The Incident

"Almost done."

"That's what you said twenty minutes ago," Luke pointed out dryly.

Han tossed the kid a half-hearted scowl over his shoulder, still elbow deep in wiring as he struggled to reengage the Falcon's environmental control. Chewbacca had been driven off the ship because the heat and humidity had become unbearable under all his fur, and Han had promised to get things cooled down for him.

"I don't remember chaining you to the floor, kid," he grumbled. "No one's making you wait for me."

He didn't need to see Luke's face to know that he had started grinning.

"I don't mind. Take your time," he said pleasantly, drumming a sporadic beat against the holochess table with the pads of his fingers.

Han sighed audibly but said nothing as he continued fishing around inside his ship. The flight squads were having some kind of sabacc tournament and Han had promised he'd go. What he hadn't realized when Luke had invited him was that he'd evidently interpreted Han's 'sure, why not?' to mean 'spend the next four hours on my ship.' Not that he was really surprised. Luke had been spending increasing amounts of time on the Falcon since they'd met two months before. At first the kid had at least kind of waited to be invited (as in, he'd stalk up the ramp and call out to Han and Chewbacca as he did so). Lately, though, Han felt like he'd turn his back for five kriffin' seconds and next thing he knew Luke would be sat at the lounge or meandering into the galley.

The thing was, it didn't really bother Han. No, what bothered him was that it didn't bother him.

"I still don't see why you won't ever let me help," Luke said pointedly as Han groped blindly for the tool tray beside him.

Han rolled his eyes, knowing Luke couldn't see.

"Yeah, yeah. Maybe next time," he snorted, dropping the hydrospanners and swiping a hand over his brow as he finally heard the system start humming again. He snapped his fingers in victory and pointed at Luke. "Ha! See? What did I say?"

"And it only took you all night," Luke smirked.

"Would've been done sooner if it weren't for you talking my ears off the whole time," Han grunted, but Luke just laughed and followed him down the ramp.

They fell into an easy gait as they left the hangar and headed for the barracks. Here and there were a few unlucky rebels stuck with the late shift, but mostly the corridors were quiet and empty. Luke was just bragging that he might give Han a run for his credits for once when they turned a corner near the command center and Han found himself colliding with something chest-height and solid.

"Oof!"

Startled, he instinctively raised his hands to brace the tiny body that he'd sent staggering, blinking in surprise when he recognized the coiled braids and accusatory glare of a particular princess. He couldn't help but smirk as he caught her by the shoulders, stopping her backward momentum and subsequently keeping her against his chest.

"You gotta stop throwing yourself at me like this, Your Worship," he grinned.

Leia immediately shook off his hands.

"Don't you ever watch where you're going?" she demanded, glaring up at him.

Han raised his eyebrows.

"You're the one who sprinted around the corner like a rabid loth-cat," he pointed out. He could tell by the way she lifted her chin and drew herself up to her full height (which would still have been diminutive even if she stood on her tiptoes) that she knew she was wrong but that she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of apologizing. "What's your hurry? It's after 2300."

Leia held her data pad closer to her chest.

"Some of us actually have jobs to do around here," she said coldly, but before Han could voice his objection to her insinuation, Luke finally interjected.

"Don't tell me you're just getting done now," he frowned at the princess, whose eyes finally left Han. "You worked all day yesterday and all night last night. That's more than four straight shifts, Leia."

Han watched her features soften into a slightly abashed expression—the concern in Luke's voice evidently having an effect on her.

"I had a lot to do," she said defensively. It did not escape Han that her tone of voice was much warmer talking to the kid than it ever was when she spoke to him. Normally that annoyed the hell out of him, but Luke's revelation was his more pressing concern at the moment.

"Wait a minute," he frowned, watching both their heads swivel to look at him. He pointed an accusatory finger at Leia. "You haven't slept in two days?"

The murderous look she shot at Luke for revealing that information didn't seem to bother the kid in the slightest, so she fixed her steely gaze back on Han.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said shortly. "I've taken plenty of breaks."

Han studied her face, feeling his frown becoming even more pronounced. Her skin was pale and her eyes looked glassy where they glared up at him from above dark purplish circles. It was obvious that she hadn't rested, and he felt a disconcerting weight settle in his stomach. It wasn't the first time he'd seen the princess look so exhausted; almost every time he'd seen her over the preceding two months, she'd looked like she hadn't seen a pillow in days. He was becoming more and more convinced that she never slept at all, and come to think of it, he rarely ever saw her eat, either. Raking his gaze over her body, he decided she was looking almost alarmingly small.

"That so?" he asked skeptically. "So if I go ask Threepio, he'll corroborate that story, huh?"

Leia flushed, but to her credit her face remained impassive.

"Where are you two going, anyways?" she asked suspiciously. "It is, as you so helpfully pointed out, past 2300."

Han traded a wary glance with Luke.

"We were going to the party," Luke admitted.

Leia blinked at him.

"Party?"

"Not a big one," Luke explained, shrugging. "Just drinks and sabacc with the Rogues."

Han held his breath as he waited for Leia's reaction, sure that they had just ruined the fun for everyone, but Luke's casual posture seemed to suggest that he didn't share in Han's worry.

Leia shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

"I see," she said tersely. "Well then, you'd better get going. You don't want to miss out on the drinking and the gambling."

She watched them both expectantly, a clear indication that she'd had enough idle chatter for the evening. Han caught her gaze and held it.

"I guess so," Luke agreed with a shrug from beside him. "You're going to bed, though, right?"

Han didn't know how he knew, because Leia's voice was steady and her expression didn't so much as flicker, but he could tell that her affirmative response was a lie. He also didn't know why it made him so anxious.

"Good. See you later, then."

Luke took a few steps down the corridor before he evidently realized that Han had remained rooted to the spot, blocking the princess's way and staring contemplatively into her defensive face.

"You coming, Han?" he asked.

Han hesitated, glancing from his friend to the princess for a moment before waving a hand down the hall.

"I'll catch up with you," he muttered, turning back to see Leia's scowl.

