"You look awful," he said.
Leia wanted to kill him. Of course she looked awful; she felt awful. Her ears had a squadron of X-wings roaring their engines at full strength between them. The pounding in her temples had become a continuous percussive line to the activities of her day. Every joint in her body ached and she was sure she'd discovered a few new joints she hadn't known existed. A large animal was sitting on her chest, though no one could see it, and it made today's confrontation with Captain Han Solo a perilous affair: she feared her response might be just one long wheeze.
He stepped closer. "Are you sick?" he asked. "You look sick."
"Sign the roster, Captain Solo," she dodged. She winced when his last name ended in a cough. To recover, she said, "I don't have time for your cuteness today."
His eyebrows rose. "My cuteness?"
Even near death, she could roll her eyes at him.
"If I ever decided to be cute, you'd sure as hell know it," he quipped. He leaned in toward her, towering: in her space. Dangerously close to whatever parasite was slowly eating away her respiratory system. "What'cha got, Highness? Gamorrean flu?"
Leia shook her head. "I'm not ill."
He nodded. "Sure. Corellian plague?"
"I thought that was you."
"Ah, now that's cute," he said, pointing his index finger in her face. "Bimorrean fever?"
Can humans even get Bimorrean fever? Leia wondered, distracted despite herself. "Please sign the roster," she said instead.
Han cocked his head to the side, still close. He seemed to consider her for a moment, then wordlessly reached down and grabbed the roster from her hand without breaking her gaze. Leia was relieved when he took a step away from her, putting a few meters between them. He looked down at the datapad as he signed his name and then held it out to her.
She should have seen the trap. If she hadn't been actively dying, she would have. But in her compromised state she thought nothing of stepping close to him and reaching for the datapad. Quick as a whip, Han moved the datapad out of her reach and pressed his free hand to her forehead.
And only because she was dying—not because the warmth of his hand felt glorious against her skin or because something about the concern in his eyes made her feel warm in a non-feverish way—she didn't slap his hand away. She didn't move. She stood far too close to him; his hips were just centims from her abdomen. His breath whispered against the hair at the top of her braid.
Only because she was dying did she close her eyes and give into the comfort of letting someone see her humanity.
"You're running a fever," he murmured above her.
She bowed her head to get his hand off her forehead, to get rid of the evidence. "No, I'm not."
"Uh-huh," he said. "You're warmer than midday on Tatooine. In drought season."
"No, I'm not," she repeated.
"Alderaanian humans got a different biology than the rest of us?" He bent his knees and tried to catch her lowered eyes. "Go to medical, Leia."
His eyes. Leia got caught in them, the worry so clear to her in her fever-addled state. What she would normally dismiss as Typical Solo Irony was obvious concern for her well-being right now, when her guard was down and her defenses were sluggish. Her usual cynicism was slow. His eyes were so green today, blisteringly warm on hers. It reminded her of family, of concern, of annoying protectiveness, like her father but so not like her father.
A long moment followed. To Leia it was just a second, her eyes soft on his as she wondered at his motivations. Something she had been doing much more often lately while they danced around each other, base after base, year after year. Her brain got stuck on this point, circling it like a scavenger circled prey that hadn't yet died. Around and around, narrowing and widening and narrowing again, but always with the backdrop of the concern in Han Solo's eyes.
"Uh, Princess?" he said, and Leia realized just how long she'd been staring at him.
Embarrassed, she dropped her eyes. "I'm not ill. I just ... need some rest."
Leia stepped away, her eyes still on the ground. The outside world suddenly barreled in, the sounds of the Alliance war machine in use: pilots shouting around them, the cold air whirling angrily between them. She shivered, the discrepancy striking between the heat of the moment between them and the reality of the base.
"Thank you, Captain Solo," she said, nodding and turning away.
Her footsteps were hurried as she moved away from the captain and the chaos of that moment, boots crunching in ice and snow as she reached the main corridor to the command center. She mumbled to herself, nonsensical words spewing under her breath with the rasp of her sore throat.
What the hell were you doing, Organa? She was more focused than that, even while sick. She could hand Han Solo his ass on her deathbed; she'd done it before and she'd do it again and she would not let his deceptively concerned eyes throw her off her game.
The corridor widened as she trundled through, coughing and wheezing. Antilles tried to throw her a welcoming grin that quickly turned into a grimace as she passed. She wasn't sure if the grimace was because she tried to smile back or because her good morning, Wedge had sounded like an asthmatic ventriloquist was speaking from behind her.
The command center bustled as she walked in and the activity was uplifting. Work was her bacta, work would make everything better. She just needed to put the encounter with Han from her mind. She just needed—
"Your Highness," she heard.
Startled, she turned to see General Rieekan behind her, an old, comforting smile on his face. Careful, like a polite friend. Not at all the flash-burn of Han's eyes. His hands were clasped in front of his body and his parka looked well-worn.
"Carlist," she greeted him. Had she seen him yet this morning? She couldn't remember. "The pilot rosters are all signed. I'll enter the data and then I'll start in on the intel packets from the Rogues."
He nodded, pursing his lips. "You know what? I think I'll have Arlen take over the packets today."
Leia gave him a confused look. "Why? I have them prepped. It won't take any time at all."
"Arlen," he said, turning to look at a woman on the far side of the command center. "Could you please collate the Rogues' intel packets?"
The woman agreed and Leia gaped. "Carlist," she began. "I'm perfectly-"
"With all due respect, Your Highness, you will be reporting to medical," he said.
Leia knew his tone was kind but all she heart was medical medical medical. Her indignation won the fight against her better nature. "No, Carlist. I don't need to go to medical. I'm not ill."
She wracked her brain to try and remember if she had coughed in his presence, or moaned against the ache in her back. If she had displayed anything other than that slightly-disturbing lower pitch in her voice. If she had done anything to clue him into how awful she felt.
Why would he send her to medical?
He cleared his throat and reached out his arm, a small datapad in hand, offered to her. "I received this message from Captain Solo a few minutes before you arrived," he said. "Let's not infect the entire Alliance, Princess."
With dread, Leia took the datapad. In clear Aurabesh letters Leia could read the words through the haze of her own fever.
General. Royal is feverish. Send her to medical.
Leia scowled. Damn the pirate and his traitor worried eyes. "Carlist. I'm. Not. Ill. I don't need to go to medical."
He nodded but softly nudged her toward the entrance of the command center. "I know you think so, Princess. But if Solo was worried enough to send me a message like that, I'm going to follow his advice. Go to medical."
Leia huffed but allowed herself to be guided down the long corridor between the command center and medical, thinking the entire way that she might just have to kill Han after all.
