Quick author's note: I've held on to this guy for awhile because I didn't want to throw anyone into rough waters by portraying an injured, bleeding and unconscious Leia. I know many people struggle to divide the character from our beloved Carrie, and if you need to skip this story because of it, there are no hard feelings at all. I will say that Leia heals just fine "off-camera" (this is pre-ESB), but I wanted to warn you guys ahead of time!

The Echo Base comms specialist on duty caught the signal after three short blips. Blinking, Graya set down her caf and peered into the line of code in front of her. The Hoth system was utterly devoid of traffic: terrific in terms of staging a large-scale rebellion against the Empire. It was also less than terrific when it came to visual confirmation of their own inbound fleet. The asteroid field posed wonderful cover, but it meant that often the first indications of visitors were their comm signals.

There, again: three blips. "General," Graya yelled over her shoulder. "Unconfirmed signal coming through on EM frequency beta-3."

General Rieekan walked behind her and leaned in to read the code. "Which signal?" he asked.

"Request for emergency medical assistance," she said. "Current code."

The general turned to a young lieutenant across the command center. "Who is out on assignment with current codes?"

Lieutenant Brille tapped his screen, pouring through list after list of names, ranks and coordinates. "Just three runs, sir. Skywalker and Antilles are at Bimmisaari, Torah is with the Mining Guild and the Millennium Falcon should be en route from Ord Mantell."

The general gave a curt nod and turned back to the comms specialist. "Please update me when the source of the code comes into range."

"Yes, sir," she said, and tagged the frequency. She sat back and absently rubbed her bottom lip with her index finger, thinking: It's going to be the Falcon. We all know it's going to be the Falcon. She watched the general exit the command center, his left hand clenched into a fist.

An hour later Chief Borgesi stepped alongside General Rieekan as he hurried into the hangar bay. Enormous and filled with the lingering smell of engine lubricants, the hangar was in a fugue state. The usual buzz of mechanic crews disassembling, installing, soldering and refueling was noticeably absent. Instead the thin, cold air whipped around in freezing currents, howling across immobile X-Wings and half-repaired freighters. The bay doors were thrown open wide, ready for the arrival of the Millennium Falcon. The flight crews were simply sitting, waiting. Borgesi had heard whispers this morning about an inbound distress signal but hadn't paid much attention until the general himself had asked him to clear the hangar.

The Falcon had three souls aboard: the options were limited. And there was little doubt in the chief's mind who the injured party was.

Borgesi didn't subscribe to the widespread adoration bestowed upon the princess. He thought she was overrated: an icon because of tragedy. That didn't warrant his respect. This was an unpopular opinion and had cost him some credibility among his compatriots. He was scum as far as the Rogues were concerned; the jockeys had a soft spot for her.

Come to think of it, most of the jockeys had a soft spot for the princess.

His lukewarm feelings for Organa did not apply to Captain Solo or the Millennium Falcon. Both were beyond reproach to him. Heroic Solo: famous for having some courage, coming back for Skywalker above the Yavin moon. And his damned ship was held together with spit and grit. What made that thing fly? Force only knew. Solo and the Wookiee had to be legends to keep her in the air.

As hangar chief, Borgesi bent the rules often and let Solo have prime space for the Falcon's many repairs. He turned a blind eye to suddenly-disappearing coolant reserves, though he knew that ship was leaking from nearly every surface. He'd invested in a couple shipments of CEC parts he suspected the old YT-1300 was bound to need at some time or another.

He was a fan. He didn't like the idea of Solo sending out a distress signal. That wasn't in character.

"Chief," General Rieekan said. "I want the Millennium Falcon given priority clearance. Closest available position to the med wing."

"Already done, sir." Borgesi tempered his instinct to roll his eyes. Did Rieekan think he was an idiot? "Do we know who the injured is?"

The general shook his head.

Borgesi was smart enough not to voice his opinion out loud. If the Rogues thought he was scum for not kissing the princess' feet, her own countryman certainly would. But internally, Borgesi was betting credits that the injured party was the princess. He caught sight of the Rogues, all clumped together and staring out the hangar door like nerfs awaiting their caretaker. He just couldn't help himself.

"Klivian," Borgesi shouted. "I got a wager for you!"