If Luke was perplexed by this turn of events, his tone of voice didn't show it as he conceded and strode away, but Leia's expression seemed both distrusting and even, unless Han was badly mistaken, a little nervous. He was so startled by the revelation that he forgot to speak, only staring at her until she cleared her throat to regain his attention.

"Did you want to say something, captain?"

Han stood up straighter.

"No," he told her. "C'mon. I'll walk you back to your quarters."

He stood aside and waited for her to fall into step beside him, but it was immediately clear that she had no intentions of doing so. He watched her eyes narrow and had to fight to keep the grin off his face.

"That won't be necessary," she said at once. It was always so strange to look down at her when she used that authoritative voice on him, her small stature at odds with the commanding demeanor.

Han raised his eyebrows.

"I know it's not necessary," he agreed. "But it's polite. Aren't you always telling me that I got no manners? And it would be pretty impolite of you to refuse such a gallant and well-intentioned offer, wouldn't it, princess?"

Her attitude up until that point wasn't very encouraging, and Han greatly suspected that his teasing had failed miserably, but to his pleasant surprise she rolled her eyes and offered him a wry grin.

"Well-intentioned? Somehow I doubt that," she sighed, but started walking and didn't protest when he strode along at her side.

Han shook his head.

"Always thinking the worst of me, sweetheart," he lamented, and was surprised when she let the remark float unacknowledged between them.

It unsettled him. She must really have been dead on her feet. He glanced down at her, noting that her normally graceful, floaty manner of walking was absent and that she seemed to be navigating the way to her quarters without actually seeing any of her surroundings. Han scowled as the burning in his chest began, like it always did around Leia. He hated it and he couldn't explain it—especially not when she was such a sarcastic little piece of work with him all the time, thinking only of the rebellion and nothing else and lecturing everyone else in that infuriating tone of hers—but he felt bizarrely protective of her and it pissed him off. If anyone else hadn't been getting enough sleep, Han wouldn't have cared or even noticed. But the knowledge that Leia wasn't sleeping enough bothered him so much that he was tempted to order her into his bunk and make her sleep whether she wanted to or not and tell the whole damn Alliance to fuck off and leave her alone until she was rested.

He tried not to think about what a bad sign it was that he was imagining a circumstance that involved her in his bunk that didn't also involve their naked, sweaty bodies (not that he didn't imagine that, too—in fact, he was disgusted with how often he imagined it), because he could excuse wanting to sleep with her but he couldn't just dismiss that he cared whether or not she slept. And why did he care? He didn't even think they were even friends. But something about escaping the Death Star together and being pursued by the Imps and the exhilaration of destroying the battle station and—maybe most importantly—the week afterwards, when Leia had been in the med center and he'd… What had he done? The doctor claimed he'd been "agitating" her but he remembered all too well on the fourth day, when he hadn't been there at noon sharp like he had been every other time he'd visited her because for twenty damn minutes he'd had to argue with a medtech who wouldn't let him in, how her face had looked when she'd muttered to him that she'd assumed he wasn't coming…

Not for the first time that night, he thought about the fact that he'd stayed with the rebels for two whole months.

A sudden sound drew him from his thoughts, and he turned to stare down at Leia in disbelief.

"Was that your stomach?" he asked in astonishment, knowing the answer at once when he caught sight of the blush creeping up her neck and burning on her cheeks.

"No," she said defensively, but her stomach growled again and she pressed her lips together.

Han stopped in his tracks.

"So I guess you had plenty to eat during those 'breaks' of yours, huh?" he mused, his tone heavy with sarcasm.

He watched her entire body tense into the posture he'd come to think of as her Angry Stance and braced himself for the brewing argument.

"I really don't see how that's any of your business," she snapped, seeming to Han to be much more worked up than was really warranted by the situation. He felt his own anger rise to match hers.

"Listen, princess, I didn't haul your ass off the Death Star for you to work yourself into the ground, and I didn't save it again just so you could starve yourself," he barked, jabbing his finger into the air between them.

Her eyes sparked.

"I never asked you to save my life," she spat, venom in every word, "and if all you're going to do is lord that pathetic excuse for a rescue over my head, then take that dilapidated ship of yours and go back to smuggling drugs. I've got plenty of guilt already and I don't need any more from you."

With that she spun on her heel and marched off down the hall, leaving Han gaping at her retreating back. The shock wore off after a few seconds, though, and with a curse he stormed after her. He wanted to grab her by the arm and yell just what exactly he thought about the condescending slights against his ship and his profession, but all his anger gave way to a wave of regret when he realized what she'd meant—what she'd implied—and he was furious with his own stupidity.

"Leia, wait," he begged, reaching for her elbow but feeling no surprise when she wrenched it away from him. She did, however, stop to let him speak, which he took as a good sign until he saw the look on her face. She looked absolutely… haunted. He forgot everything he was going to say.

"What?" she asked, clearly trying but failing to sound defiant. Instead she sounded too tired to keep fighting, and the softer tone of her voice inflamed the burning in Han's chest to an unbearable level.

He exhaled a deep breath and shifted on his feet.

"Look, I'm sorry, alright? That was a damn stupid thing to say and I didn't mean that you owe me anything. It's just—everyone's… worried… about you…"

The words trailed off awkwardly as he spoke them, wanting to take them back the moment they left his lips. He knew that Leia wouldn't respond well to anything she might perceive as pity, and sure enough he could see the displeasure settle over her features like a dark shadow.

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself," she said icily.

She'd certainly proved that a hundred times over, and Han knew it would only provoke her ire again to contradict her.

"I know you are," he conceded. He rubbed anxiously at the back of his neck, wondering why it always seemed to blow up in his face whenever he tried to talk to her. Probably because she had a short temper and a smart mouth. Probably because he did, too.

Leia didn't seem to feel that his words required any type of vocal response, and so they stood staring at each other for a long moment, their heated words echoing silently still in the empty corridor.

"Listen, how 'bout I make you something to eat?" Han asked finally, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the Falcon.

Leia blinked at him.

"Excuse me?"

"Aw c'mon, Princess," he coaxed. "We both know you haven't eaten all day."

He held his breath, hoping he wasn't pushing his luck, but she bit her lip and he knew she was tempted.

