The Mercs
Han's pre-mission briefing took place in the port mess hall of Home One and had all the decorum of a raunchy game of sabacc. His pilots—twenty-two in all—lounged around the tables like the misbehaved miscreants they were: boots on chairs and shirts untucked, arguing loudly about the relative incongruity of S-foil degradation rates in acidic climates. To Han's mind it was a patently stupid discourse; X-wings were notoriously clunky in atmosphere. But pilots were pilots and would argue with other pilots with their last breaths, if they could swing it.
The grip of surrealism took him again, as it always did when he found himself walking into a briefing. In what universe would he have ever imagined himself a commander in the Rebel Alliance? In what universe would he have ever imagined himself liking it?
Life was weird like that.
Friendly sneers and a few affectionate eyerolls greeted him when he entered. Not a single one of his pilots wore proper Alliance-issue flight-suits; Han wasn't wearing one either. Their apparel aside, they were diverse in character, edgy, a little cagey when asked about personal details or backgrounds, not at all what the Alliance seemed to prefer. Han's flight couldn't represent how High Command saw him any better if everyone had worn identical spacer garb like little Solo clones. Restless with unused energy, feet tapped, fingers clawed at the tables and the hall echoed with Basic and several other languages, hurled through the recycled air at what felt like the speed of light. He caught some Ubese in the mix and tried very hard to forget the conversation he'd had with Leia a few days ago, about second and third and fourth languages, how together they had a good few to choose from and how goddamned beautiful Leia was when she blushed and cursed in every language she knew.
He wiped his free hand over his mouth and tried to clear his head.
Their official designation was Green Squadron, though that was not the favored name. Too generic, too rule-abiding and lawful. It reeked of tradition: Alliance squadrons had been color-coded by skill for years now. The Rogues had been Red Squadron at Yavin, he remembered, and Blue and Yellow Squadrons were still in regular service.
Naturally, tradition hadn't settled well with his flight. Green Squadron worked fine in drills and would be fine in a skirmish. If they ever got to one, that is. But in typical style, his squadron had been equally bold in adopting their own designation, one that High Command vociferiously denied using and thought was patently stupid. They'd embraced the petname the Rogues had given them. The Mercs, short for mercenaries. The vagabonds, the former contractors. The jaded criminals who'd joined the cause as a last-ditch effort to plant the seed of a better life in a hypothetical future.
No other commander had been willing to take these mouthy degenerates to the sims, much less out in battle. But once the news had gone out that he'd been commissioned and named commander, the other contractors who'd signed up had flocked to his roster.
Han hadn't been all that worried, though High Command certainly had some opinions on the matter. Carlist Rieekan had called it an unusual command and Han had overhead Jan Dodonna call them a disaster and a disgrace to the Alliance. Since he himself was both of those things, Han had felt no compunctions about leading them anywhere they were assigned. It helped that Leia felt the command suited him. She inspired a bit of hope in him.
And so here was his command: a bunch of loud, obstinate lowlifes who didn't like being led by anyone who wasn't of their own ilk.
Six weeks in and he was making headway. Camaraderie was up even as the rations got slimmer. Their sim scores improved every time he took them in; they logged more hours than anyone else on Home One by a long shot. Many of his pilots flew their own spacecraft and he was getting better at strategizing how to best use their motley assortment of ammunition and speed designations. They were a work in progress. Han just wished they'd stop caring about what everyone else in the Alliance was doing.
"Alright," he said as he strode to the smaller table they'd designated as his command seat, an old nerfhide sack thrown over his shoulder. "Settle down."
Eyes turned to him, antennae swiveled in his direction, but little else changed, boots still up on the tables, pilots lounging around as if they owned the place.
"We got another scouting run today. Easy perimeter sweep, nothing too advanced, but it'll give us a chance to work on that big-top maneuver we haven't figured out yet. And if you could work hard not to clip each other's wings this time, I'd really fucking appreciate it."
Soft laughter around the room. "Yeah, Frali," a female said to Han's left. "Keep yer wings to yerself."
"Shut the fuck up, Kral," Frali replied good-naturedly.
Han knew before she spoke who would voice the next barb, turning amused eyes to the beautiful, tall woman sitting to his left. Her long arms were crossed over her chest and she had the heel of one spacer's boot on the lip of her chair. Her dark skin shone in the harsh overhead lighting and the tight bun on top of her head belied an explosion of black, curly, natural hair. Her blaster rig sat low on her thigh and she looked chronically unimpressed with any of what was happening.
"I wouldn't shoot my mouth off if I were you," Salla Zend said with a sweet smile no one believed for a second. "Considering."
Han hid his smile. Thank the fucking stars for Salla. Smart, quick on her feet, ambitious; her designation as his executive officer had been inevitable. They worked well together and she respected his relationships with both Chewie and Leia the same way he respected hers with a Chev named Prisht, something he hadn't considered until Chewie himself had brought it up. Salla and he had a history, sure, but that shit had been aired out and she felt more like a … a friend? A sister? Someone he could trust to not stab him in the back at the nearest opportunity. The only other person he would have chosen as his XO would have been Chewie, but Chewie was useless on a comm unless the entire Alliance suddenly started understanding Shyriiwook. And the furball had been adamant that Salla was the better choice: someone he could trust and also someone who could rally a group around him, if he needed her to. And it made sense, too; if the Falcon got destroyed in battle, the squadron needed a leader to take over and Salla flew her own ship.
Salla had said she'd joined the Alliance just a few days after Han not because she was a follower but because the events at Nar Shaddaa had opened her eyes to the larger conflict at play. She'd always had a little more faith than him, a little more willingness to believe in the metaphysical and since she'd been the one to start talking about mistryka in the first place, it only made sense that she'd eventually agree to fight alongside one. Salla more than anyone understood the stakes.
When princesses started blocking stun blasts with their hands, it made a thinking person think.
Han turned to watch the reaction to Salla's quick takedown. Kral, a former slaver from Commenor, had no right to criticize anyone with the way her sims had looked the past few days. Something was stuck in that massive brain of hers and Han couldn't quite figure it out. The drill he had planned for the scouting run this afternoon would hopefully help rattle something loose and move her sim scores out of the fresher and up with the rest of theirs.