Hobbie Klivian stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his mates, a sick feeling settling low in his gut. He turned to glare at Borgesi, stupid heartless son of a bitch, and then turned back to the open bay doors. "I'm going to kill him," Hobbie said quietly.

Wes Janson shook his head. "Not worth the effort. He'd break like a twig and then you'd have to clean up the mess."

"Not if I shoot him. Not a lot of mess with a blaster bolt." Hobbie wasn't one for grand theatrics - his wingman had all the flair - but he thought he could manage a little spectacle for the chief.

"It's too good for him," Dak Ralter shrugged. "Just let him wallow in his own misery."

Hobbie leaned back a bit to look at Dak. "If it was just wallowing I'd wish him all the best." He pointed to the open bay doors. "But I bet he's actively hoping she's hurt. And that's … that's ... What is that, Janson?"

"Blasphemy," Wes helpfully supplied.

"Right," Hobbie said, nodding. "Blasphemy."

Dak shrugged. "Would you rather it be Solo? Or the Wook?"

Hobbie shuffled his feet and turned back to the open bay doors. "No." He thought he could see a black dot in the endless white outside the doors, but it was probably just wishful thinking. The Falcon was sure taking her sweet time coming home. "What the hell were they doing on Ord Mantell anyway?"

Dak shook his head but Janson pursed his lips. "Luke said it was a smash-and-grab for turbolaser cells."

"How'd he hear that?"

Wes held up his hands and tried to look innocent. "Maybe the princess talks in her sleep?"

Hobbie twisted his face in disgust. "That's just wrong, man."

"What? You can't tell me Luke doesn't have an in with the princess. I think we should alter our game plan, my friends."

"Stop," Hobbie said and shook his head. Wes was trying to be funny, but Hobbie was in no mood. The Rogues had decided long ago that the most interesting potential couple on this frozen rock didn't involve Luke.

In place of actual entertainment, the Rebellion's premiere starfighter squadron had taken up subtle matchmaking. Well. Sometimes it was subtle. It wasn't like they had a lot of practice at this, after all.

Hobbie shifted uncomfortably, guilt creeping in like a chill. They had betting pools on her. Wasn't it also a little blasphemous to have credits down on a woman who might be heading straight into the med wing when she got back to base?

"I'm worried," he said quietly. Dak ducked his head. "This is taking too long."

Janson was uncharacteristically quiet for a moment, then nodded his chin to the waiting general near them. Hobbie turned to look at Rieekan just in time to see a young med officer hand him a piece of flimsy and then stand respectfully to the side. Her team shuffled behind her, hover-stretcher and a large bag of supplies just behind them.

The med officer, a human female named Trylan, was trying valiantly not to vomit all over the hangar floor. She'd been called into the bay by way of the command center, where Graya had handed her a message that had come through the sublight comm array. The one she'd just handed to the general.

The one that confirmed the soldier in need of emergency medical attention was Leia Organa.

Trylan wasn't new to this. She'd been with the Rebellion for two years. She'd seen some action before her commander had noticed that she was shit with a blaster and her spatial reasoning was abysmal. Into the med corps she went. After a year and a half of working with the sick and dying of the Rebellion, she'd proven herself to be capable and reasonable.

But this was Leia Organa.

She imagined most people hoped that the distress signal was for Solo. The Corellian was famous for pulling through outrageous situations without a scratch. Eventually his luck would run out. Trylan didn't have anything against the captain, though she was genuinely confused why he was still with the Rebels when all he did was complain about them. But she didn't want him injured.

It was just that Organa seemed so much more breakable than he did. Trylan had only had a few interactions with the princess: mess hall conversations, one quick trip to the med wing for dehydration. But Trylan knew how resilient the princess was. You'd have to be pretty damned strong to survive genocide. But all that strength was wrapped up in a body of fallible bone and muscle the same as anybody. And if given the choice Trylan would have picked Solo as her newest patient without another thought.

She looked at Rieekan. Resigned pain flashed in his eyes as he read the flimsy. And then it was gone, replaced by stoic command and battle-hardened apathy. Another Alderaanian on the front lines, Trylan thought. For a pacifist people, they sure had produced some high-quality warriors.

"Incoming!" Chief Borgesi shouted from the corner.