He took a step closer.

"Gotta eat to fight a war, right?" he grinned, a deliberate attempt to lighten the mood even though his own stomach was still churning. The princess was clearly weighing the pros and cons—he could practically feel her racing deliberation.

"Won't you be missed at the party?" she asked finally, and nothing she'd ever said in the long weeks that he'd known her had ever affected him like that did, because something in the reluctant, wistful, bitter tone of her voice made it suddenly and painfully clear to Han.

Leia was lonely.

How could that have happened? Yeah, her planet had been destroyed, but she had all the rebels… didn't she? For the first time he really thought hard about the previous two months, about how hardly anyone had visited her in the med center and about the meals she'd eat with him and Luke and Chewie on the Falcon and the way she was frequently insulting him and telling him to leave her alone only to lash out and become furiously angry whenever he alluded to taking off.

Han didn't know why he suddenly felt like hurting something, but he did.

"They'll get over it," he said gruffly, hoping she couldn't tell what he was feeling.

She hesitated a moment longer, and then allowed him to lead the way back to his ship.

They were completely silent all the way back through the base and into the hangar. Briefly he wondered what people would think if they caught the princess boarding the Falcon in the middle of the night. Han led Leia up the ramp and through the main hold, noting with satisfaction that the ship was much cooler than it had been when he and Luke had left before. He headed for the galley, expecting the princess to take a seat at the holochess table, but was surprised and pleased when she followed behind him into the rather tiny space and leaned against the counter, appraising him silently as he began rummaging through the conservator.

"What're you in the mood for?" he asked casually.

"Doesn't matter."

With a shrug he began setting out the ingredients for flatcakes, stirring together the batter and setting to work on the cooktop. Neither he nor Leia spoke as he prepared their meal, but her stomach growled again as the inviting smell of the fluffy breakfast food filled the galley and Han glanced over at her, a bizarre combination of fondness, amusement, and concern warring within him. The princess however crossed her arms and glared at him, clearly daring him to comment again, and so for the sake of keeping the peace he went back to flipping the flatcakes without uttering a word.

"Not exactly a royal feast," he apologized as he stacked the cakes on a plate and grabbed dishes and cutlery for them both.

"It smells delicious," Leia assured him quietly, holding out a hand for the tableware. Reluctantly, Han passed her the forks, knives, cups, and plates with a fleeting thought that he shouldn't make the princess set the table, but she turned from him without another word and headed back towards the main hold, so he grabbed the flatcakes, syrup, and a bottle of juice and followed after her.

Leia had set places for each of them and was already sitting before her empty plate, looking suddenly so ravenously hungry that Han was taken aback. Hastily he set down the food and watched her help herself. For several long minutes they ate in a tense silence broken only by the sounds of their forks and knives and Leia's compliment of the flatcakes, which Han accepted awkwardly because she'd never complimented him before and he was suddenly realizing that they'd never had a meal alone together. Without Luke and Chewie there to contribute to the conversation, he found himself feeling extremely anxious.

Finally, when they were done eating and after Han had coaxed the princess into eating one last flatcake (she had argued and scowled at him but he'd noticed that she hadn't exactly displayed any lack of enthusiasm in eating after she'd finally relented), Han grabbed up both their empty plates and headed into the galley to deposit them in the sink. He was just turning to head back out into the hold when a bottle of limited reserve Corellian whiskey caught his eye. It was sitting on the countertop where he'd left it after picking it up on their last supply run—he'd thought vaguely of perhaps taking it out the next time he had the kid and the princess over for dinner, but…

But the thought of sharing it with Leia—just the two of them—was infinitely more tempting.

He reached for the bottle, hesitating. She was exhausted, after all, and she'd been in a horrible mood in the east corridor, and since they were done eating he wouldn't have been all too surprised if she got up and left as soon as he came back out of the galley.

With a shrug, he hefted it from the countertop and strode back through the ship. Even if she did leave, he deserved a nice drink himself. After all, he'd busted his ass all night to fix the environmental control. Not to mention, he'd successfully gotten the princess to have a hot meal…

Fixing a cocky grin on his face, he plopped back down into his seat, took the top off the bottle, and poured a generous amount into his glass. Satisfied with his decision, he set the bottle aside and glanced over at the princess.

"What's that?" Leia demanded, staring at the amber liquid disapprovingly.

Han shot her a grin.

"Just 'cause I'm missing the gambling doesn't mean I gotta miss the drinking, too," he smirked, quoting her own words back at her and tipping his glass in her direction before taking a swig; the alcohol burned a path down his throat.

He leaned back in his seat, watching her bite her lip and wondering if she would scold him—certain that she was stewing on a rebuke. To his astonishment, however, she slid her emptied glass across the table to him and met his gaze.

"Could I have some?" she asked softly.

Well.

Stunned, Han reached for the flask and tipped a finger's worth of whiskey into the glass for her. He was suddenly and profoundly aware of the situation: it was late at night, he and the princess were all alone on his ship, and there they were drinking hard liquor together. As good a gambler as he was, not even he would have ever bet on such an occurrence, but the circumstances didn't allow for him to get too excited about it. He knew that Leia was only there because she was lonely and hungry, and she had insinuated on more than one occasion that she thought he was a deplorable, cocky nuisance with no moral standards.

Still, a quiet, pathetically hopeful voice chimed in his head, she's here, isn't she? She's letting you feed her and accepting your company…

He chuckled when the princess lifted the drink to her lips and made a face as she sipped. It surprised him even more than it would have if she'd tossed the whole thing back in one go; she was always so polished and accomplished in everything she did.

"Never had whiskey before, sweetheart?" he laughed, watching as she grimaced down at the remaining amount in her glass.

Leia threw him a dirty look, though he couldn't have guessed whether it was because he'd laughed at her or because of the endearment he'd tacked on at the end. Probably both.

"In case you've forgotten, captain, the drinking age is twenty on Coruscant," she informed him with a very regal lift of her chin.