Han caught Kral's eye, nodded and then resumed the briefing. "Our quadrant is in the Blue Sector, Zone 266, twenty degrees to—"
A loud chorus of groans interrupted him and he rolled his eyes. Yeah, High Command had a low-as-shit opinion of the Mercs and it showed on the duty roster. Zone 266 was a graveyard of absolutely nothing, ust a bunch of gravity wells and space trash. There was no reason to survey it, other than that they were being jerked around until they fucked up. Set up to fail.
And yet Han took his command seriously. Despite a few inevitable personality clashes, his flight was solid. Kral's sim scores—so much lower than everyone else's in the squadron—were still three classes higher than the average Alliance pilot's. Most of them wouldn't beat Luke or the Rogues in the sim, but they were good. They were tried-and-true pilots blacklisted because of their pasts, problem-solvers who'd been tested in the crucible of Imperial kill lists. Many of them were former employees of the Hutts. Han was certain they'd make an impact in their first engagement with the Empire, if the big-wigs ever let them fight.
"It's a shitty assignment," Han conceded, and the voices quieted. "They're all shitty assignments. And we're gonna have to work harder than anyone else to be taken seriously. We all know that."
A couple nods, a twist to Salla's lips. They knew where they stood in the Alliance hierarchy. No surprises there.
"But lighten up, kids. We're going to have some fun," Han said and upended the sack, the contents falling onto the table.
Out spilled twenty-two holocard packs of old-fashioned playing cards. Not the kind one saw in the casinos anymore; the ones you'd find in rundown cantinas with a busted sabacc set-up. Physical cards, something someone could touch, feel.
"No food?" an Ilia yelled from the corner.
"The hell are we going to do with those?" Shin-Pe asked.
Han looped his fingers through his belt-loops, hoping against hope that his ploy would work. "We're going to play."
The plan was simple: work on multitasking. Their issues of late—the clipped wings on their scouting missions and, Han suspected, Kral's low sim scores—had more to do with his pilots' split focus than lack of ability. They weren't social pariahs, not quite, but they sure as hell didn't enjoy the kind of uproar and validation most of the other flights did. They kept to themselves, were considered classless and without merit.
That got in a pilot's head sometimes. Ego was part of the package; pilots needed some outrageous confidence to do what the job required. And that was the name of the game, how the galaxy worked. By ostracizing them, by putting all the lowlifes together, the Alliance told them they were worthless. Expendable. Fodder for the blaster cannons. He needed his pilots to be able to shrug it off and focus.
He needed to focus, too.
The starfield in front of him was magnanimous and empty. The Millennium Falcon hummed all around him, his baby keeping him safe. It was good to stretch his spacer's legs, to feel the real deal in the heartless black of space. Sims were good but nothing beat this view, this feeling, the power and powerlessness in being a sentient being in vacuum. That, and the Alliance sims only offered one YT-1300 option and it was nothing compared to the Falcon. Better to run this drill—however risky—outside of the sim, where consequences were real and no one got a re-do.
He took a deep breath, toggled the comm and began.
"Green Leader to Green Squadron, here are the game rules. You can't cheat. You can't crash. The minute you do either, you're out."
"And dead," Green Eight quipped.
Chewbacca huffed a laugh in the Falcon's copilot's chair and Han shot him an exasperated look as he muted the comm.
What? He is not wrong, the Wookiee chortled.
"You don't have to say it, pal. Shit."
They do not understand me anyway, there is no harm.
Han opened his mouth with a smart retort, then closed it and nodded. He turned back to the viewport and conceded the point, reopening the comm channel.
"Thrallian sabacc rules minus the randomizer. Queen of Darkness beats all. Once you have her, you win. Game over."
"Green Three to Green Leader," Kral said. "This is a stupid game. Each deck has four queens and we've got twenty-two decks."
"There's 80 fucking queens roaming around here, Green Leader," Qiee said.
"Then it'll be easy to win," Han said. "Green Squadron on me. Let's get this party started."
The Mercs tightened their formation—a modified three-dimensional pyramid—and set out with the Millennium Falcon at its point. Han set the heading for the appropriate sector; it would be a quick trip of maybe an hour, including the ride there and back. No sweat.
The Alliance had taken to scouting out the local areas around Home One. The rebels' surveillance droids would pick up anything in the immediate area but further out could be a mystery. Most of the space around the Alliance—ninety-six percent or so—was nothing but emptiness and gravity wells.
Every squadron had their rotation for scouting missions. Most had some sort of system—even an asteroid belt or a far-flung former-moon—that might mask an Imperial probe or a TIE fighter. But Zone 266 had nothing and they had scouted that nothing sixteen times in the past three weeks.
Are we playing, too? Chewie growled hopefully.
Han smiled but shook his head. "We're the grown-ups."
How boring, Chewie huffed.
"Tell me about it. Commanding sucks."
The thing was… It didn't. This whole exercise had been the product of a middle-of-the-night brainstorm session he'd had with Leia. He'd complained endlessly about Kral and her low sim scores, about the inability of his squadron to hold formation while approaching enemy combatants. He'd worried about Imperial ambushes and the fact that the Mercs were just plain not ready to engage as part of a squadron. They were individuals, brilliant alone but not used to covering anyone else's backs and he needed them to use their experience to their advantage, to care about each other.
"They're not thinking with their heads," he'd complained in the early hours of the morning, in bed with Leia, as she read supply reports on her datapad. "They're good pilots on their own but you put 'em with each other and they fall apart."
Leia had adjusted the bedsheet around herself, tilted her head. "What are they thinking with if not their heads?"
"Egos," he'd muttered.
"So then bait their egos," she'd said. "What would have worked for you if you were in their position?"
He hadn't been able to answer her question right away, had been distracted by the softness of her hair and the way she looked genuinely interested in the worries of his command. But later, after she'd slipped to sleep against his chest, he'd considered it over and over again for hours.
What would've worked for him? A challenge. Plain and simple. Something to brag about.
