The Scoundrel, the Princess and the Stars

DISCLAIMER: I don't own a thing.

Let's place this right after their escape from the Imperial Stardestroyers in ESB.

Her mother always said there are gods watching over them, but if there were, they would send 3-PO around again to stop them. No one comes, though.

Not when she asks him to help her with the warped lever she has discovered. Not when he, as always, steps far too close and she fails to flinch away. Not when he notices said lack of reaction and that stupid dirty smile that he wears so well spreads on his lips and she doesn't find any haughty words to wipe it off.

It's too warm in his damn ship, even for him, it seems – tiny pearls of sweat dot his hairline and his neck (and she refuses to admit that makes her feel even warmer and fuzzier than she already does) and his hands that are so used to this kind of work slip off the metal as much as hers, until he gives it up.

"I'll get Chewie to see to that," he says in that low, husky voice that he probably knows is driving her crazy, the one that has nothing to do with the Falcon or a jammed bit of metal and everything to do with the volumes of unspoken things that fill the air between them. He lets go of the handle and leans against the wall in exhaustion, but she distrusts it – Han never stands still, not really, even when he has to be dog tired there's still something twitching and moving in his deft long fingers that are made for stealing and meddling, something flickering in those brown eyes that have too much depth to them.

"You do that."

When has her sass left her? For Heaven's sake, she's been surrounded by men her entire life and it has never been a problem. She's been around better-looking men in the past, smarter, more cultivated, much more polite men; in short, better men than that thrice-damned gambling smuggler with his innuendos and his inflated ego and his pride and his rusty wreck of a space ship.

Yet it's this one who made her knees go week and her brain go all hazy.

"Are you just going to keep pretending none of it ever happened, your highness?" he asks with a trace of mock in his voice, eyeing her too closely while his hands were still fumbling with some part of the ship as if they have a life of their own.

I told you not to call me that. "There's nothing to talk about," she gives back stiffly and knows he'll never believe her.

"No?" That grin is still playing around his lips, though very faintly, just flaring up now and then in that restless way he has. "Then I take it you don't object if I…"

Suddenly, he's right in front of her, his hand gently lifting her chin, and his lips are on hers before she can draw another breath, before she can even think about pushing him away.

He is quicker than she is, she has to hand it to him, and even though she tells him he has no clue of women at every chance she gets, there was no denying that man knows how to touch a girl.

She doesn't want to yield to his kiss, or more accurately put her pride forbids her to want to – oh, but deep down, she does. In the end, she's only human, and after all those years of work for the Alliance, all this time she's never done something just for herself, isn't it understandable?

Besides, even though she would rather surrender herself to Vader than admit it, she has been very accurately aware of his charms and good looks for those last three years and she's not immune to any of that, as much as she's tried to be.

And Han does have his qualities. He is far smarter than he lets on, an outstanding pilot, a decent fighter, a loyal and good friend, and quite unlike her first impression of him, he is brave. And that overconfidence that drives her up the walls so many times… it's a mask, a wall to keep everyone at a distance, and she can't blame him for pushing people away; she has done the same for years. But recently, she's caught a lot of glimpses through the cracks in his armour and she knows there was a good man underneath it all, even though he probably doesn't know that himself.

Still, there are so many reasons why she shouldn't want this…

He pulls back very slightly, as if he's heard her thoughts.

"Don't," she whispers, not sure how the sentence goes on herself.
Don't look at me like that. Don't mess with my head. Don't enjoy how you're making me feel.

It could have been that. Or maybe, it was something like don't stop, whatever you do, don't let me go.

The smile that tugs at his lips now is different, less over the top, even a little bitter. "You're overthinking this, Leia."

"Overthinking what?" she gives back, in a tone that would probably sound confident and strong if she wasn't so breathless.

"Your life," he gives back drily, and suddenly there are a good two feet between them once more and his restless hands are playing with a loose bolt again. The space around her feels strangely empty.

She hates herself for that thought.

"There's a war out there. People like you and me, Leia, we don't have much time for regrets. By tomorrow morning, we could both be dead, or worse. I say we can't afford running away from things just 'cause they might give us trouble in the future. I mean, who's to say there is a future for us, eh?"

With that ominous statement, he turns to leave, somewhat hurried. As if he's said too much.

"Han, what are you trying to say?" she asks, and is relieved to hear she's somehow found back to her usual imperious tone.

He throws her a fleeting smirk across his shoulder, leans against the doorframe and fiddles with another blinking light as if all this doesn't really concern him. As if he doesn't even really care.

But she knows he just can't bear to look at her when he can't tell if she will refuse him or not. He just can't stand to feel so vulnerable. She knows the feeling.

"I'm saying, better start doing what you wanna do, princess," he tells the doorframe in an offhanded voice.

"How would you know about what I want?"

"Didn't say that, did I?" he answers, finally turning back around to look at her. But still he leans against the wall, one hand around the doorframe, the other around a handrail, holds on tight as if the contact to his ship is all that keeps him on his feet.