His own drink halfway to his mouth, Han paused and blinked at her, startled. How could he have forgotten she was the same age as the kid? He shifted where he sat, profoundly aware of the nine-year difference between their ages in a way he hadn't been before. He set down his glass and frowned at her, examining her through this new lens and seeing for the first time how young she actually was. Maybe it was because she looked so tired, or because her usually pristine braids were in a disarray, or because he'd just witnessed her nose scrunch up in response to the alcohol, but she looked like a girl—a girl far too young to carry the weight of a rebellion and an obliterated planet and a war-torn galaxy on her shoulders.

He realized belatedly that she was watching him, still waiting for his response to what she'd said, and so he forced a grin and took another swig of his drink.

"I guess I'm breaking the law then," he said, "giving alcohol to a nineteen-year-old."

Leia shrugged.

"We're not on Coruscant," she pointed out, visibly bracing herself as she took another swallow of whiskey. To her credit, she kept a straight face that time, but the little shudder he saw gave her away.

"Good thing, too," he muttered, downing the rest of his drink and pouring himself another.

"Besides, I'm sure you're used to it," she said dryly, taking another, larger sip. Han couldn't help but be just a little bit entranced by the sight of her sitting on his ship, drinking his Corellian whiskey out of one of his old glasses, and licking her pretty pink lips.

"Used to what?" he asked blankly, his eyes snapping from her mouth to her eyes, which he was pleased to see looked more vibrant than they had in the east corridor.

The princess raised one delicate eyebrow.

"Breaking the law."

Han rolled his eyes.

"Nice," he told her, shaking his head.

To his delight, Leia smiled.

"Well, it's true, isn't it?" she asked, swirling the little bit of whiskey left at the bottom of her glass.

Han leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table.

"Guess so," he agreed. He was willing to say anything to keep that intriguing smile on her face. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her smile a real, genuine smile. At the awards ceremony, maybe?

Leia drained her glass and Han held his breath as she set it back down. He'd fed her and she'd had a drink, but there wasn't really any reason for her to stay any longer. Unless…

She nudged the glass towards him again, flicking her gaze between it, the bottle of whiskey, and Han with an impish little flutter of her eyelashes that he had never seen before but that he thought was quite possibly the cutest damned thing she'd ever done. Had she even ever done anything cute in her whole kriffing life? He'd always imagined she'd been lecturing people about galactic responsibility straight out of the womb. Astonished, he gave her a refill and watched in a kind of excited daze as she thanked him and braved a sip. She barely flinched as it went down, and she looked immensely pleased with herself for it.

"It's actually not terrible once you get used to it," she acknowledged, taking another drink.

Han grinned.

"A lot of Corellian things are like that," he informed her with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"Not terrible?" she smirked. "Not setting the bar very high for yourself with that one, captain."

The brown of her eyes glittered as she sipped once more at her whiskey. Han decided he liked the sight so much that he would let her have that one, too.

"Guess not," he acknowledged. He watched the princess raise her glass to her lips again, contemplating the intriguing combination of maturity and innocence that she frequently displayed. "You've really never had a drink before?"

Leia raised her eyebrows.

"Of course I have," she said matter-of-factly. "Just not this jet fuel you seem to consider a beverage."

"You just said the jet fuel's not so bad," he reminded her with a disproportionate amount of satisfaction, pouring himself another drink. "What have you had, then?"

"It just so happens that I've been drinking wine since I was sixteen."

"Wine?" he chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. Leia lifted her chin in a very dignified sort of way, but he thought he saw her cheeks flush just a little bit.

"Very nice wine," she told him tartly.

He raked his gaze over her, from the haughty eyes to the pink cheeks to the tight grip she had on the crystal glass and couldn't help but chuckle again.

"Oh yeah? What's your favorite?" he asked, knowing somehow already what she was going to answer, and the sheepish expression that settled over her face confirmed his suspicions.

"I like Pink Vendrillion," she admitted with a grin, shaking her head at him when he laughed outright.

"'S no wonder you choked on the whiskey," he smirked when his laughter abated, pleased that she was still grinning along tolerantly. "Do they even make wine sweeter 'n Pink Vendrillion?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

Still chuckling, Han took another sip.

"I'm glad you're so amused," she huffed as she held out her glass again.

Han stopped laughing when he realized that she'd so quickly finished her second drink. Granted, he hadn't poured her very much, but if she was used to drinking Pink Vendrillion…

He raised his eyebrows at her and tried to sound teasing once more as he tugged the bottle of whiskey closer to himself on the table.

"I think you should slow down, Your Worship," he said, without refilling her glass. "I'm not gonna carry you across base later if you can't walk."

"Funny," she scoffed. He wasn't sure if it was in response to his suggestion that she couldn't hold her liquor or the idea of her ever allowing him to carry her anywhere. Either way, he could see the tactical error he'd made immediately: Leia had clearly identified a challenge, and whether he'd intended his comment to be one or not didn't matter.

"Are you going to pour me another drink?" she demanded.

Slowly, Han shook his head.

"Wasn't planning on it," he admitted.

She lifted a brow.

"Fine."

Casting him a very superior look and taking her glass with her, she slid around the curve of the table until she was no longer across from him, but directly beside him and in front of the bottle of whiskey. His expression must have changed, because she let out a small sound that sounded like a laugh when she glanced up at him, and then grinned like a thief as she swiped the bottle off the table, poured a splash into her glass, and settled in to make herself comfortable.

Han suddenly felt like a droid with a faulty processor. The more logical part of his brain knew that he should have been immensely pleased with this turn of events. And to some degree he was. It was just that, well, Leia didn't really do closeness. Or at least, not since she'd been put in the med center. She'd hugged him twice before that—right after they'd been saved from being crushed to death in the trash compactor and then in the wake of their victory over Yavin—but she'd collapsed following their evacuation of that base (shock, he'd heard, physical and emotional trauma, fatigue, nerve damage, dehydration, the list went on and on, but of course the doctors didn't tell him that and she sure as hell would have never given the details…) and something must have shifted in her during those long hours in that tiny room being prodded by doctors and droids (it had gotten around base that she'd been screaming in there, and then the droids had been banished) and after she was released, she seemed to keep a firm barrier of personal space around her at all times. He'd witnessed Luke putting his arm around her a few times, which she seemed to tolerate for a little while, but her face always seemed pale when he did it and she often took a step away from Han if he just looked in her direction.