So Han had concocted a way to challenge them: a card game played in their cockpits. Thrallian sabacc rules were the simplest. One card would win the pot, and since Thrallian sabacc was played with each player in separate rooms—to avoid cheating—it was the only kind of game that fit. He'd never liked Thrallian sabacc; he liked bluffing and cheating. Watching the other players sweat, make mistakes, finding their tells. He thrived on it. In fact, he found everything else boring as hell. The only reason he'd ever won a sabacc game in his life was because he was good at reading people, even if his bluffs didn't always pan out for some reason.
They only have to find and play a Queen of Darkness? Chewie asked.
Han nodded.
You didn't make it that easy for them.
Han grinned. "Sure, I did."
But Chewie was having none of it. Where are all the queens, Cub?
"In our main hold," he answered with an innocent look after checking to make sure the comm was silenced. "Why?"
Chewie whuffed a laugh, brought up the deflector shields and opened up their full sensor array.
"Alright, Mercs," Han said into his comm. "Who's first?"
Salla figured it out pretty quickly and that didn't surprise Han in the least. He'd seen her suspicious eyes as he'd dismissed the flight to their ships, the twist to her lips that told him she didn't think he was on the up-and-up. That, and he'd never actually been any good at lying to Salla when they'd been together. It was one of the many reasons he'd scampered off in the middle of the night when he'd left her so many years ago.
"You took out all the fucking queens, didn't you, Slick?"
Chewie laughed and Han smiled with him, marvelling over his copilot's change of heart. The Wookiee had slowly found some trust in Salla, even though she still struggled to understand him.
Zend is clever, he growled.
Han nodded but focused on the comm. "That's Green Leader to you, Green Two."
"Fine. Green Two to Green Leader, you're a goddamn cheat. Over."
"Don't know what you're talking about."
"Green Fourteen to Green Leader, let me get it on the record that this is a stupid game."
"Green Leader to Green Flight, whine and bitch all you want, but I'd like to point out that none of you morons have missed your mark so far."
And it was true. The gambit had worked like a charm; focused on their individual deck of holocards at the helms of their beaten and battered ships, the Mercs had managed a passable big-top loop three times. A record for his group. No collisions, no clipped wings. With their attention split three ways—on the game, on their maneuvering and on their sensor suites—Green Squadron had risen above themselves and managed a halfway decent run. And he'd preen and boast about that until they all got it through their thick, dumb skulls that they could function like a real Alliance flight if they just focused a little.
Without looking or speaking, Chewie held out a paw for Han to slap in victory. Han matched him with a quick grin and then ordered one more pass through the big-top maneuver to make sure the other runs hadn't been flukes. No one could ever accuse him of trusting too easily.
And yet, ten minutes later, even he had to concede that the Mercs had managed several passable big-tops. His grin broadened, watching the kids scramble and adjust as they tore through space-time like hungry lothcats. He loved everything about it: the challenge, the success, the badgering and big talk as the squadron got more and more comfortable, as they changed the rules and began playing a Chandrilian kids card game that he had not been invited to join.
He supposed that was fair.
"Look at that, our time is up," he said into the comm minutes later, proud and satisfied his point had been made. "Green Leader to Green Flight, let's head back home—"
A squawk pierced the still air of the Falcon's cockpit, loud and high-pitched. Then a rush of electronic static like a wave, bursting through the comm speakers and enveloping the whole squadron. It was deafening, unbearable and overwhelming sound that left Han's eardrums ringing. He winced and grabbed for the comm volume even as he knew he couldn't turn it all the way off or he'd never hear the Merc's calls for help.
"Chewie!" he yelled to be heard over the noise. "What is this?"
Poor Chewie's auditory senses were clearly hurting him. He had a long arm wrapped over his head to cover his ears, trying to stave off the worst of it, and his other hand flew over the sensor controls. Han could tell he was furiously trying to determine the source of the awful noise. Han squeezed his eyes shut and tried to refocus but the sound rang in his ears, echoing, hurting the very center of his skull. Even the lights of the Falcon's console seemed unbearably bright.
And then the sound was gone, abruptly cut off, leaving the Falcon's cockpit empty and quiet.
"Green Two to Green Leader," Salla's voice, etched in worry. "I'm not reading anything. What was that?"
Han blinked, shook his head. "No idea, Green Two," he replied. "Chewie, where'd it come from?"
Sensor array to port, sixteen klicks away.
"Green Ten to Green Leader, I picked it up, too. Looks like a foreign object. Signal burst to unknown location."
Han grit his teeth. "Imperial probe?"
"Looks that way."
Han flipped power into the turret guns and turned to Chewie. Without any questions, the Wookiee took manual control of the turrets and lowered the secondary environmental controls to boost power into the sublight engines.
"Anybody's instruments telling them why we all got deafened for a spell there?" he asked.
A standard probe didn't create sounds like that and an Imperial probe definitely didn't. Imperial probes were built to emit light only, transmitting signals through lightwaves rather than soundwaves. Faster, clearer, easier to document.
"Green Nine to Green Leader, I think I might have an idea," a deep voice said. Green Nine, a genderfluid Slyfix named For-Na, seemed completely unbothered by the noise. Perhaps Slyfix auditory organs didn't operate the same way other humanoids' did. Han felt a twinge of jealousy for them.
"What do you have, Nine?"
"It's a heavy electromagnetic cloud. At least, I think it is. There's no way to be certain, but my panel reads as static interference and I don't know what else could cause it."
Han sat back in his chair, swept his eyes over the viewport, forming a cohesive plan. After a moment he cleared his throat and ordered, "Green Flight, we're checking it out. Hold form, keep sensors on high power. You got anything in your ship's bag of tricks, now's the time to share."
"Green Six to Green Leader, permission to take your flank. My girl's got her gravity turret gun."
"Copy, Six," Han said. "Greens on Six and me. Sensors up, shields up. Set marks for unknown object at point three-two-two."
"Roger, Leader," Salla said. "What do you want to do? Destroy or capture?"
Han considered it, the gravity of her question sinking in. The beauty of the Mercs was that several of their ships were smuggling freighters or souped-up engineering rigs. If the Rogues had been scouting this quadrant, they would only be able to destroy it or tow it back to Home One, and towing space debris around was a ludicrous waste of resources and fuel. But the Mercs had open holds, some of them with radiation-shielded compartments. They had the ability to tow the object back without any unnecessary dramatics.
He imagined what Luke or Leia would say if they were here.