"All I'm saying is, if it's anything you need me for, sweetheart, it's not like I'm about to go anywhere." Again that false smirk. There is something almost pained to it now, she realises after a moment, and then it hits her that she's hurt him. It's not just a round of banter he's lost, there's more to it this time – and the sight of it is unbearable.

He is the only person she can actually talk to on this ship, in fact he's been one of the few people she can properly talk to in a long while, and perhaps the time has come to face it – as insufferable and arrogant and reckless as he can be, she cares about that man. Somehow, this damn smuggler has become one of the two most important people left in her life, and refuting it isn't going to change a thing about that.

She can't hurt him, not really.

He's left the room before she can muster the courage to say anything, once again making her call after him.

"Han?"

He turns back around, waiting for her to go on. His eyes that are usually so warm and split open too wide, emotions spilling out left and right when he thinks nobody can see what he's thinking, they're distant and wary now and she hates it.

"You were right." It takes such effort to say these words, but she knows how much he loves to hear them. Especially from her.

"Yeah? 'bout what?" he asks, slightly confused and still sounding a little harsh.

"Maybe… maybe there aren't enough scoundrels in my life."

"Huh," he says and nods. "Good for you to see reason, princess." And with that, he turns and leaves.

She stares after him in confusion. Whatever she's been expecting to accomplish with that line, this isn't it.

A few hours later, she paces the narrow corridors of the ship restlessly. She's done so for a couple of hours now, and even though she's been steering clear of the cockpit ever since Chewie left to take a nap she knows Han can hear her steps and it's getting ridiculous.

She could go to sleep, but looking at the nightmares she's had the previous nights, that's not an actual option.

Besides, ever since that cursed idiot kissed her, she can't lie in bed in the dark. She'd go crazy with yearning, she knows she would, and she's not going to give him the satisfaction of actually doing that. She may be a little pathetic when it comes to Han Solo, but not that pathetic.

So after a moment of trying to put herself together, she enters the cockpit where the captain sits alone in his chair, feet up on the control panel and one hand playing lazily with a screw that certainly should be somewhere in the ship, staring at the stars.

She's not sure if he hasn't noticed her coming in or if he's ignoring her, and it doesn't really matter. She takes a seat in the co-pilot's chair. The pilot keeps staring through the window in silence, and she watches him.

For a man who's travelled the galaxy for so long and who likes to act this cynical and world-wary, there is something decidedly too awestruck about his way of looking at the stars.

He's still fascinated by those huge balls of burning gas, no matter how much mock he'll make of Luke for the exact same thing. Han's still so much in love with space, still so intrigued by the mystery of it, he still sees the beauty of it after all those years.

Han might not know it himself, but there is still so much hope in him, buried deep, but it's there. It's right there in his mesmerised way of staring at the sky like a little boy who's in space for the very first time in his life, all this hope that she's lost so long ago, and that realisation swells inside her like a warm bubble.

"Beautiful, right?" he says softly, like he's read her mind.

This time, it makes her smile. "Who would've thought. Is that a romantic streak I detect there, Captain?"

"Stating the obvious," he gives back and she suddenly wonders if he was really referring to the stars.

"What do you want, huh?" she asks, and is surprised how gentle her voice still sounds. "You want me to beg for it?"

He turns towards her with his chair, a smirk playing around his lips once more. "No. I'm still asking for the same thing, your Highnesness. Admit it. Admit you want me around. Admit you need me."

"You will not hear me say that," she answers, more amused than annoyed though.

The challenging smile is still on his face. "I think I will. And soon."

She's on her feet somehow and places her hands on the armrests of the pilot's chair, bending over him. His smell is bizarrely familiar, and it slurs her thoughts. "You will not hear me say that."

"Yes, I will."

She can feel the smile on her lips. "No."

"Yes, I-"

Her sore lips meet his before he can finish, and for just a second he freezes, stunned, confused.

Laser-brain, she thinks and buries her fingers in his thick messy hair.

He recovers from the shock and pulls her on his lap in a single, not overly careful movement.

It's a little clumsy and rather uncomfortable in retrospect, and she's vaguely aware of the fact she'll end up with bruised knees and elbows and shins and so will he. But in their defence, this is one of the few places 3PO avoids at the moment and anyway, Leia's certainly not going to delay things any further by relocating things to a more comfortable place (and in all honesty the tiny bed bunks aren't exactly the height of comfort, either, so what's the difference in the end).

"You're real stubborn, you know," he whispers in her ear, his voice hoarse and teasing and his hands sliding underneath the loose shirt she borrowed from his stock when her own tore on a jagged part of the ship.

That's rich coming from the man who's spent the last six months trying to get me to admit I have a crush on him, she wants to say, but all she gets out is a soft moan as his lips trail down her neck.

She can delay the discussion for a bit, she decides then and dedicates the small bit of her brain that's still functioning to the careful use of her own hands.

There's nobody to interrupt them this time (though C-3PO says the next morning he's been hearing strange noises all through the night and Leia almost dies of embarrassment and Han almost chokes on his insta-bread trying to hold back the laughter).

They're as alone as they could possibly be, the scoundrel and the princess and the stars.

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