Yet there she was, sitting so close he could feel the heat of her beside him, and he wasn't sure how to proceed.

"Proud of yourself, princess?" he asked, watching her large brown eyes and the tendrils of soft-looking hair that had come loose from her braids and her delicate fingers holding her cup.

"Immensely," she sighed, taking a sip.

From beneath her long eyelashes she looked up at him and then continued to drink, and Han was floored by how alluring she looked in her stiff, too-big standard issue uniform and her stiff, disheveled hairdo sitting in such a stiff, prim-and-proper position that he wondered if she even knew how to relax properly. He swallowed.

"You're just being difficult on purpose, Your Highnessness," Han accused. "Didn't I just tell you to slow down with the whiskey?"

"I've had the same amount as you have."

"Yeah, but I don't weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet," Han snorted, expecting her to scowl at him and certainly not expecting her to smile and poke a finger at his arm. They must've been breaking a record, going as long as they were without shouting at each other.

"Are you sure about that? You're pretty scrawny," she commented.

"Scrawny?" he echoed incredulously, sitting up straight and glaring at her in disbelief. "You think I'm scrawny?"

To his complete consternation, Leia started giggling. She actually giggled, a trilling, pleasant sound that he'd never heard and which sent a jolt through his entire body. Her cheeks had been growing pinker with every sip of whiskey, but now her face was positively rosy, and her eyes were twinkling as she covered her mouth with her hand.

Han was completely, utterly charmed. He'd thought he'd been stunned when she'd moved over to sit next to him, but that was nothing compared to the sight of Leia Organa honest-to-gods giggling next to him on his ship. The corners of his own mouth turned up, and he was sure he was wearing a huge grin. Who'd've thought that all he'd needed to do was give her a few sips of whiskey to get her to loosen up? Two months of stony expressions and all-business attitudes and barely even a flicker of happiness… he should've slipped her a drink the second they'd gotten off the Death Star, he mused. Would've saved him a lot of headaches, and she'd probably have been much better off for it.

"I'll remember you said that," he warned, but for the life of him he couldn't manage to sound threatening.

Leia nursed her drink, crossing and uncrossing her legs beneath the table.

"I'm sure it'll just blend in with all the other insults you'll be hearing from me," she said slyly. He'd criticized her a few days before for never having anything but insults to offer him. It was after he and Chewie had gotten back from a run—the same run where he'd picked up the whiskey—and instead of being grateful that they'd got the rebels some fresh food, she'd sniped that he hadn't followed protocol when unloading. At the time he'd been more than just a little irritated, but with her cheeky smirk and dulcet laughter, he couldn't even remember why he'd been mad.

"Not likely." He shook his head. "This one's personal."

"It's not personal when I insult your ship and your intelligence and your utter lack of respect for authority?" she laughed.

"I'm not scrawny," he insisted. Her nose scrunched when she giggled, and he decided it was even cuter than her nose scrunching when she drank whiskey. "You just don't want to admit that you think I'm handsome, Your Worship."

"Your humility is astounding," she scolded, and then, with no warning and as though they hadn't spent the past several weeks bickering like their lives depended on it, she leaned over, rested her temple against his shoulder, wove her arm around his—the arm she'd poked, the arm she'd called scrawny—and, her own glass empty, reached over him to take his from his hand.

I have lost control of this situation, he thought frantically as she sipped the last of his whiskey—his whiskey, and not his whiskey as in from his bottle but his whiskey from his glass that he'd been drinking five seconds earlier. She set the glass down on the table next to her own; they clinked together, both empty now.

Han went still, hardly daring to breathe lest he break the spell she had evidently fallen under and bring her back to her senses—the princess on his shoulder, pressed against him from shoulder to hip to knee, her slender arm looped through his… He couldn't believe his eyes, but the solid warmth of her, her fragrant scent, the steady rhythm of her breathing all confirmed that he did indeed have a semi-drunk royal cozied up to him in the main hold of his ship.

The air suddenly felt swelteringly hot. Distractedly he wondered if the damn environmental control was out again, and he grabbed the whiskey to take a drink straight from the bottle.

"You're very comfortable," Leia observed calmly from down near his bicep, and Han chanced a glance down at her to find that her big brown eyes were looking up at him from beneath eyelashes that looked twice as long as usual.

"I try my best," he answered, but even though he had suddenly become the luckiest man in the galaxy (he didn't want to consider why he would equate innocent physical contact with Leia to being the luckiest man in the galaxy), he couldn't let himself enjoy it. Something was prickling at his brain, something suspiciously like guilt… Guilt, concern, and apprehension.

"Captain Solo," she murmured.

Han couldn't help but roll his eyes. Even drunk, she still sounded like a diplomat when she spoke. It made his chest warm—warmer than it had already been, a sensation different from the burning he'd felt earlier and something he knew was entirely independent of the whiskey.

"Yeah?"

"Maybe I have had too much to drink."

He swiveled at the waist to meet her gaze, bemused to find her expression gleeful.

"You don't say?" he asked, and her giggling was back.

"You did this on purpose," she accused, propping her chin on his shoulder and fixing him with a stare that was anything but stern.

He pointed a finger at himself—a silent question—and raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief. She giggled again, and with dawning horror he realized he would do just about anything right then to hear that sound over and over.

"Yes, you," she said imperiously. "You invited me over and then you—you brought out the whiskey."

As she said it she gestured towards the bottle of whiskey like it was some kind of villain, like she hadn't been the one to scoot over next to him after he'd tried to cut her off and pour herself another drink and then steal his.

"I didn't exactly force the glass to your lips," Han pointed out, delighting in the way her eyes narrowed at him, a playful if slightly drunk variation of the look he had come so accustomed to seeing on her face—when she was looking at him, that is.

"I wouldn't have been surprised if you had."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, affronted, but Leia's eyes were glittering again, and Han's stomach was in knots. What in the nine hells of Corellia was wrong with him, he couldn't have said. He'd seen a lot of things to make a man stare and had hardly batted an eye, and yet there he was entranced by the galaxies-deep eyes of a bossy, uptight, naïve kid princess.