"Green Eleven, your radiation shields working okay?" he asked.
"Affirmative, Green Leader. She's purring like a spaznik."
"Great. Then let's take her in and put her to work."
Han took a deep breath and set his sights for point three-two-two, watching the Mercs fill into a perfect big-top formation to scout the unknown object. He almost smiled. They'd found their queen all by themselves, just in the nick of time.
Han led the Mercs into their assigned bay and then swept beneath the hull of Home One to dock the Falcon in her starboard equivalent. He grimaced when he saw most of High Command congregating around where the loading ramp would descend. Through the viewport, they looked tiny and petulant, a hilarious group, past its respective prime.
He tried hard not to appear as if he was looking for one member of High Command in particular, but when he checked the edges of the group, he couldn't see her. Must be at the other docking bay, he thought. It would be in-character for Leia to want to see the probe first.
Chewie rumbled a cheerful sound about going to talk to their superior officers and Han added his own confident hell yeah. Meetings with High Command didn't cause him any stress, but they weren't at the top of his list of people with whom he wanted to spend time. They exhausted him. All rules and protocols and charters, life-and-death, the Empire, blah blah blah. He understood why they had to be that way; rather, Leia had tried to explain why they had to be that way. With the exception of Leia and Carlist Rieekan they just weren't his kind of people . Too stuffy, too stuck in their ways; it often felt like a war-within-a-war, like they barely tolerated him and saw him as a necessary nuisance.
But today he had won. Today he had proved that they needed him and his people, that High Command needed to respect the Mercs. He was confident in his squadron, confident that they had done the right thing when they had Teso capture the probe and lock it in his radiation-shielded compartments. He had every right to swagger his way down the ramp.
Pride sat high in his chest, the knowledge that he had accomplished something incredible in the face of general disapproval, that he had shown a bunch of assholes that their judgement was wrong. And not just wrong about himself but about the Mercs, too. No one else could have done it better; the Alliance was lucky it had been the Mercs on duty today.
Take that, old man, he thought in the direction of Jan Dodonna.
His walk down the ramp had to look insufferably cocky. It really was too bad Leia wasn't here.
"Not bad for a bunch of mercenaries, huh?" he said as he hit the end of the ramp.
Several mouths turned down, with the exception of Rieekan, who hid his amusement with a purse of his lips. "Not bad at all," the Alderaanian said. "Fine work."
"Indeed," Dodonna added. It looked like the words cost Jan a few years of his life.
The older man crossed his arms over his chest, stubbornness set in his shoulders and his nearly-permanent scowl.
Han grinned at Dodonna's reluctant praise, the one positive word the man had ever uttered in his presence. "Ah, Jan, don't look so upset. I'm sure I'll screw up something for you soon."
Dodonna's eyes squinted and his lips seemed to disappear into a thin, disapproving line. "General Dodonna, Solo. And we could only be so lucky."
Han's smirk broadened, obnoxious and triumphant. Dodonna's annoyance was like manna; Han could live in a sea of it and never feel satisfied.
"Thank you, Commander, for your work today," a deep female voice said to his right.
Han's heart tripped all over itself, a genuine smile broke over his lips and his eyes whipped to find her quicker than the Falcon ripped through open space on a speed test.
Leia.
Small in the midst of the group of old, bitter men, she shone bright to him, like a star, a supergiant at the center of an unremarkable planetary system. Her hair was braided and wrapped around her head in a no-nonsense style and she wore a mix of standard Alliance-issue fatigues. Countless beings in their motley group wore this same ensemble every damn day… And yet she looked like the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life.
Her eyes were bright on his, though the rest of her expression was remarkably unaffected: her full lips, her dark eyelashes, the long sweep of fair skin on her throat, all of it enchanting him, making him feel stupid and happy, even as he fought the urge to grin like a lovesick Zarian.
"No problem," he said instead, and shoved his hands in his pockets.
He held her eyes a beat too long, he could tell, because suddenly Carlist's eyes felt like ion beams on his face. But Han couldn't help it. It was like seeing the world around him in a split-screen holo: he saw Leia Organa as she was now, indomitable and fierce leader of a revolution; the way everyone else saw her.
But then he could also remember her dark eyes on him last night when she pressed those beautiful lips to his with such ferocity that it had stopped his breath. The way she had looked so trusting, so seductive as she knelt in front of him, eyes bright in the dim light. Her whispered cries as he'd returned the favor, the way she'd whispered his name like a prayer.
Han, oh, Han, yes…
Heavy, the connection between them. Visceral. It could be felt in every particle of the air, the way they stared at each other, the helpless wanting that enveloped them.
This was becoming a problem. The last thing he wanted was to give away their secret before Leia was ready. But he couldn't do it, couldn't pretend he didn't love this woman with everything he had, that his priorities hadn't fundamentally changed from self-service to adoring and taking care of her for the rest of his life, if he had anything to say about it.
"—and Diagnostics should have a report within a few hours. Did it look like it was of Imperial manufacturing? Solo?"
Han's eyes found his commanding officer's. "I didn't get a good look at it."
"But the lights were out?" Carlist pressed.
Han turned to him, noted the slight tilt to the general's head, the careful expression that Han suspected might indicate deeper understanding. "No lights. But the static burst makes me nervous."
"Why?" Leia asked.
"It could mean anything," he began. "But we got an earful of static interference just before we found the probe."
Dodonna shifted, uncomfortable. "And so?"
"Imp probes use light transmission tech to send coded messages, which is why their lights are always on. This one could be an old Imperial probe."
"In which case the lights have burnt out and we're safe," Leia finished for him.
He nodded. "Or it could be a probe from a pirate clan. Maybe Black Sun. Maybe a Hutt syndicate. Someone else who might be scouting the area."
A pause in which Han felt a flicker of unease. He wasn't sure where it came from but the unease settled into his gut like a seed planted in fertile soil. There was a third possibility here, too, one he didn't want to consider. One that carried with it the inexorable evil who hunted Luke and Leia like a fiend, who promised death wherever he walked...
Han tried to mask his sudden shift in mood, tried to look unconcernedly at the assembled generals around him, the deckplates firm beneath his feet and the loftiness and superiority surrounding High Command like a cloud. But the seed took root and now he could feel it slipping through his chest like Sunflare Ivy. Fear shot through him and he realized that there was one more very real possibility, one that threatened everything he'd built for himself, everything he loved.
