A/N: CW: implied past torture and past sexual assault.
Okay, y'all, I was supposed to post the next chapter of Purpose of Heritage today but it isn't to my liking and also I currently have COVID, so I'm not feeling super up to getting it to my liking at the moment. But, awhile back, I'd written out a bit of Purpose of Heritage from Han's perspective and had planned on posting it at some point as kind of supplementary material, and since y'all aren't getting a full chapter when I promised, I figured I could post this instead. I may write other perspectives just as I feel like it; it's not something I have a solid plan for. But I thought some of y'all might want to see it, so...here it is.
The transition from the gaudy ceremony where he'd had a medal — an actual medal — draped around his neck to half the base being packed up and shipped out seemed to happen in a few blinks. There appeared to be very few people without prior knowledge of the evacuation or at least without specific orders about what they should be doing. Without instruction to follow himself nor any particular inclination to seek it out, Han's attention drifted to the sheer magnitude of the events that had occurred over the past few days.
They had destroyed a weapon the size of a moon. Really, the kid had, but Han had been there. He had seen the destruction caused by the weapon the Empire had apparently spent the better part of two decades building and he had helped destroy that weapon.
It was almost too big to fathom. Shock and awe seemed to be settling over the entire base as they packed up to reassemble elsewhere. And Han hated to admit it, but some long-dormant part of him felt good about being able to walk away from a situation knowing for certain he had been on the right side.
He couldn't shake the princess, though. Not in a literal sense — he hadn't actually seen her since she'd left the stage after the ceremony, disappearing so quickly and quietly that it made him wonder how she had been caught by Imps in the first place — but he was having a hard time justifying…
The thing was, he earned what he made. The work wasn't always pretty or honest, but he did the work. And he had standards — no bounty hunting, no black market orphans, no slaves. Nothing that treated sentients like product.
And getting paid for a rescue felt almost like treating a sentient like product.
Getting paid for a rescue where the one being rescued did most of the work felt…well, it wasn't treating her like product exactly, but it felt almost like fraud, like he was taking something owed to someone else. Because, really, aside from the garbage chute fiasco, her escape plan was about as good as theirs. And she'd hit more stormtroopers than Luke had, he was positive.
A princess from a planet that had tried to force him to hand over his weapons the only time he had attempted to disembark there had knocked off more stormtroopers with a blaster than a farmer from Tatooine had. Might've knocked off more stormtroopers than Han had himself.
Who are these people?
He didn't know, but he wasn't about to owe them long-term. He had too many debts to pay already without tacking on being overpaid for a job he barely performed. Sure, he had flown them outta there, and that job he would gladly take payment for. The princess, though…
[I would like to stay and help them pack everything up.]
Chewie's request startled Han. As soon as he understood, though, he found himself nodding in agreement. That was a way…He could surely call it even if they helped the Rebels pack up their base.
"Fine by me, pal," Han said, a little slowly, a little carelessly.
They exited the temple together and he saw her: the princess. She looked like she was about to fall flat on her face just standing there. Still in that dress and jewelry from the ceremony, she seemed to sway under their weight. Han realized that he didn't recall her sleeping on the trip over like the kid had. He was pretty sure she'd sat in the lounge drinking caf, staring at nothing and nobody the majority of her time on the Falcon.
He wasn't getting mushy, but she clearly needed a place to lay down and since he and Chewie weren't planning on leaving until the base was packed up and evacuated, he figured the princess could sleep in the ship if she wanted to.
It took some prodding, but prodding the woman seemed to be something he did well, and she eventually gave up whatever concern she had about leaving the Rebels in a lurch if she rested. Han was just going to make sure the ramp was down and that she knew where things were on the ship before leaving her alone, but she had to go and ask about field medicine training, and suddenly, he was staring at the bare and ravaged skin on her back, assessing damage as clinically as he could manage while trying not to think about the finger-shaped bruises on her hips.
He knew what went on in Imperial prisons, had seen interrogations in person, but this…this was worse than he had imagined, even after she divulged that they'd used both an interrogation droid and the rack. Dozens of injection marks ran down her spine, some of them looking so infected, he wondered if they'd even bothered to change out hypodermics between interrogation sessions. A bruise so large, it had to have been from a boot spread over her ribs on one side. Bits of flesh had been sliced, burned, rubbed raw, and several of those injuries appeared infected as well.
When she said they had used both methods on her, Han's stomach had dropped. Now, looking at the results of such treatment coupled with obvious signs of manual assault, he had to make a concerted effort to not betray his concern to the girl.
Their conversation tapered off as Han opened the med kit he kept on board the Falcon. It wasn't fancy, but he generally had what he and Chewie needed for the scrapes they got themselves into. He noticed her tense as he approached her with a few supplies. She appeared to be holding her breath, coiled and ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. Han wondered why her tension grew with every second. She had seemed fairly at ease just a few moments prior, and the whiskey she had downed to stave off the pain should have only helped in that regard.
