He is broken. Cold. Barely breathing. Strung out on an impersonal medbunk, his eyelids fluttering and his lips cracked and bleeding.
She sits beside him, grips his hand with long practice and the words of the medic who'd slipped out of the room moments ago.
Imminent recovery. A matter of rest and repair now. Out of the woods.
She lifts his hand to her mouth, presses a kiss against his open palm.
"Did you hear that, flyboy? she whispers; kisses along the lines of his wrist, the pulse that make her heart sing.
Strong. Sure. Vital.
Leia exhales against his skin, presses her lips into his fingertips, trying to implant her worry, her devotion, her trust and faith in him.
"You are the most ridiculous man alive, do you know that?" she said. "Do you have any clue how lucky you are?"
To have survived? To have come home to the woman who loves him with such ferocity that she has sat by his bedside since the moment they brought him in, clinging to life, from Chewie's arms and the Falcon's ramp?
She pulls her chair closer to him. "Do you know how angry I am at you?"
For making her heart stop dead in its tracks?
"I love you," she whispers against his hand. "And if you ever do this to me again, I will kill you myself. Do you understand me?"
A flutter of eyelashes and finally—finally—Leia can see wry, beautiful green eyes. There is pain there, and she is mindful of his injuries and the terrifying extent of his mortality. But he is looking at her like she is the most incredible thing he's ever seen and she can't take her eyes off of him.
A tired, pained grin and then the voice she needed after her hours of worry. Warm, deep, honest and brave: Han in tone and intent. "Sure do, princess. I sure do.
Author's Note: Written for Corellian Smuggler.