What if it's Vader? he thought. What if he's trying something new?
Leia left the High Command briefing room with a hint of a smile on her lips, one she couldn't and didn't particularly want to contain. The other members of High Command were worried, grave expressions showing the depth of their anxiety and notes of concern in their hushed voices. She could feel it, too, in her chest; it wasn't not there. The discovery of the probe was troubling, even if it hadn't been definitively identified as Imperial yet. It spelled doom in letters so big anyone could see them, could feel them as they hovered over their heads.
But even so, Leia's eyes were bright. She was happy, proud and felt lifted, like riding a wave.
Self-awareness wasn't always her specialty but even she could feel the sharp right-angle of avoidance in her breaking smile. The probe was dangerous, a relic from a life that threatened annihilation every second of every day. And while nothing had changed in her physical circumstances, her emotional buoyancy was out of her control. She just wasn't able to mimic the stern hostility she'd worn so convincingly the past two years, since her capture over Tatooine and the subsequent destruction of her world. Her default setting had changed; she felt light, happy for the first time in memory. The discrepancy between who she was supposed to be and who she was nagged at her in short, quiet moments, but she also wanted to soak up the warmth in her chest and hold onto it with every fiber of her being. Who cared if she smiled after a dour meeting? Who the hell cared? No one who mattered, that was for sure.
Han. She let the smile break as she turned the corner toward the corridor that led to the starboard docking bay. The enormous hangar seemed quiet, muted, and she paid no mind to the pilots and mechanics working near her quick trek to the Millennium Falcon. She supposed her facade was crumbling by the footstep: smile broad as the daylight none of them had seen in weeks.
But I don't care, she repeated to herself. Despair had done nothing for her in the past. She resolved to take this spark of joy and treasure it.
She found him fuming in the cockpit, feet up on the console and a sour twist to his lips. He hadn't changed from his ubiquitous ensemble when she'd been here earlier. Black, tight-fitting trousers covered strong thighs, untucked white shirt leaving just enough skin visible to be on the far side of appropriate. He wore his typical black utility vest, too, and his blaster hung off his hip like an extension of his body. His boots were scuffed right at the heel and with a jolt Leia realized they were more than likely the same ones he had worn in the marketplace on Nar Shaddaa. She shook her head. He must have repaired them himself at some point.
On the ramp he had looked strong, aggressive, forthright and commanding. A man to be reckoned with, a presence that demanded respect. But here, now, in the privacy of his home, he looked softer, more thoughtful. Less commanding and more contemplative.
Goddess, he was spectacular. She could look at him for hours and be left unsatisfied.
She watched him unnoticed, relishing the rare opportunity. Gone was the bravado, the at-times-insufferable confidence and in its place was the Han she loved best, the Han he only allowed a few trusted people to see. Vulnerable in a way he wasn't with Jan and the others in the room. This Han cared deeply about things, about people, even if he didn't always admit it.
A private smile played on her lips, the sweet taste of secrecy on her tongue. She had respected the man on the ramp, the commander who had led his squadron with bravery and intelligence. But this man… Warmth bloomed beneath her skin as she took him in. This was the man she adored, a complicated man driven by sometimes inexplicable motives but always finding his way to the greater good. For that, he made her proud and soft and vulnerable, too.
"Hey, Sweetheart," he said without looking up, eyes still trained on the flimsy.
She shook her head and stepped through the open hach. So much for covert ogling and dreamy fantasies.
"Hi," she said and slid into the space between the pilot and copilot's seats, turning her back on the viewport to face him. "You had an exciting day."
He made an unintelligible sound deep in his throat.
"Carlist issued a warning to High Command right we talked," she continued. "We're awaiting a report from Diagnostics to debate evacuation orders."
"Huh."
Her smile dropped like a stone at his tone. She shifted, crossed one foot over the other and tried to ignore the discomfort of leaning against the console. She could probably sit in Chewie's chair without a reaction from Han; she'd done it before in battle. But Leia didn't quite know the rules when the Falcon wasn't under attack and she didn't want to be presumptuous. And clearly Han was in a bad mood; she knew enough about his limits now to avoid a fight.
Most of the time.
"I saw the footage," she began. "They looked good. Focused. What did you do?"
Han's eyes met hers for the first time since she entered the cockpit. "Got creative," he said. "Worked just in time, too. We could barely see through that electromagnetic mess. Did you see how dense that thing was? The cloud the probe was hiding in?"
Leia shook her head. High Command had only seen the Mercs on approach, not what their instrumentation had been picking up.
"Damn near took off Salla's canopy; the thing fried up all the Intruder's navigational systems for a few minutes. Only reason we got the probe was because of Teso's radiation shields. We almost didn't find it at all."
She nodded and lifted her hips to sit on her hands. Whatever Han had done with the Mercs had prevented a disastrous collision with the probe and from what he'd told her in the past few weeks, his pilots might not have been quick enough to survive it had he not addressed the issue head-on. Han's ingenuity in commanding his squadron had been on broad display.
Her smile slowly started to reappear, kick-started by the man in front of her. If she had ever had any doubts about Han's ability to lead a flight group of his own—even a disorganized and haphazardly-constructed flight like the Mercs—they had been soundly dashed. Han was every bit the calm and competent leader she'd known he could be.
"I'm proud of you," she whispered.
Han blinked at her, tilted his head, crinkled the flimsy in his hand.
She continued a little louder. "Most commanders wouldn't have thought to tow the probe in for investigation. Most flights wouldn't have picked up the signal in the first place, never mind avoiding a collision in an electromagnetic cloud in a gravity well. Those are some tough variables for a young flight to handle."
Han didn't react, his face set in the same grim look, but he tossed the flimsy into Chewie's seat and caressed her hip with a lazy sweep of his fingers.
"This is the part where you accept the nice words," she nudged after a beat.
He shrugged and tugged her in his direction. "Why are you all the way over here? Don't you have an evacuation to plan?" he asked.
"The meeting's in an hour."
"Okay, fine," he said. "Then why are you all the way over there?"