"It means that you are an absolute rake, Han Solo," she said.

Han's eyebrows shot up.

"A rake?" he repeated in disbelief, valiantly trying and failing not to laugh at her. She couldn't have possibly been serious. "What the hell you been reading, Princess?"

He watched her cheeks flush as she glared at him and his own cheeks hurt from smiling so much in one night. Drunk Leia was proving to be much more pleasant company than sober Leia was.

"It's what you are," she insisted.

"No one's said that word since before interplanetary travel," he pressed, laughing again. She did things like that every now and then: demonstrated levels of such refinement as to be almost absurdly old-fashioned. It was usually exasperating. This time, however, he found it unbearably endearing.

He watched her expectantly, waiting for her retort, but either she was too inebriated to come up with something or his teasing had gotten to her, because she slid the bottle from his grasp and brought it to her mouth for a long swig that sent another shudder through her; Han could feel it where their bodies were touching.

"Did I force you to drink just then, too?" he asked cheekily.

"Yes," the princess answered immediately. "You're so insufferable that you drove me to it."

She rested the bottle in her lap and looked up at him again, only her face seemed closer than before and Han's uneasiness returned ten-fold.

"Well I'm gonna prove you wrong once again, Your Highness, and take away the whiskey," he said firmly, reaching for the neck of the bottle.

Leia snatched it away, appearing momentarily distressed, and although her tiny arm wasn't long enough to actually hold the bottle out of Han's reach, he didn't make another grab for it.

"Is that how Corellians treat their guests?" Leia demanded, the color high in her cheeks, and then she took another swallow of the amber liquid.

Han opened his mouth to reply, to inform her that he thought she'd had enough for the night, but then she shifted around beside him, hooking his arm over her shoulders and pressing herself into his side.

"I was hoping that we could finish this together," she said primly, swishing the contents of the bottle, "but I am not at all adverse to drinking the rest myself if you don't want to help me."

Han gaped at her. Her gaze was like steel, but in her eyes there was something that tugged at his chest…

"What's gotten into you?" he asked. He tried to make it sound like a part of their banter from a few moments before, but a more serious note stuck in his voice, and to his utter astonishment Leia kicked off her boots and propped her legs up across his lap.

"I worked four straight shifts," she whispered. "With no breaks."

A shiver went all the way down his spine.

She took another swig of whiskey and then held the bottle towards him in invitation. He hesitated for a moment, torn as to how to proceed, and then slowly he took the liquor from her, raised it to his mouth, and took a long drink.

"Knew you didn't take a break."

Leia took the bottle back at once. Her hands were trembling as she drank again.

"You work too much," he continued, but Leia cut him off.

"I don't want to talk about work," she told him fervently—desperately. "Or the Alliance. Or the Empire."

This caught Han off guard. Wasn't this the same woman who'd made it her personal mission to bring every single conversation he'd had with her for the past few months back to the war against the Empire?

"No? What d'you want to talk about, then?" he asked, both fascinated and wary.

He watched Leia take one more large swallow of whiskey before she reached to set the bottle back on the table. It took her three tries to successfully stand it upright.

"You."

"Me?" he asked in bewilderment.

"You said you were leaving months ago," she pointed out.

Han felt his body tense.

"You saying you want me to go?" he asked evasively. He knew where she was heading and he didn't like it at all.

Against his shoulder, Leia shook her head.

He sat up straighter.

"Look, Princess, if you're about to start on one of your recruitment speeches…"

"I'm not."

Han blinked.

"You're not?" he asked suspiciously.

"Didn't I already say that I didn't want to talk about the Alliance?" she asked in an extremely high-pitched voice that sounded nothing like how she normally spoke. Her arm jerked towards the bottle she had just struggled to put down, almost knocking it over as she grabbed at it, and Han was stunned to realize she had been tossing back his Corellian whiskey all night because she was nervous.

"What're we doing, Leia?" he asked as she finished off the bottle. Her eyes were glassy when his serious tone drew them to his face—not nearly as sharp as they usually were.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean why're you sitting in my lap and chugging my whiskey like a thirsty dewback?"

He watched her pink face bypass pinker and make the jump straight to scarlet, and the expression on her face was confused and startled when she glanced down at her legs, as though surprised to find that they were indeed resting over his thighs.

"Are you complaining?" she asked.

That, he thought as he took the empty bottle of Corellian reserve from her and set it beside their two glasses, was a loaded question. Was he complaining to have Leia cozied up with him in the middle of the night? Absolutely not, except…

He opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out.

"Why haven't you left yet?" she asked, tripping over the words a little—her speech up until then had remained impressively unaffected by the whiskey, for the most part—but her thoughts were evidently coherent enough to recall their earlier train of conversation.

For the second time in as many minutes, Han didn't know what to say. Hadn't he just been asking himself the same thing? He had his reward money. He could have taken it straight to Jabba to pay off his debt, but he hadn't. He'd stuck around, and with her gaze focused on him, drunk though she was, he couldn't help but feel like she was seeing a truth that he still wasn't even admitting to himself. Jittery and defensive, he shrugged as callously as he could.

"I dunno," he scowled. "It's… steady work…"

"Steady work?"

"That's right."

Leia looked down at her hands.

"I thought that maybe… it might've been something else…" she mumbled.

Han raised his eyebrows. His heart, he could feel, was beating much faster than it should've been.

"Like what?" he asked, stupefied, and Leia was positively squirming beside him.

"Well, I thought—some of the pilots said—"

Han could tell he was staring at her. She couldn't possibly have been insinuating what he thought she was. He must have had too much whiskey, too, if he was even entertaining the thought that she was suggesting that he'd stayed for two months because of her…

Leia glanced up at him, her eyes positively flashing, and in one fluid move all the more shocking for her drunkenness, she pushed herself upright, used his shoulders for leverage as she shifted around and, while he sat there in muscle-freezing shock, planted her knees on either side of his hips, grabbed his face, and pressed her lips to his.