Trylan turned to look out of the bay doors. The distinctive flat-oval shape of the Millennium Falcon was soaring toward them at near suicidal speeds, though that wasn't anything new. She heard Klivian say something about carbon scoring on the Falcon's starboard side but she couldn't see anything. The jockeys would know; their eyes were meant to see such things. Trylan leaned back, grabbed the handle of her supply bag and hefted it onto her left shoulder, grimacing at the weight.

Now she could see the carbon scoring. The ship passed through the bay doors, hovered for a moment, and settled onto the deck plating. Like a shot, all hands flew to the ship. The Rogues scrambled underneath to secure the struts. Borgesi tested the ship's radiation levels, made a loud comment about a severe coolant leak. Trylan flat-out ran to the boarding ramp, Rieekan not far behind her. She wavered at the hatch, not knowing where the freighter's med bay was located or even if she had a med bay. The general muttered a quiet go left and Trylan flew through a small galley, past a navigation station and then found herself standing in a brightly-lit compartment with a decent-sized med bunk flash-soldered to the deck.

The princess was laid out, unconscious. Her coloring wasn't ideal, a little pale for Trylan's tastes, but she could clearly see two arms, two legs and a fully-intact head on the bunk. She was wearing a white civilian robe and her left side was streaked with blood. Trylan looked for the rise and fall of the princess' chest. A larger form leaned over the unconscious woman and seemed to look for the same thing, mumbling to himself in a voice that sounded almost caustic.

Finally Trylan saw her patient take a breath. A wave of calm, cool certainty washed over her. Airway was secure. Blood loss precautions first, then.

The medic spared a brief look for the man looming over her patient. Captain Solo. He hadn't looked up as they entered. His hand held the side of the princess' face and Trylan filed away his horrified look for later speculation. "Move," she ordered him and then leaned over the med bunk to take a closer look.

Solo obeyed but didn't go far. "It's something in her side. Shrapnel or maybe a pellet, I don't know."

"When did she lose consciousness?" Trylan strapped a pulse indicator to the princess' right wrist, leaned over her mouth to feel her shallow breaths.

"Fifteen minutes ago. She … she stopped breathing just before we broke atmosphere. I used the - "

"Yes, I understand," Trylan muttered. She'd spotted the respiratory assistance system when she'd run in, unwrapped and lying on the deck near the foot of the bunk. Her esteem for Solo rose incrementally. Not every captain would have such supplies readily on hand. She softened her voice. "You can go."

Without another thought for the smuggler,Trylan quickly unfastened the front of the princess' robe and separated it from her camisole and undergarments to look at the wound on her side. Not shrapnel, no. It looked like a long, jagged slash by a sharp object. A passing blow but left untreated and bleeding for too long. The princess was probably unconscious from blood loss.

Knowing now her first priority, Trylan directed her attention to stabilizing her patient. In her experience this kind of injury wasn't life-threatening, though the princess must have been avoiding medical treatment for hours before she'd lost consciousness. She should have been taken to a hospital immediately on-planet and tested for blood poisoning. Bacta should have been applied and the wound should have been stitched before the Falcon had even asked for clearance to leave Ord Mantell.

"What the hell happened, Solo?" Rieekan asked, eyeing Trylan's bacta infuser and stitching equipment.

"I don't know," Solo said, and Rieekan turned to the captain. His hands were covered in Leia's blood, slashes of red running up into his hair. His eyes kept flicking back to the med bunk and his right hand shook at his side. His eyes were wild things. "We ran into …. hell, she ran right in front of him. She was so fast, I didn't even see it happen. And then she kept saying she was fine." Solo gestured to Leia. "Fine! She is not fine!"

Rieekan couldn't make sense of Solo; he wasn't debriefing the general so much as unloading information. The older man stepped into the captain's line of sight, blocking Leia from him, and Solo's startled green eyes shot to Rieekan's. "What happened?" the general asked again.

The cold durasteel beneath his words seemed to bring back Solo's focus. "We got the cells just fine," Solo said. "On the way back to the Falcon we were stopped by a bounty hunter."

Rieekan didn't let his face change, though he began to see exactly how this confrontation had ended. "A bounty hunter after you or her?"

Solo's eyes sparked, an angry flare. The general was glad to see it; this frantic version of Solo was more than a little unsettling. "After me."