Leia smiled, eyed the distance between them, all one meter of space. "I'm giving you room to brood."
"Brood?"
"Reflect," she said. "Be angry and petulant. Brood."
He tried to hide his grin but she saw the quick twist in his lips, the first indication of amusement she'd seen from him. "I don't brood."
She hummed and pushed off the console, stepping closer to him so that she could brush a hand through his hair. She had to smile, couldn't hold it back: she'd spent a great deal of time the past few years wanting to run her fingers through his infuriatingly attractive head of hair. It was still a novelty to have permission to do it at will.
"Looks an awful lot like brooding to me. What's bothering you?"
Han pulled her to sit crossways on his lap, wrapping his arms around her torso in a loose embrace. She leaned into the warmth of his arms and chest, tilting her head to look at him expectantly, all the while relishing his warmth, the strength with which he held her.
"Diagnostics just came back when you showed up," he said, waving a hand at the flimsy he'd discarded. "It's an older model but it's definitely Imperial."
Leia's heart sank. "Has it been deactivated?"
"They don't know. Lights have been out for a while, though."
Leia pursed her lips. "So it's not part of Vader's search party. That's good news."
Great news, actually. Han and Leia had been tracking the Imperial bounty lists since their skirmish with Vader on Nar Shaddaa, watching for the inevitable skyrocket of her reward sum as it shot past anyone else's with the exception of Luke Skywalker's. High Command had politely asked Leia why that might be, why her bounty was now as high as the only known Force-sensitive member of the Alliance. She had dismissed their concerns with practiced nonchalance. She was an icon, after all, and she'd managed to escape Vader's clutches not once but twice. The Dark Lord of the Sith had an image to maintain and she was a particularly barbed thorn in his side.
Only Han, Leia, Chewie and Salla knew the real reason why Vader now wanted her so badly, why Luke and she were both valued at an astronomical level. Two Force-sensitive humans in the Alliance ranks? Of course their bounties would be similar. They were just lucky the Empire hadn't put the news out themselves.
Leia was not ready to disclose that information. She didn't want that mantle. She wanted to lead the Alliance to victory with Han at her side, wanted to help him settle his debt to Jabba the Hutt and celebrate his military victories without the added weight of Jedi locked around her ankles. She'd seen what it had done to Luke, the deep-rooted suspicion some had of him, the way others sometimes treated him like Alliance military protocol wasn't enough of a check on his power. The Emperor had been successful in his extermination campaign, of course, but he might have been even more successful in his campaign to sow distrust of the Jedi in the minds of the general public.
And she was already a gray figure, controversial, best used as a symbol of the Alderaanian genocide, the poor little princess who got vengeance on the Emperor by being bloodthirsty and ruthless when she needed to be. An angel of death, some believed: above any emotion but righteous anger. It was part of the reason she'd been able to avoid questions about her relationship with Han; it wasn't like they had been particularly good at hiding it.
If the probe Han had found wasn't connected directly to Vader's search for Luke and herself, she could put off the inevitable questions for another time. This wasn't her typical mindset—Leia was nothing if not forward and blunt—but the enormity of the prospect eclipsed her logic. It drove Han insane, she knew, and it would hurt Luke when she told him. But she just… Couldn't. The entire idea made her want to run.
"I'm going to vote against evacuation," she said, picking at the sleeve of Han's shirt. "I don't know where we would go if we left here. Echo Base isn't ready yet."
Han didn't respond, staring out the cockpit to the docking bay beyond.
"What are you thinking?" she prompted.
His eyes met hers and she could see worry in them as he ran a hand up and down her thigh. "Something doesn't feel right," he admitted. "Can't put my finger on it."
"You think the probe is still functional."
"Dunno. But if it is, we're in trouble."
Leia watched him, the grim set of his lips, the way his eyes looked far away, the tension in his hands as he ran soothing palms over her legs and her sides.
"You said Diagnostics thinks the probe is old."
"No, they said the power pack had been drained. It was always stupid for Imperial probes to have their lights on. They might have just learned to keep 'em off, save themselves some energy. The thing could be totally functional, could have already sent a beam transmission on us."
His eyes settled on the console, a hand on his mouth as he sat lost in thought. It was funny watching Han be so careful, so cautious with the safety of Home One, when he was downright suicidal in flight. He had happily taken the probe to the Alliance flagship. He had been praised for his resourcefulness. Rieekan himself had clapped him on the back and told him he'd made the right decision. And yet here he sat, deep in thought, worrying. It was no wonder High Command didn't quite understand him; sometimes she didn't, either. He should be preening, glowing, arrogant as only he could be.
"It's not like you to second-guess yourself," she murmured.
A flash of green and he was staring at her with all the focus of his considerable brainpower. She leaned back and narrowed her eyes, feeling his hands clasp together to support her lower back.
"I just brought an Imperial probe onto the fucking flagship, Leia," he bit out. "You don't think that's worth second-guessing myself?"
She opened her mouth, closed it, tried again. "I would have done the same thing," she said. "The only way to proceed was to bring it to Diagnostics."
"And Diagnostics can't tell if it's active or not."
"Diagnostics ran the first survey tests on it. We'll know more in an hour or two."
"I should've destroyed it," he said.
Leia rolled her eyes. "You're overreacting."
Han lifted his eyebrows at her. "The Imps could be on our doorstep in a few hours if that thing is active."
"There's no way—"
"Him, Leia. He could be here soon."
Quiet: harsh and brittle. Leia felt like he had punched her, emotionally ruthless and heavy. Her nightmare came back to her in searing detail: the city in the clouds, the fall, the cold, deep, unrecognizable voice. I'm coming, it had said, and the echo of her nauseous wake-up came to her in startling detail.
"You mean Vader," she breathed.
He didn't reply but Leia knew she was right. The stiff line of Han's shoulders, the way his hands grasped and then released the fabric of her shirt only to repeat the gesture. Han was genuinely terrified. It made her feel like her ribcage had shrunk, that both her lungs and heart were too big for her torso.
She tried logic first; to counter his emotional vulnerability.
"Why would he come personally?" she asked. "If the probe is active, they wouldn't send the Executor. They would send a … a smaller scout team."
