweetheart, I don't know what's going on, but having someone in your life that cares about you isn't or shouldn't be a complication."
"I know." She took a hand and laid it on his shoulder, the heat from her palm burning into his skin. Supporting her weight, she leaned into him and kissed him on the cheek. He felt her breath on his ear as she said, "And I'm sorry." They were the first words she had spoken this morning that weren't laced with a cool, detached anger. Straightening up, she took her hand away and said, "But I really do have to go."
And she left. Every muscle in his body had wanted to stand up and stop her. But he sat on the side of the bed, his head in some distant fog of thought that refused to clear until the sunlight poured through the bedroom window behind him and Leia's presence and her words and the intractable tone of her voice, were all a distant memory.
Han found it hard to keep his mind on work that day, as if he had left his consciousness sitting on the side of the bed staring at the walls of the apartment waiting for her to return and finish their conversation. He replayed their exchange over and over in his mind and her every word seemed to become more and more ominous as the day wore on.
By the time he returned to the apartment that evening, his mind was in a frenzy. Bolting through the door, his eyes quickly searched for her waiting for him at the dining room table, or walking towards him from the bedroom or lying on the lounger, but she was not. Then he stood in the foyer and listened for the sounds of her, arguing with Artoo in the study or pouring herself some wine in the kitchen, but there was only silence. He glanced at the table for her satchel. It was not there.
This was the first time she had not been home waiting for him since she had come home that day all beaten and bruised. His heart was still pumping from the hasty trek home and his steps towards the dining room were the first since he left the hangar that were slow and deliberate. He caught sight of it as soon as he rounded the corner of the foyer and saw the full length of the table before him and his heart slid down to his toes.
In his mind a voice was screaming, 'No!', as he numbly approached the table and reached his shaky hand out to pick up a small note. It was written on old-fashioned paper, creased in the middle so that it sat tented on the table waiting for him. There was nothing written on the outside of it, not his name or any indication who it was for. He lifted it up to his eyes, turning it over as he drew it nearer. The lines of her handwriting coming into focus as he held it in front of his face.
It was the name of a small, private docking facility on the other side of town, its address and presumably, the number of a hangar bay. His recent fear and dread slid quickly into intrigue and caution. Had something happened to her? Would they need to flee the planet? He shoved the note into the pocket of his trousers and bolted out of the apartment.
Han sat in the back of the hover cab impatiently, leaning his body forward as if his own weight or intense concentration could make the vehicle move faster. Every traffic light or deceleration, for whatever reason, made him want to jump out of the cab and run on his own two feet. But he fought the urge, knowing that his own legs could get him there no faster.
When he arrived at the hangar, he paid the cab driver and pulled the note out of his pocket. Following the signs and fighting to remain calm, he walked past personal vehicles and pleasure crafts of all kinds, his head hitched up nervously as the number of the bay grew closer with his every step.
The small hangar was deserted, the only sound was the buzzing of the overhead lighting that came in waves as Han walked between the large, hanging fixtures. Most of the vehicles were yachts, playthings of the bored and wealthy. Han admired their clean lines and polished hulls as he watched his reflection pass quickly from one to another, all elongated and distorted as if he were of an alien race.
And then his legs stopped moving and his feet felt as if the ground were magnetized and his shoes forged of pure metal. Up ahead in the distance he saw her. The liquid heart that had slid down to his toes back in the apartment shot back up his body like volcanic lava. She looked different, but he would recognize her diminutive stature anywhere. No matter the setting, no matter the changes she may have endured or the disguises she may try to wear, he knew her as he knew himself.
It was the Falcon. And she was as beautiful and breathtaking as the first time he had laid eyes on her.
His legs began moving again, taking him closer to her, but they were slow and sluggish like the thick blood that now thumped through his veins. He noted subtle differences about her as if she had been worked on, as if someone else's hands had both harmed her and caressed her in his absence. She had a new sensor dish and there were new shiny pieces of durasteel spread across her hull like a patchwork quilt.
Her left mandible seemed totally rebuilt and his hand went up to caress her underbelly when he walked underneath her shadow, closing his eyes as if accepting an embrace. He walked in circles beneath her, staring up at her, inhaling the scent of her and allowing the trail of tears to escape from the corner of his eyes unhindered.
When he found himself at her entrance he wiped his eyes and took a long, deep breath. He pressed his palm against the scan grid and his body jumped at the sound of the boarding ramp hissing open and lowering to the ground. He stood staring for a long while, unable to comprehend the enormity of the moment.
And then his mind jumped to Leia for the first time since he had caught sight of his ship. Visions of her waiting for him, scantily dressed and ready to re-christen his ship as his own flashed furiously through his mind. He bounded up the ramp and trailed his hand lovingly along the bulkhead as he made his way into the main lounge.
He was met by a sight that was not Leia's naked body or beaming smile, but another note. Folded and tented like the one he found in the apartment, sitting on the holochess table waiting for him. Like the other note, there were no words on the outside of it, it laid naked waiting for him like his dream come true in an entirely different and disappointing way.
He looked around the room, as if she would appear at any moment and tell him the words in person that she had written down for him to read. After a long moment, he walked towards the table and picked up the note.
Han,
I never got to tell you what I was looking for, but I guess this will answer that question. I only hope that returning your first love will be enough to repay you for all that I have put you through.
Please don't try to find me. It wouldn't be me that you would find anyway.
Leia
He let his body slump down onto the banquette, his every muscle turning liquid inside of him. Grasping her letter in his hand as it rested on the holochess table, he read the words over and over as if maybe their meaning would somehow change with time and repetition and by the sheer will of his heart and mind.
He separated his fingers and watched the note tumble out of his hand and fall innocuously against the table, no longer standing as a tent but sprawled out and exposed. His eyes moved along the perimeter of the room, at the ship that was the piece of him that he had been missing. He had dreamt of this day, of finding her. But in his dreams his ship made him whole again. It symbolized his life and his freedom and all that he was or ever wanted to be.
But like the patchwork of her outer hull or the new paint on her bulkhead, he too had been torn apart and put together differently. Someone else had both harmed him and caressed him during their absence and his ship and his freedom no longer defined him. They were a part of him, no doubt, but they were no longer all of him.
He gathered up his strength and lifted himself up onto his feet. Walking along the corridors of his ship, he took inventory of every new relay switch, every fresh patch of upholstery or shiny splash of paint. He walked calmly into the cockpit and slid into the pilot's seat, caressing her controls with a gentle touch he hadn't afforded her since he won her in a game of Sabacc all those years ago.
With the press of a button, he warmed her up, his heart thumping in line with the whine of her engines. He sat there and listened to the hum of his ship as she waited for him to take her and guide her wherever he wanted to go, anywhere in the universe with their dreams and wishes as their only limitation.
Closing his eyes and shaking his head, he started the shut down sequence. There was nowhere he wanted to go.