Author's note - this is what came spilling out of me after a hundred viewings of the trailer for TFA and the hug between Han and Leia.

Leia

They were surrounded by people, but she saw no one else but Han.

Her hands slid automatically beneath his jacket, wrapping around the familiar contours of his body. She closed her eyes and buried herself against his chest; and for a moment she was a young girl again and everything was all right, so long as she was in his arms.

He was here. He was whole. He was home. He was hers.

But then she felt him swallow a sob, heard his ragged breath, and she wondered if she had ever been that young, and if anything would ever be right again.

She wouldn't ask why he was favoring his left leg or whose blood was dried on his shirt. She'd pretended not to notice the sharp intake of breath, the wince of pain as her arms tightened around his ribs.

She would be strong, because she was always the strong one.

She didn't ask, "Why didn't you tell me?" because she already knew his answer. She'd understood. She'd even agreed, at the time.

He hadn't said he was sorry, but he hadn't needed to say it. She thought she might crumble under the weight of his regret, and she knew that he was as afraid as she was that they'd been wrong, all those years ago.

"I can't do this alone anymore," she thought. "I'm so tired." And what she longed to say was, "Please, don't leave again. I've lost everything. I can't lose you, too." But she couldn't say that, because his arms pulled her closer and his lips were against her ear, and she heard the anguish in his voice as he said her name. She knew he would stay if she asked, and she knew better than to ask.

She pressed harder into the familiar strength of his chest, and drank in the comfort of his presence. His hair was long and unkempt, he smelled of soot, and the stubble of his jaw was rough against the thin skin at her temples. But he'd tucked her beneath his chin as easily as he always had, and she fit as perfectly as ever. His hand cradled her head with the same fierce tenderness as it had the first time he'd kissed her, and the tug of his fingers in her hair still made her toes curl inside her boots.

Neither of them had ever been perfect, but it had never mattered.

"I love you," she thought. "I love you so much."

And although she hadn't spoken the words aloud, he answered her anyway.

Han

Flying the Falcon again, after all these years, he'd forgotten – for a while, at least – that he was an old man. He'd managed to convince himself that these kids needed him, that he was doing the right thing. And – although he'd never admit it - he'd sort of been having fun.

But he'd missed her, every moment.

He'd watched her crossing the tarmac, in full view of a thousand curious eyes. Her back was straight and her head was high. She came slowly – running wouldn't have been dignified – but she walked with purpose, and the crowd parted for her. She'd stopped, a few steps away from him, and planted her hands on her hips. He knew that pose by heart.

The man he'd been a lifetime ago would have shouted, would have argued with her, would have made a spectacle in public. He also would have lifted her off her feet, whirled her in a dizzy circle, and kissed her like there was no tomorrow, but that would have come later. "Later" was something they used to take for granted.

Today, he knew that "now" was what mattered, and he simply held out his arms, offering her a sad and lopsided smile. A lifetime of shared experience filled the space between them for a long moment that nearly became awkward, and then the smile began in her eyes, the smile that was only for him.

He took one long stride toward her and then he was gathering her close, wrapping a strong arm around her waist. She slid her hands beneath his jacket, as she always did, settling them at the small of his back. This simple gesture infused their embrace with an aura of intimacy while still maintaining the appearance of propriety, and his reaction was the same as it always had been. For a moment her shoulders shook as she laughed softly, nudging him with her hips to let him know she'd noticed, and then her laughter faded and he felt, rather than heard, the brief sniffle that was buried in the depths of his shirt. He knew she wouldn't cry, not here. But his arms tightened around her anyway, because he knew how close she'd come.

She was so small. In his mind she stood tall and proud, stronger than all of them. In his memory she was always full of fire and nerve and she never hesitated. But here, in his arms, she was a tired old woman carrying the weight of a galaxy on her shoulders, and her heart was breaking.

He wished, more than anything, that he could make things right. But he couldn't. No one could.

All he could do was hold her. It was all he had ever been able to do. It had always been enough.

"I'm sorry, Leia," he thought. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you needed me. I'm sorry I have to leave again." But the words wouldn't come. All he managed was her name, in a voice that was thick with pain and loss and regret.

Still hidden under his jacket, a slender hand trailed along his ribs and came up to rest on his chest, her palm spread flat over his pounding heart. She understood. She'd always understood.

He tipped his head back to tuck her against the hollow of his throat, breathing in her scent and savoring the soft brush of her hair beneath his jaw. Her head fit perfectly in the palm of his hand, and his fingers closed, tightly, in the fine threads of her hair.

He'd never been good with words. It didn't matter, though - because there was really only one thing to say. It was what he always said.

"I know."