Yes, a new chapter! Really! I had no intention of taking this long to update, but my real life has attacked with a vengeance in 2016, absolutely demanding my attention. So, let me promise, once again, that I will finish this story. Thank you all for reading...and your patience.

Supply Run

Chapter 11

Tempers were short as the freight lift settled into its cradle in the Millennium Falcon's forward hold. Chewie still held Han by the arms, both to keep him from running straight for the pilot's station—and to keep the injured Corellian from falling face-first into the deck-plating. The Wookiee eyed the three humans surrounding him with the faintest hint of amusement in his blue eyes, before he began bellowing orders.

"I'm fine, you big furball," Han argued, as he heard the first of the Chewie's commands—sending Han to the medbay and Luke to the cockpit. "I can fly my own ship!"

Chewbacca abruptly let go of his friend's arms, leaving Han to clutch at a bulkhead doorjamb to keep from tumbling to his knees. His hazel eyes stood out in stark contrast to his white face, as did the drying trickle of blood which wandered crazily down his right cheek. "You don't need the kid," he objected through tightly clenched teeth. "You know you can fly this crate yourself."

"Luke is hurt, too," Leia pointed out to Chewie at the same time. "I should come up and help you with the lift-off."

"Oh, no, your Worship," Han began, irritation warring with the fatigue in his voice. "I sure don't want you—"

"Look, I'm fine!" Luke interjected. "It hardly burned through my shirt." He held up his forearm, displaying singed fabric and an angry red welt on his fair skin.

Chewbacca whuffed something under his breath as he took Han by the arm again, guiding him as they headed through the access corridor toward the main hold and lounge area.

"What did he say?" Leia demanded as she followed behind the Wookiee.

"You don't want to know," Han assured her. "It's not suitable for royal ears."

Leia glared at the Corellian, then her eyes narrowed; the uncharacteristic weakness she could hear in Han's voice worried her.

At that instance, a ringing thud shook the ship. Apparently IG-88 had worked past the wall of fire Leia had created, and was determined to stop the Falcon before they could make good their escape.

"He's shooting at my ship!" Han struggled to free himself from Chewie's iron grip, and failed miserably. "I need to—"

The Wookiee stopped dead in his tracks, Luke and Leia stumbling to a halt behind him. The amused spark in his blue eyes had hardened to an angry glint, and he roared ferociously. It was obvious he'd reached the end of his patience with his human companions.

"Okay, you're in charge right now," Leia agreed with a small, conciliatory smile aimed at the angry Wookiee towering above them. "What do you want us to do?" she asked in a tactful voice.

Chewie glared at the three humans, taking in big gulps of air as he calmed his temper. Then, in a series of carefully modulated barks, warbles, and groans, he told each of them exactly what their tasks were to be.

A blaster shot zinged against the Falcon's sealed main hatch; another rattled the sensor dish on the ship's topside.

Chewie's eyes rolled toward the ceiling above him as still more shots struck the ship. He neatly passed off Han's unsteady form to Leia as he barked out one final order: hurry.

No one argued this time. Six standard minutes and thirty-eight standard seconds later, the Millennium Falcon soared into the sky, leaving Ord Mantell behind it.

####

Luke scratched at the pain patch he'd hastily applied to his arm next to the blaster burn. The medication had done its job, and the burn no longer hurt, but now the patch itched. He was seated in Han's place, even though Chewie was only willing to allow him some simple co-piloting tasks. This seating arrangement was just simpler for them both, since the Wookiee couldn't fly the ship comfortably from the pilot's position, and Luke could only reach half the controls from Chewie's oversized seat.

Chewbacca grunted, and indicated the receding planet with a tilt of his massive head.

"I'm keeping a close watch, Chewie," Luke assured the Wookiee. "I haven't seen anyone trying to come after us." The young man sputtered out a laugh. "We left such a mess in the docking bay, I'm not sure they'll even figure out we're gone."

Chewie honked a laugh of his own, as he deftly punched the coordinates for the Hoth system into the navicomputer with one hand. His other hand held the yoke as he guided the Falcon out of Ord Mantell's gravity well and into the relative safety of deep space.

The Falcon's precipitous—and highly illegal—exit from the docking ring had left a fair amount of mayhem in its wake. Luke smiled as he considered the rapid series of events that had occurred over the last few minutes. He couldn't help but take a certain perverse pride in his own contribution to the damage below.

And in the midst of the chaos and catastrophe, Chewbacca had come through for them all.

Before their departure, while Luke had been bringing up the sublights from cold to standby, Chewie had announced that after everything they'd gone through to get them, he was not about to leave their newly acquired generators behind. He would load them, he had informed Luke, while the young man did the rest of the preflight.

"You're going to get killed!" Luke had objected. "I don't think that droid is shooting to miss now. He's really mad," he added, rather unnecessarily.

The Wookiee had merely yowled back an equally unnecessary instruction as he headed toward the forward freight lift: figure something out.

Okay, figure something out, Luke thought, his mind empty of brilliant ideas, or any other kind of idea, for that matter. Terrific.

As Luke had begun the preflight systems check—and some of those systems seemed awfully iffy to him—he'd also been watching out the cockpit canopy. It was only the shelter of the abandoned speeder truck, and the Wookiee's own herculean efforts to get the generators on-board as quickly as possible, that was keeping Chewie from being blasted to hairy bits. But the shots were coming closer to him with each new volley; it wouldn't be long until one found its mark. Figure something out, Luke ordered his uncooperative he'd remembered the newly installed belly gun that Han had tested only two days earlier in the hangar back on Hoth. Had it really only been two days ago? Luke shook his head in disbelief as he quickly thumbed the controls to on, and then laid down a sweeping blast in the direction of IG-88. When he heard the thump of the lift settling back into its cradle, the young man brought the sublights up from stand-by to full—so that when Chewie finally threw himself into his seat, the ship was ready. The Wookiee pulled back on the throttles and the Falcon had blasted free, leaving fire and bounty hunters in its ion wash.