The princess finally spoke up as he unwrapped antiseptic pads and cleaned a pair of tweezers, a quiet request, sounding not at all like the brash and bossy woman he had first encountered on the Death Star. "Will you…Will you talk if you're behind me? I'm—I keep feeling—I just need to know it's you and not someone else."
"Sure," he said, mind racing to create some context for her request. He couldn't stop thinking about the bruises on her hips, her sudden jumpiness when she couldn't see him. He pursed his lips, wanting to word his question carefully, aware of how invasive it would feel from a near stranger. "Someone sneak up on you in your cell?"
She was quiet so long, he was glad he couldn't see her face. She might start crying or something, and he wasn't sure what he'd do if that happened. When she spoke, though, her affect was casual, as if he'd asked about the weather or something equally mundane. "Something like that."
He knew. He had known as soon as he saw the bruises, could have probably guessed as soon as he found out she had been in custody for five days. But her confirmation caused anger to flash through him, followed by selfish thankfulness that he had abandoned his own military career as early as he had, before the brainwashing could convince him that anything about the condition of the woman in front of him was okay.
Han inhaled, unsure of what she needed. He offered to listen if she wanted to talk, but she shut the conversation down before he could finish his sentence. She wanted to forget, she said. He didn't blame her.
He glanced around, hoping for some solution to her nervousness that wouldn't involve him having to keep talking. He was normally good at it, talking in a way that others found engaging while he barely said anything of substance. But the atmosphere in the cabin was heavy, they were both working on virtually no sleep, and he got the distinct feeling that the princess would be able to see straight through his charming nothing statements if he tried to make conversation. Plus, his default for women he didn't know was overt flirting, which seemed wildly inappropriate given the circumstances.
Han saw the 'fresher, and had an idea. If she faced the small mirror over the sink, she'd be able to see it was him even if conversation trailed off into nothing. "Think the lighting might be better in the 'fresher." He had her stand right in front of the sink and mentioned some fodder about the reflection of the light making the room brighter than the cabin just so she'd notice the mirror. He couldn't be certain, but she seemed to relax as soon as she saw their reflections.
They had her belongings onsite, the Rebels, or at least some of them. She had mentioned a raid on her apartment apparently sanctioned by her old man before he and most everyone else she knew was blown into the asteroid field Han had ended up in. He asked about where her stuff might be, mostly to fill the quiet so he wouldn't have to think about what those asteroids were likely made of, but also because the inner layer of the dress she wore was damp with blood and whatever else oozed from her wounds, and he couldn't imagine it was comfortable.
She didn't know where her things were, but mentioned an Antilles who might know, and Han filed the name away for later as he carefully picked debris from an angry-looking cut. He applied antiseptic to each section of raw skin, blocking out her sharp inhalations and winces the best he could. When she asked how he knew so much, how he had known what to expect as soon as she said a few words about her interrogation, Han felt a momentary pang of shame that he had ever been associated with the people responsible for the the damage in front of him.
She was, too, he thought. They weren't the same, not exactly. She had been a senator. He doubted strongly that she had been keen to play the Emperor's games, but she had worked on Coruscant the same as the rest of them. She surely couldn't judge him too harshly.
And why would I even care? he wondered. Han was not in the habit of caring what people thought of him; or, more accurately, he cared what people he cared about thought of him, and at this point, that category contained exactly one being. Chewie knew better than anyone that he wanted nothing to do with the Empire and their ways. Han didn't have the time, patience, or energy to care about what anyone else thought.
The princess began to tremble curiously before he had made up his mind to just tell her he had been on the other side once, and Han's chest tightened. Is she scared? he wondered. He had done everything he could to make sure she wouldn't be, but tremors still moved through her body. He decided to answer her question about how he knew so damn much, if nothing else, to distract from the fear she seemed to be feeling.
"I was at Carida," he said, evening out his voice to hide the shame attached to the admission. Shame for being involved, shame for being expelled, just years' worth of shame all around that Han preferred not to think about at all.
She guessed that he'd been expelled so quickly it was irritating. He didn't tell her everything, didn't fully explain why; her knowing he hadn't exactly fit in to the Empire's mold was enough.
She still trembled even when she smiled in amusement about the bounty on her head — a sum five times higher than the largest bounty Han had ever heard of. She didn't seem scared, unless he had completely misread every one of her facial expressions along with her tone of voice. The trembling seemed extraneous, almost its own thing.