"I see." Rieekan looked over his shoulder. Trylan was checking Leia's pupils. "Is she stable?" he asked the medic. The general was winning his battle against his panic but he knew better than to hope. He'd sworn to protect Leia at all costs after he first saw her emerge from this cantankerous freighter three years ago. Seeing her now, unconscious and bleeding after protecting Captain Solo - at least, that's what he presumed Solo had been trying to tell him - the deep worry hit him square in the chest.

"Yes, she's stable," Trylan answered, and Rieekan let out a relieved breath. "Let's get her into the med wing. We need to see how deep this laceration is. And she's going to need blood."

"Fine," Rieekan said, and watched as the medical team transferred Leia onto the stretcher and hurried away. He didn't move to follow and only spoke once he was sure he was alone with Solo. The makeshift med bay felt too large all of a sudden. "Explain."

Solo swiped a hand over his mouth and didn't look at Rieekan. "The bounty hunter had a cutter. Long, nasty spear with a triggering device full of shrapnel. She ran in front of it. Chewie starting shooting and in the chaos we made a break for it."

"And she didn't tell you she'd been hit," Rieekan finished for him.

Solo looked down at the deck; Rieekan closed his eyes. He knew Solo was head over heels for Leia. It wasn't hard to spot when one knew where to look. Solo would do anything, had done anything, to keep Leia safe. He was the best chance Rieekan had to protect the princess in these types of dangerous situations, and for three years the strategy had worked brilliantly.

But the fatal flaw in it was obvious to him now: Solo wasn't the only one head over heels. And by sending Leia with Solo, Carlist was insuring that she would protect him as much as Solo would protect her.

As a young girl Leia had always been ferocious about what she loved. Obviously that had not changed. Perhaps these years of war had only sharpened the instinct. That she would risk bodily harm to protect this particular man didn't surprise him.

Leia, he thought, almost with amusement. There was no small amount of consternation to the thought, but the situation was so in-character that he couldn't help himself. Perhaps he'd been a fool to think his plan would protect her so easily. Leia defied most conventions; why did he think her safety was any different?

Rieekan opened his eyes, turned and exited the med bay without a word, leaving the smuggler alone and staring at the deck. He could see the dark stain of Leia's blood on the left side of the bunk. He could see a small trail from the hatchway where he'd carried her from the cockpit. He could hear the phantom sounds of the engines running hot, Chewie taking them down through Hoth's atmosphere. He'd been here, kneeling on the ground, when she'd stopped breathing.

He clenched his fists. This would not happen. He wouldn't let it.

Han Solo walked out of the compartment, slapped the light controls as he left and cut a straight path through the hangar bay, past the Rogues, past the bay chief. He ignored their curious looks. He ignored the shaking in his hand, his adrenaline spike, the way he felt like he was ready to tear someone apart.

People died in a war. He had no illusions to the contrary.

But not her. And not because of him.

He stomped through corridor after corridor, his heavy steps lost in the packed snow. He made a deliberate choice at a T-junction: one way to the med wing and the other to the command center.

Moments later he arrived at his destination. He looked around for the woman he needed to see, hands in fists, eyes hard. Once he spotted her, he turned and said: "I need clearance to leave."

Graya looked up at him, confused. "Captain Solo, you just arrived - "

"Put in a request to Rieekan for me. I can't stay here."

He turned sharply on his heel and left Graya gaping after him. After a quick moment, she faced her console and wrote the message.

But she paused before sending it. Her finger hovered over the send command key.

I knew it, she thought.

Graya had been on comms all day. She'd received the initial message, the three blips, and then the one after it. She'd heard the strain in the captain's voice as he requested emergency medical treatment for the princess. By the state of his clothing and the drying blood on his skin, he'd been right in the thick of it with her. If the command center hadn't already heard the princess was stable, Graya would have felt more concern. But as the situation seemed to be developing in a positive direction, she couldn't help but gloat. Just to herself and only for a moment.

She'd heard his voice. And despite what he might say to General Rieekan, Graya didn't think the captain really wanted to go anywhere. In that moment of absolute chaos, his voice had sounded like a man losing more than just a friend or a symbol of the Rebellion.

Graya pursed her lips, shook her head and deleted the message.

Voices don't lie, Captain, she thought, and sipped her caf. Let's let you cool off for a while before you do something you regret.