For about half a second, Han was pretty sure that he was dreaming—or hallucinating—or, hell, sucked into an alternate dimension or something, but then his brain finally registered that he did, actually in reality, have Princess Leia straddling him—kissing him!—and he—

He seized her shoulders and pushed her away.

"Leia!" he gasped, too stunned to say more than that.

Her fingers were shaking against his cheeks as he stared at her, wide-eyed, and as though to distract him from his disapproval, she leaned forward to kiss him again.

Han restrained her, keeping her from repeating the action. She strained against his grip and he was so confused and taken aback that he felt dizzy.

"The hell are you doing?" he demanded, voice sharp.

Leia blinked down at him. Her face was flushed—her eyes wild.

"Kissing you," she said breathlessly. Her breath smelled like whiskey. Her soft lips had tasted like it.

Again she leaned towards him.

"Stop that!" he snapped.

"Don't you want to kiss me?"

He was so flabbergasted that he could barely think, but the one thing that was clear to him was that he needed to get the princess off his lap as soon as possible. Hands at her hips, he lifted her bodily off of him and dumped her back in her spot beside him, where she landed with a graceless sprawl of limbs and a very indignant glare in his direction.

"You're drunk," he bit out. He couldn't tell what he was feeling. Angry? Concerned? Amused? Panicked? Why was he panicked?

"So?"

"What do you mean, 'so'?" he sputtered.

Leia sat up, swaying as she did so.

"Wasn't that the point of the whiskey?" she accused. "To get me drunk?"

"What?"

"You invited me here late at night and gave me whiskey—"

That was too much for him.

"You think I was planning to take advantage of you?" he demanded, more furious than he had been in a long time. Was that the kind of man she thought he was? He knew that she scorned his lack of allegiance to her precious rebellion, but he thought she knew that for all his illegal activities, he would never hurt somebody like that. He'd thought that after all they'd been through together…

"It's not taking advantage because I'm offering."

He blinked at her.

"Offering?" he repeated, blood rushing in his ears. Leia, unfocused eyes and flushed cheeks and all, held his gaze, expression simultaneously furious and bashful and determined and pleading, and Han—

"Are you trying to seduce me?" he asked, dumbfounded. The notion was so ludicrous he would have laughed out loud but for the steel in her voice.

"I thought that was obvious," she said scathingly, except that her voice shook, and Han had never been so confused and so startled and so at a loss in his entire life.

"You're outta your kriffin' mind," he managed, shaking his head at her.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not having sex with you, Princess," he barked. He couldn't believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. The princess was literally throwing herself at him and he was turning her down? What kind of cruel trick was the universe playing on him that Leia was suddenly trying to bunk him but he couldn't take her up on it?

"Isn't that why you've stuck around?" she asked, and he could tell by looking at her, by the sudden wideness of her eyes and the utter seriousness with which she spoke, that she believed that was true. He felt like he'd been slapped.

"You thought I was hoping to fuck you before taking off?" he scoffed, entirely pissed off.

The alcohol had significantly affected the princess's ability to keep her face impassive, because as she realized what exactly was happening he could read every emotion: anger, then horror, embarrassment, and something that looked alarmingly like devastation.

Her skin glowing red from neck to hairline, Leia gave a curt, jerky nod, abruptly stood, and nearly tripped face-first in her drunken attempt to scramble over Han and make an escape. Swearing, he caught her around the middle and tried to help her sit back down, but she thrashed against his hold.

"Don't touch me!" she snarled, her flailing hand landing on the table the only thing keeping her upright. "Let me go!"

"You're so drunk you can barely walk and you think I'm gonna let you stroll outta here in the middle of the night? Not a chance, sweetheart."

"I refuse to sit here so you can—so you—"

"So I can make sure you don't puke all over the west corridor? What the hell is wrong with you?" It was a genuine question, because he really had no idea what was going on, but apparently it was the wrong thing to say: Leia lost it.

"What's wrong with me?!" she shouted, incensed. "Everything is wrong with me! Hasn't anyone told you? It's all anyone talks about! How 'unstable' I am and what a 'delicate condition' I'm in and how poorly I'm 'coping with recent events'! Either that, or I'm a heartless bitch that should be reprimanded for a lack of public hysteria! Haven't you heard?! Or are you really so oblivious that you've actually managed to let that go right over your over-inflated head?!"

Han didn't say a word. Her furious, derisive words rang in the relative silence of the ship, reverberating off the metal, and Leia rushed on, her face redder and redder and her voice more shrill with every syllable.

"Well apparently everyone was right, otherwise I wouldn't have chugged a bottle of whiskey and propositioned the first man to make me flatcakes like some kind of—some kind of—"

"Some kind of what?" he asked dumbly, watching her falter, sensing her growing dismay, and then, to his horror, her face pinched, her glassy eyes squeezed tight, and the princess began to cry.

At first it was just a sniffle and a few tears, but then suddenly she slumped against him, sobbing and shaking and shuddering like a nervous nerf, and Han had absolutely no idea what to do. He'd never seen Leia cry. Hell, the only emotions he'd ever seen her display were anger and annoyance.

"Uh," he stammered, hands hovering awkwardly in the air to either side of her while she wept against his chest. As a rule, he usually tried to avoid crying females, but he felt that it would be rude of him to shove her off of him again. Then again, he didn't know if she wanted him to hold her, either.

"I'm sorry," Leia choked. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's—It's alright," he muttered. She appeared so terribly upset that he chanced a couple awkward pats on her back.

"I don't know—wasn't thinking—please just—forget this," she choked.

Still nervously administering what he hoped were comforting taps of his palm between her shoulder blades, Han felt his stomach drop.

"Don't worry about it, Princess," he said gruffly. "You're drunk. Happens to everyone."

He felt her shake her head against his collarbone, her fingers balled into fists in the fabric of his shirt.

"I can't sleep," she sobbed, "I can't eat. I have—nightmares—make me sick…"

Something twisted in his gut as it dawned on him just what exactly she was talking about. He went completely still.

