a/n: and, the shocking conclusion [it's not shocking].

"breaking point"

The alarming rage with which Sweat Fever incapacitated its victims was matched only by how swiftly it vanished.

It was not even a handful of hours after he weathered the worst of it that Han was well enough to complain about the intravenous drip in his arm, and the medical mandate that he had to stay in bed for the time being. Despite a nurse's insistence that he was not physically as strong as he felt, he complained about being held prisoner - as he defined it - and ignored Chewbacca's stern arguments insisting he only felt good compared to how wrecked he had been less than ten hours ago.

[You are still sick.]

"'M fine!"

[You look like a corpse.]

Han scowled at him, pretending he didn't have an exhausting headache - his muscles ached as if he'd run a marathon, but he figured if he'd had Sweat Fever, he must have been shaking and convulsing all night. He didn't remember - he wasn't sure what damn day it was, and he was vaguely irritated by the dry rash that was still marking his neck and shoulders. He kept reaching up to clutch at a spot just behind his shoulder, massaging it absently.

He stared at the unoccupied chair that had been drawn up beside the treatment bed, his brow furrowed darkly. He was still perplexed - it had been slept in, clearly; damn near lived in - there was a wrinkled blanket, a comlink, and a protein bar wrapper -

"Whose stuff's that?" Han asked gruffly.

Chewbacca, still standing at the foot of his bed, an obnoxious sentry aiding the medics in keeping him hostage, lifted his chin.

[The Princess',] he answered. [She was with you when you lost consciousness.]

Han reached up to touch his the wound on his brow, and winced at the tenderness. He poked it a few times gingerly, then lowered his hand to his shoulder again, rubbing a spot there that kept - bugging him, catching his attention.

[She kept you awake,] Chewbacca advised. [She was here all night.]

"Yeah?" Han asked, his brow furrowing. "She...how'd she - ?"

[Yelling at you, mostly,] Chewbacca offered mildly.

Han closed his mouth in a tight grimace - he'd never had Sweat Fever before, but he was pretty sure a big part of it was gettin' a fever so high it set your senses on fire, gave you nightmares and day terrors and everything in between, made a mess of thoughts and self-restraint. His lips turned down sharply at the corner and he narrowed his eyes, wracking his head for memories of last night - he was at a loss. The last thing he remembered ... he wasn't even sure what he remembered.

He looked back at his friend.

"C'mon, pal - was I out of it?" he asked, muttering under his breath. "What'd I say to her? About her?"

Chewbacca blinked slowly.

[For the most part, you cried for your mother.]

Han looked taken aback, and a little angry. He flushed.

"S'not funny, Chewie," he snapped tersely. He gestured at Leia's empty chair. "What'd I do?"

[Nothing.]

"Then where's she - "

He broke off, fumbling whatever he'd been about to say into silence, as Leia entered the room. She moved silently, and gracefully, a bottle of water tucked under her arm, and a carton of fresh juice in her hand. Without a word, she came forward, set the juice on the table next to him, and then sat down on the edge of the bed by his feet. She drew one leg up, and angled it with her foot pressed against her thigh, twisting the cap on the water bottle - twisting, and untwisting, without opening.

"I was here when you woke up," she said quietly, "after the fever went down," she added. "I left so I'd be out of their way."

Han squinted at her, his shoulders relaxing some. He lowered his hands to his lap, then tensed slightly, and reached up to rub his collarbone.

[Don't scratch.]

"Quit," Han griped at Chewie, "motherin' me."

Chewbacca turned his head away at the choice of words, and Leia lifted hers, her fingers still moving over the cap of the water bottle. She was unreadable, thoughtful - Han noticed her white snowsuit had grime and blood on the shoulder, and he lifted his hand, pointing at it, before gesturing to his forehead.

"That mine?"

She nodded.

"Kinda remember that," he drawled.

Leia rolled her shoulder back, wincing.

"I tried to catch you," she said.

Han grinned at her.

"You beein tryin' to catch me for years now, Your Worship," he quipped.

She tilted her head at him a little, her expression unchanging. Her lips turned up a bit at the corners, and she flicked her eyes down with the barest hint of a laugh.

"Sweat Fever," Han scoffed loudly. "Of all the damn - let's hear it, Princess," he said grudgingly, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head. He made a show of sighing in defeat, and frowned, shaking his head. "What'd I say when I was delirious? S'what happens, right?" he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "I say anything weird?"

Leia lifted her head, gazing at him intently. It wasn't - that she didn't want to tell him; it was that she didn't know how. She didn't understand what had happened last night - or rather, she did; she just didn't know how to translate it into the daylight hours, when he was well, and she was free of the very different delirium that had overtaken her and made her bold, and unapologetic, and daring, while he wallowed in his febrile delusions.