The nearest moff's scoutship, maybe a cruiser. It would take time to assemble any sort of Imperial ambush and, honestly, Vader himself had to be elsewhere in the galaxy. The last they'd heard of him, he'd been to Mustafar and then to Selagiss. All one would have to do to find him was to follow his destructive path; he was not subtle. And, too, she seriously doubted Vader would drop all his other evil plans to check out an old probe in a wide swath of nothing near the Outer Reaches.
"You don't think Vader is out there, right now, looking for you?" he asked, breathless and almost angry. "You don't think he's using everything he's got to find you? To kill you?"
His words struck a nerve and she suddenly felt cold. Cold on the skin of her arms and cold spreading down her back.
"Be serious," she said with the last of her composure. "Vader isn't the vrelt in the shadows. When he comes, it won't be because of an old probe. It will be because of something else."
Han laughed: dark, low and grim. "Right. When he comes."
It took her a second to realize what she'd said—when and not if—and then the dam broke. She couldn't stem the flow of her own terror; it rocketed through her veins, from her head to her toes and back again. Her skin felt too small for her organs. The Falcon's cockpit was suddenly far too confined for both of them. Trapped, like an animal: pure instincts powered up and ready to go.
She pursed her lips and fought for control over herself with a wave of her hand. "If he comes."
"Not what you said, Sweetheart," he said.
"It's what I meant to say," she hedged, knowing she was caught. "I'm no more important than—"
"You are to me."
Leia stopped, hung on a breath, watching Han's eyes as they shifted away from hers and toward the canopy of the cockpit. A silent moment between them, intimate and vulnerable, and it tore her to shreds, the way his voice cracked and his eyes closed and his whole mercenary persona dropped to the deckplates of his beloved ship. With one short sentence, he became a man desperate to save the woman he loved.
"He's gonna find you, Leia," Han said into the quiet. "You and Luke. And if you argue about evacuating, High Command is going to listen to you and he'll be here in hours. I can feel it."
Leia's heart clenched at the pain in Han's voice, at the rabid fear she could hear beneath his certainty. She felt his simmering panic at the way the need for her safety clawed at the sinew in his chest, the powerlessness in his hands as he held her on his lap.
Her fear for her own safety slid away and instead she focused on Han, on his worries and fears, on making him feel better. She wanted so badly to help him; she respected Han's devotion but couldn't bear to believe he was right. Vader was far, far away. They were safe here.
And besides, evacuating now would waste more resources than they could afford. Hoth was not ready for them; the base was not yet fully functional. It was unsafe. And the refueling costs of moving a Mon Cal cruiser across the galaxy alone was worth serious debate. It wasn't like there were any real assurances Hoth was any safer than the gravity well nest they sat in now.
And to base it all on Han's feelings of unease? That made no sense, either. He had done well today. He'd provided good intelligence to Diagnostics. He'd done his job and proven his mettle as a commander. She didn't want his fear for her safety to overshadow the brilliance of his work.
Focus on him, she urged herself. Focus on the good you have in your arms.
"You don't know that," she whispered. She lifted a hand to rest against his cheek, brought his eyes back to hers. "Han, you can't possibly know that."
"Maybe I do," he said, endlessly stubborn, though his eyes were softer on hers.
"Maybe you can't accept that you did a good job today. Maybe you can't take a good thing and let it stay good."
He rolled his eyes. "No—"
"I'm being serious, Commander," she said, testing the teasing waters. "Accept the compliment and stop trying to do my job for me. I can take care of myself."
"You're terrible at taking care of yourself."
"Not terrible—okay, fine," she admitted at his pointed expression. "But I'm getting better at taking care of you."
He set his lips into a tight, grim line, uncertainty in every movement. She wondered where his worry came from, what dark root lived in his chest that made him fear for her safety with such overpowering intensity. A vestige of a past heartbreak, perhaps? A pale sliver of insecurity in his own worth? She didn't know and she hated it at the same time.
She felt a deep, instinctive desire to erase that doubt from him, to will it away through sheer might. She tugged him closer, stretched her neck to sweep her lips to the scar on his chin, then pressed small kisses under the line of his jaw. She tucked her smile into his skin, worked her way back to his mouth, brushing his lips with hers.
She wanted to take the grim lines away from him. She wanted to take that dark root and annihilate it, whatever its material and consistency. He deserved to feel pride in himself, in his intelligence and skill and in the way he cared so deeply about the people he allowed into his very small circle of entrusted confidantes.
He held his lips, unmoving for a moment, and Leia thought he might pull away from her. But just as the thought hit her, it faded with the softening of his lips, the tightening of his fingers at her lower back. He seemed to breathe her in, pulled her closer to himself as if he needed her in order to breathe. Her tongue brushed against his lower lip and he opened for her with a low sound from the back of his throat.
"I know what you're doing," he murmured against her lips.
She twisted in his arms, threaded her right leg over his left until she straddled him. Uncomfortable, yes, but she wanted him swallowed in her arms for all his worry over her safety. She was only partially manipulating him; most of her desire came from a need to express how much she loved him for his constant, unending worry for her life and safety.
And though she would never admit it, she'd often wondered how a cockpit rendezvous with Han might be.
"Let me," she said and kissed him again, harder, her hands holding his head to hers as if she held the galaxy.
He grunted, shifted, leaned into her kiss without a real word of protest. She broke away from his lips, swept her nose under his chin, nudged his head back as she pressed her lips against his throat. His fingers slipped beneath her shirt, ran over the skin of her back in hypnotic circles, warm to her cold, electric.
"When did you say you had to go?" he asked, eyes on the cockpit hull above him.
She nipped at his ear, pressed against the cradle of his hips—closer, closer—and dropped the tone of her voice to her lowest register. "An hour, if I'm late."
His fingers snuck to the slightly-tattered fringes of her brassiere, slipped beneath, touched skin. "Let's make you late."
With a quick tightening of muscle Han stood and carried her from the cockpit, careful not to hit her head on the hatch frame. Leia let herself be caught up in Han, in his absolute fervent desire for her, in his adoration and need, as they retreated to their safe haven of the captain's cabin.
Take it away from me, she urged him as they moved, as they poured energy into achieving a mindless satisfaction. And let me take it away from you, too.