"I just thought—I thought—if we—I didn't want to think—I can't bear it…"

Her tears escalated to such a degree that she seemed to struggle to draw breath, and Han was floored. It was true that he'd figured her obsessive overworking was a coping mechanism, but never would he have imagined that Leia would end up in his lap, crying her hurt into his chest after having attempted to sleep with him to…

… to distract herself from—what? Alderaan? The Death Star? He had no clue, and he was reluctant to ask—reluctant to say anything at all, because what the fuck could he possibly say to someone who'd been through what she had? He swallowed against a lump in his throat. Gingerly he wrapped his arms around her.

"I'm so sorry," she managed through gasping breaths. It seemed that her tears would never stop. Frowning, Han wondered if she had allowed herself this—if she'd allowed herself a good cry. The way she wept so earnestly, he wouldn't've bet on it.

"'S'alright," he whispered. He didn't think she believed him, but he felt the need to say it anyways, over and over again. His shirt was soaked with her tears, stuck wetly to his skin, and the sounds coming from her were so anguished that Han's own heart was throbbing. He tightened his grip, holding her closer. Her braided hair brushed the underside of his jaw, soft as he would've guessed it was, and she kept apologizing like her life depended on it. He didn't really think she was talking about kissing him anymore, and he felt sick.

Finally, after what felt like an hour, her cries faded to hiccups and sniffles, and eventually the princess was quiet. He craned his neck to look at her face, wondering what the hell he could possibly say to her after that, but he found that he wouldn't have to worry about it.

Whether she'd been so tired that she just couldn't keep her eyes open any longer or she'd been so drunk that she'd passed out, Leia was out cold. And Han was left with an unconscious princess curled in his lap and no idea what to do about it.

"Ah, hell," he breathed. His heart felt too heavy and too big for his chest.

After about a second of deliberation, he slid one arm gently under her legs and carefully stood, cradling her against his chest. She weighed next to nothing, he noted, dismayed, but her body was extremely warm in his arms and with a loud sigh he carried her through the ship, bumping the panel to open the door to his cabin with his elbow.

As carefully as he could, he laid her in his bunk. In reality he probably could've tossed her like a sack of tangaroots and it wouldn't have mattered, she was sleeping so soundly. Gruff and awkward, he eased his comforter out from under her and draped it over her body, doing his best not to look at her. The problem wasn't so much that she was lying sprawled in his bunk with her tousled crown of braids in a disarray on his pillow—although that wasn't an image he wanted burned into his brain for the rest of his life. No, the problem was that, with her pale face so splotchy from crying and her closed eyes and her parted lips, Leia looked so… vulnerable. Vulnerable in a way he knew she wouldn't want him to see her. Witnessing her tears, tucking her into his bunk… it all felt too intimate and too personal and the fact that he just knew that the princess hadn't meant for any of it to have happened… He cursed under his breath as he considered the ramifications.

Averting his eyes from her face, which looked so peaceful in the wake of her emotional display, he caught sight of her tiny foot poking over the side of his mattress, stark white standard-issue sock glaring bright in the dimness. Han stared at it for a moment, his body angled towards the door, but then with a huff of exasperation—at himself, for kriff's sake, because what the hell was he doing?—he gently nudged it back onto the bunk, tugged the blanket over it, and beat a hasty retreat back to the main hold, resigned to the fact that that's where he would be sleeping.

His footsteps echoed loudly in the silence of the ship. Their two empty glasses still sat on the table next to the empty bottle of whiskey, and Leia's boots were on the floor. Han tried not to look at them. He couldn't decide whether or not what had happened had been his fault, and he wasn't entirely sure what to think about any of it. Sinking heavily down onto the acceleration couch and propping his feet up, he made a valiant attempt to think about anything other than the events of the evening, but Leia's sparkling eyes and scrunched up nose and heartfelt sobs swam endless circles around his brain.

Han didn't know what they'd done to her on the Death Star and he'd never wanted to find out. He'd assumed it'd been bad, but he was suddenly sure that it was much worse than he'd ever imagined. His imagination was wild with sickening possibilities. He kept seeing her hard expression in the cockpit when they'd rescued her. Kept remembering the shocking field of asteroid and debris that had once been her home planet. Kept recalling how skeleton-white she'd been the first time he'd sauntered into her room in the medbay.

And she'd kissed him. She'd straddled his lap with her tiny thighs and took his face in her cold little hands and she'd pressed her lips against his. He remembered that he'd been staring at her lips while she'd been drinking the whiskey and felt like a piece of shit. Uselessly he attempted to pinpoint the moment that the night had gotten out of his control—tried to figure out if she'd planned to "seduce him" (gods, he couldn't even think those words without cringing—it was all so absurd) from the start or if it had just come about as she'd gotten steadily drunker. The notion that the princess had wanted to have sex with him (had she wanted that? He didn't really think so) to distract herself from her grief made him feel nauseous, and he decided that he was a complete tool that he hadn't noticed the true extent of her hurting. He'd thought himself to be perceptive, but he hadn't ever realized the truth of it. He'd never considered that Leia felt responsible for the destruction of Alderaan. He'd never really wrapped his head around her situation. Her entire planet was gone. Every person she'd ever met, ever loved. Her family and friends. The people she was responsible for as both a princess and a senator. It was no wonder she didn't sleep. No wonder she seemed never to eat. He regretted that he'd ever criticized her for her obsession with taking down the Empire.

His stomach was churning and Han groaned, musing half-heartedly that there was a chance he'd puke up the whiskey. Hours passed. At some point Chewie came in and headed for his hammock, warbling something about winning big credits, but Han had completely forgotten about the damn sabacc game.

After tossing and turning all night, he was decided on two things. First, he would never tell a soul what had happened that night. He knew that Leia hadn't been confiding in him—she'd gotten drunk and as a result, she'd done things she probably wished she hadn't done and said things she most definitely would wish she hadn't said. He'd been there before. She would probably be mortified and angry with herself—not to mention hung over—in the morning. Han wasn't about to go running his mouth to anyone. He wouldn't even tell Chewie anything other than what he had to. He felt like he'd somehow invaded her privacy just by bearing witness to it all. Maybe he should have never invited her for flatcakes.

And second. Well, second of all, he decided that first thing in the morning, he'd be going to see General Rieekan.

He had some money he needed to return.