He frowned as he unwrapped a large bacta patch, trying to piece together what might be going on. She had said she had been awake for five days, the energy she had exhibited on the Death Star and even in the Command Center during the battle was incongruous with the treatment she had obviously received over the past week, and she had begun to shake. He shouldn't have given her even that small swallow of booze, then. She was crashing off stims.
He hadn't seen it himself, but he had heard about it: keeping prisoners awake for days at a time to wear them down, confuse them, make them wonder if anything they experienced was real. The captain he remembered talking about it thought it was funny, watching them grow disoriented, hallucinate, and begin to believe they had committed the crimes they had been accused of. Han had wondered aloud if it led to false confessions and had been subsequently reprimanded.
"You've been awake five days?" he asked the princess, though he was sure he had heard right the first time. When she confirmed the time, he could tell she started to doubt her memory, began to wonder if she had somehow slept without realizing it. He shook his head and smoothed a bacta patch gently over her back; that's what they'd want, for her to start doubting what she knew was true. "They probably had you on stims to keep you awake. Would explain the shaking now."
She seemed confused by his statement, brought up that stim-shots should've kept pain at bay. "The serums hurt," she said, and Han was reminded that every inflamed pinprick near her spine indicated a syringe of the stuff, was reminded that she had been dosed more than seemed remotely necessary, more than seemed possible for someone her size.
She asked about the whiskey, about whether she should have mixed liquor with stims leaving her system. He didn't know, really, but he regretted giving her even the minuscule pour he'd offered. It had barely been half a shot — she was so petite and obviously tired and young and a literal princess, and he hadn't wanted it to look like he was trying to get her wasted when he was simply offering the only quick pain relief he had available — but he still shouldn't have given it to her. Stims and booze…it wasn't a good combination.
He tried to play it off as nothing to worry about as he finished covering her back in bacta patches. Some of the wounds looked infected, but he did not see a point in trying to argue the princess into proper medical care. She said she'd go to medical once she was on an outpost, and he was certain he'd be long gone by the time she actually got around to it. He couldn't make her get help; could only encourage it if the topic came up.
He helped her to the bottom crew bunk, filled the whiskey glass with water before handing it to her, and assured her she'd be okay. "Shakes and a headache are usually the worst of it," he said, not fully believing a word that left his mouth. "Sleep'll help."
A glazed look came over the princess' face, eyes focused on the heavy necklace she had dropped on the bunk earlier. Han watched her for a moment before clearing his throat. "What was it you were wanting me to say if people ask where you're at while you're sleepin'?"
She didn't answer, didn't attempt to speak or even seem to hear him. She just stared at the necklace as if entranced, running her thumb over each segment of it.
"Princess?" Han said. No response from her. Then, remembering that she had requested that he call her by her name rather than a title, he spoke a bit louder. "Leia?"
Her entire body jerked, then shuddered. She met his gaze, big brown eyes nearly dead with exhaustion and grief. She looked so…small. Not just in stature; she was undoubtedly a petite woman. But something about the way she held herself, trembling and wrecked and seemingly unsure, was such a stark contrast to the loud, brash woman he had bickered with on the Death Star that Han's chest ached. Leia looked nearly defeated, completely deflated.
"Sorry. I must have…" She trailed off, eyes still dead in their gaze. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"
He repeated his question, and she gave instructions: Luke and Dodonna were allowed to know where she was; everyone else should be kept in the dark. Han assumed Chewie was the obvious exception to the request; the Wookiee would likely be on and off the ship, after all. He needed to know if Leia was aboard to avoid being startled.
Han headed toward the door to the main hold, intending to leave the princess to rest, but she called after him, kept calling him "Captain Solo". She asked a weird question, asked if he thought everything happened for a reason. Han hesitated, wondering what she was getting at. He had stopped believing in any sort of guiding hand, any sort of fate when he was so young, he sometimes wondered if he'd ever actually believed. He didn't want to discourage her when she was so obviously distraught, but lying wouldn't fix anything.
"No," he answered.
She started babbling so incoherently, he started to wonder if the mixture of whiskey and stims was messing with her mind. Something about being adopted, about her parents wanting her, something about if she were a different person, then maybe her planet wouldn't have ended up in the crossfire. Han frowned, unsure of what she wanted him to say, unsure of what he needed to say. He opted for the most practical option: pointing her in the direction of extra blankets.
She again called him "Captain Solo" as he started to leave. Han looked at her briefly, nodded his head. "Call me Han," he said before leaving the room. If she wanted him to call her Leia, she could at least call him by his actual name.
He exited the cabin, leaving the door open in case she was feeling claustrophobic after being in that cell for as long as she had been. Han went in search of Chewie to see what all needed to be done to help break down the rest of the base, keeping in mind to ask about that Antilles guy. The least he could do was maybe track down some unbloodied clothing for the princess. She could certainly use a bit of comfort.