He couldn't hear her thoughts, of course, and she wasn't sure she would want him to hear her if he could. Oh, she never wanted him to know the worst of her. She loved him, everything about him, and she knew he loved her, too, but the idea of him hearing how much she needed him to center herself, the depth, the heights to which she would go to keep him safe—
Leia wrapped her arms around his torso, held him tight as he entered her, as he watched her with adoring eyes and pressed quick, passionate kisses against her lips. He was precious to her, the enormous heart that beat under his devil-may-care grin, and it was in these moments that she was so enthralled with him she felt she might shatter.
She breathed him in, felt the rising tide of heat that consumed her. Han was an intuitive lover but where he really shined was in the effort he put into gauging her reactions. He listened to her sighs and watched for signs of pleasure or discomfort, altering his course as if he were flying the Falcon into new, exciting territory.
"Sweetheart," he breathed into her hair and she imagined she could taste the sound of his voice through his skin, the veneration and the hope he saved just for her.
"Han," she agreed and fell, overcome with the breadth of her love for him, of his for her, of the desperate need to remain centered and whole.
Wes Janson worked on his X-wing like a man possessed, tired from his shift as Dodonna's little bitch. He'd roamed the halls all day, doing his damnedest to seem fine, nonchalant. He knew better than anyone that punishments like this one only really mattered if he showed any sort of reaction other than bright, sunny, Skywalker-esque charm.
But goddamn, that shit was hard to maintain!
Janson wasn't a bright, sunny, Skywalker-esque kind of person. Not really. He was charming, sure, and he tended to be an optimist. That was the whole reason he was here, fighting a war no one except him and maybe the princess thought they could win. And that was fine by him. He could look at their chances of survival and find the humor there. But he wasn't naturally that way. It was a product of a coping mechanism he'd only really started to understand after enlisting with the Alliance. The inside of his brain was probably a hell of a lot darker than his friends thought it was.
Ah, well. They needed a clown? He'd give them a clown. He could play that part, had been doing it his whole life for his friends and family. It was fine.
And so was stalking the halls per Dodder's orders. It hadn't been all that bad. Just boring. And particularly so because he'd heard the Mercs had had some action today, something the Rogues hadn't managed in a month. A month!
And where had he been? Trudging up and down the officers' hall.
He'd had some fun, sure. Solo had been wandering the hall, too; he'd caught him red-handed. Said some bullshit about an early-morning meeting, and that could have been true except for the way Solo had stammered and looked so guilty that Janson had been instantly suspicious. Problem was, he hadn't seen where Solo had come from; he could have been leaving anyone's quarters. Rumor had it Solo knew the wing well: couple of fun people bunked down that particular corridor. There was also a certain princess sleeping somewhere nearby…
Janson had his suspicions, but no concrete proof. Yet.
He sighed and tossed his hydrospanner to the deck. Wiping his hands on his oil-rag, he tried to find a comfortable sitting position on the nose of his fighter without falling and breaking his neck. The docking bay was the largest on Home One, enormous and spacious but for the insane amount of cobbled-together spacecraft currently docked there. The Rogues had been assigned the corners of the bay for quick take-off; they were indisputably the Alliance's premier squadron and were the ones logging more hours in vacuum than anyone else. Janson spotted the A-wings in the center and the Yellow Squadron B-wings in a smaller circle. The Mercs weren't docked here; they were reassigned to the portside docking bay after a series of rough clashes between them and the Rogues.
Janson hadn't been involved in those. He preferred jokes and sabacc to punching. Not his style.
The Falcon was docked here, though, which Janson always thought was strange. Most commanders' ships docked with their squadron, but Solo had a habit of doing whatever the hell it was he wanted and Janson just assumed he'd bullied his way to be closer to Luke's typical hangout.
And all kidding aside, Janson himself didn't much mind Solo doing whatever he wanted. He was good folk, made of strong stuff and he was a hell of a pilot. Janson hadn't been part of the Alliance at the battle of Yavin: had found guts enough to join shortly after Solo and Skywalker had destroyed the Death Star. You kind of had to respect anyone who'd been there. From the outside, it had sounded pretty damn exciting and the people involved got a little bit of a pass from him.
He shook his head and lifted his eyes to the Falcon, thinking about Han Solo and, by extension, Leia Organa.
He'd put his credits in the fuck category, a little less romantic than Luke's love bet, but then again the boss was pretty damn romantic himself. It wasn't just that Janson had wanted to win the betting pool, though he wasn't going to say no to a couple thousand credits if he happened to win. He also had a soft spot for the two of them. His respect for Solo's flying notwithstanding, the princess was as close to a living, breathing hero as he'd ever seen. And she worked herself to death, meetings at every hour, training sims and combat drills. She was as true a believer as anyone else and seemed totally prepared to die just like the rest of them. He liked that.
And he liked the idea of two people like that, two people on opposite sides of the social spectrum, getting a little happiness out of the war. That was a nice thought. Like maybe a new era for the galaxy was actually on the way.
Goddamn, Janson though. Maybe I am a little Skywalker-esque.
A flash of movement in the Falcon's cockpit, a twist, a shift, someone standing up with something in their arms. Janson peered closer, leaned in, scrambled over to his X-wing's canopy to try to see clearer, but by then the movement had stopped and the cockpit was empty.
But something.
Wes Janson smiled, his gift for troublemaking itching at his fingers. His grin felt manic, desperate: his lips twisted into a teeth-showing, lupine folly of a grin, ecstatic. His chest soared, his heart thumped in his chest and he forgot about Dodonna's asinine punishments and the fact they were all about to die in the cold of space.
That might have been Solo and the princess. It'd been quick and it'd been far away but his pilot's eyes hadn't failed him yet.
Janson scurried down his ladder. He had so much work to do and not a bit of it had anything to do with defeating the Empire.
Author's note: Thank you for reading! Chapter 4 will be posted on Wednesday, January 1st. Have a wonderful holiday season if you celebrate and a wonderful month if you don't!
This chapter is dedicated to the incredible Cicatrick, whose birthday we celebrated recently and who deserves all the kindness and love in the world. Happy Birthday, my dear friend. I hope you had a lovely day and am so grateful for your friendship and also how goddamned talented you are. Fuck yeah, Cic!