She didn't see it as fair to divulge - sensitive things, even if they were her sensitivities, when it wasn't trusting intimacy that had exposed them, but the cruel vulnerability of an illness. She had few doubts that, had it been her in the throes of a fever, she would have said things that mortified her – she didn't want to put Han on the spot now.

"You said you think I'm mean to you," Leia remarked mildly.

Han smirked.

"You are mean to me," he retorted, deadpan.

Leia's shoulder ached, and she reached up to rub at it, giving him a half smile – it was such a shallow way to put the things he'd said, but he'd given her so much perspective – he didn't think she was mean, he thought she was going to break his heart, which Leia supposed was a valid enough fear – she thought the same of him.

Han tilted his head.

"You stayed up with me all night? Kept me awake?"

Leia nodded.

"I told you I could go all night."

She bit her lip, bursting into a smile, and lifted her head, her arm still draped across her shoulder.

"You were sweaty and moaning, too," she joked quietly.

"Why'd you do it?"

"It was heavily implied you would die if you were allowed to fall asleep."

"Yeah, c'mon, Leia, answer the question I asked," Han retorted swiftly, his gaze sharp, and intent, "'m not a constituent. I know deflection when I see it."

Her brows lifted slightly. Her hands stilled in her lap.

"Well, Han," she began calmly, "I did not want to see you die."

He stared at her contently. Behind her, Chewbacca tilted his head, look at Han – and then turned, pacing away briefly. Han noticed the movement, and narrowed his eyes again, looking back at Leia. He kept reaching up to scratch a spot on his shoulder – the back of his shoulder – and Leia blushed. Han, juxtaposing that blush with Chewbacca's edginess, tightened his jaw.

"I said somethin', didn't I?" he asked gruffly, his face falling grimly. "Bad?"

"No," she said, her eyes on him honestly – but she wondered what he thought he'd said; what he was imagining himself saying.

Different, she suspected, from what had actually come out – how much he missed his mother, how badly some other girl had broken his heart, how wary he was that it was going to happen again, at her hands – why had she made such a – gendered assumption, that she was the only one who could get hurt in a relationship with him; why had she thought the mercurial nature of Han's part in all their grand flirtations was as shallow masculinity, instead of a deep fear of pain that matched her own?

He rubbed his shoulder again, and Leia bowed her head, rolling her eyes a little.

"Here's something," she said boldly, looking back up at him. "I bit you."

"What?"

"There," she nodded at his hand, how he kept absently reaching up to touch the spot. "You were falling asleep. I bit you. To keep you awake."

Han stared at her, and Chewie paced back, giving Han a wry look - and a shrug, and a nod: [She did,] he rumbled, [I witnessed it.]

"Kriff, Leia," Han whined, "why'd you have to do it when I couldn't enjoy it?"

She laughed a little, her face flushing again.

"Lieutenant Mar asked if we were having sex when you came down with it," she told him.

Han blinked.

"Were we?" he drawled, deadpan.

Leia's eyes inexplicably burned with tears, and she returned his solemn look.

"Of course. We're always having sex. Haven't you heard?"

"Oh, right," Han agreed breezily.

He fell silent, and smirked. Turning his head, he tried to angle it so he could see the back of his shoulder, maybe see some teeth marks – indentations of Leia's teeth; right there in his skin, the way he wished they'd be in his dreams. The times he'd fantasized about driving her to dig her nails and teeth into him, wrap herself up in him –

His head swiveled around sharply, suddenly, an echo of hazy words becoming clear.

"You called me sweetheart."

Her breath caught, and she winced, glancing up through her lashes. She blushed, compressed her lips, and then shrugged.

"You'll have a difficult time proving it," she retorted.

"Why'd you call me that?"

Her eyes on him were incredulous.

"Why do you call me sweetheart?" she demanded.

He gave her a little half smile.

"Sweetheart," he obliged wryly. "Why'd you want me to live so bad?"

Leia sat forward, her lips pursed.

"I told you," she admitted huskily. "We have a life to live."

He didn't remember her saying that, but somehow, he knew it wasn't all she said – and it wasn't all she was trying to say. He leaned back slowly, his shoulders falling, and he stared at her for a long time, eyes on hers without a word, attempting to read last night's delirium in the depths there.

He reached up, and touched the wound on his brow, pressing his fingertips into the soreness again; his eyes drifted closed uncertainly, heavily, and then he looked back at her critically, trying to decipher the lost hours, to remember something other than the aching heat of the fever.

"You and I have a life to live?" he asked.

"Yes," Leia said, her breath rushing out helplessly.

Han jutted his hand out between them.

"How long's it gonna go on like this?" he demanded, frustrated, his eyes blazing. "When's the breaking point?"

She raised her shoulders roughly, her lips pursed, voice raw –

"I don't know, Han," she gasped, words trembling – he wanted more from her, and she, even in her understanding of why, now, was still too fragile to take the reigns – "I guess when we're both delirious with it."

the end

-alexandra