Now that they were safely away, Luke flicked a few switches, and checked the corresponding readouts. He looked over at Chewie. "I think we're far enough out of the gravity well now," he commented. "And it doesn't look like anyone followed us. We're ready for lightspeed," he ventured. "That is if you agree," he'd added quickly, catching the proprietary glimmer in the pilot's sharp blue eyes.

Chewbacca nodded. His hirsute hand reached over to the hyperdrive control rods and pulled them back. The Millennium Falcon emitted a noise that sounded very much like a moan—and nothing happened.

"Chewie?" Luke asked, a hard knot forming in his stomach. If they couldn't go to lightspeed, they had, at best, a several month's journey back to Echo Base if they avoided Imperial space. At worst—Luke swallowed uncomfortably as he considered—at worst they would be blasted to space dust by an Imperial ship. The Falcon was well-known to the Empire; it was only the ship's speed, and Han's uncanny ability to get out of a tight situation in a hurry, that had kept them alive for as long as it had. Right now they had neither.

Chewie's brows drew together in consternation as he studied the control board. Occasionally he'd tap a dial or flick a switch, with no success. Finally, he took one huge paw and smacked the side of the console. With a smug smile—the Wookiee's toothy version of the smart grin that Han so often used—he pulled back on the controls once again. This time the stars outside the ship melted into a very welcome set of blurred streaks as the Millennium Falcon made the transition to hyperspace.

####

Leia rummaged through the Falcon's medbay, listening uneasily to the continuing sounds of battle outside the ship, and to the whine of the ship's engines coming up. Bundling sterile wipes, bacta ointment, pain patches, and concussion meds into her arms, she breathed a sigh of relief as she heard the sublights kick-in to full. Hastily scrambling to find a handhold, she steadied herself as the Falcon lifted out of the bay and into the sky.

Han had flatly refused to go to the ship's small medbay for any sort of treatment, instead glowering defiantly as he seated himself in the lounge. The princess had bristled in response and considered telling him what a complete gundark he was being, but then thought better of it. She had learned, in her years with the Alliance, that it was wisest to choose which battles to fight, and which to concede—and she knew this particular battle was one she wasn't going to win. However, when she returned to the hold to find Han slumped forward behind the dejarik table, his head cradled in his arms, she reconsidered taking up the fight.

"Han," she called to him, careful to keep her voice brisk, so as not reveal the spike of panic his condition was causing her. When he didn't respond, that spike jounced a little higher.

"Han!" Leia repeated, this time with a little more force. Relief swept over her as he raised his head and eyed her warily. Her own eyes scanned his face. He must be feeling awful, she realized, but at least he was alert—and his pupils were equal and reactive. She was hopeful that the concussion he was obviously suffering from was minor, though it still needed to be dealt with. With that in mind, she plunked down a packet of concussion tabs next to his elbow.

"You need to take these," the princess informed him.

"What are they?" Han asked, eying the package.

"It's for the concussion," Leia explained. "They'll help your head," she continued, when he just stared at the medication.

Han straightened in his seat and met Leia's gaze head on, only squinting a little in his discomfort. "I'm fine," he declared evenly. "There's nothing wrong with my head."

At that moment, the Millennium Falcon shifted from realspace to hyperspace, and Han's face went from pallid white to sickly grey. The skin around his mouth tightened perceptibly, and even his lips lost their color. He swallowed down obvious sickness as he turned his head away.

Leia watched the Corellian with sympathy, even while fervently hoping he didn't toss up his lunch on the game table. His reaction was mute testimony to how rotten he must be feeling. Only the greenest of hyperspace travelers felt the shift from sublight to faster-than-light, while a still smaller number became sick from the transition. For the uncountable number times Han had piloted through hyperspace, he shouldn't even be aware of the change.

"I'll get you some water for those pills," was all she said.

By the time she returned, the packet lay empty on the table. Obviously Han had dry-swallowed the tablets. He is the most stubborn, perverse, childish, laser-brained… Leia did a quick five-count in her head, tamping down her irritation. At least he'd taken the kriffing tabs. Already, he was starting to look less miserable, and more like himself. Choose the battles you can win, Leia.

Without a word, the princess set the water down next to him. She knew if she told him to drink it he'd refuse, and she also knew that he'd feel better if he drank it. Stupid gundark.

By the time Leia finished wiping the blood off his face, cleaning the blaster injury on his temple and slathering it with bacta ointment, Han was both surly and exhausted—as was Leia. He'd been uncooperative and obstructive with her ministrations, just like a peevish child, though the princess had noted that by the time the she had completed her task, there were beads of sweat on his upper lip. He was still suffering from the head injury, Leia knew, and he should rest. She didn't bother to tell him so, however, since she knew he would only argue the point. Whatever the organic matter was that was housed inside that thick skull of his, it obviously wasn't brain cells.

However, as she gathered up the remains of the medical supplies, she offered one last—and almost certainly hopeless—suggestion.

"You know, head injuries, even to a head as hard as yours," Leia began, "really should be looked at." She fixed him with a no nonsense stare. "You need to let Two-Onebee check you out when we get back to the base."

"I'm fine," Han snarled. "I don't need to see anybody." Even in his weakened condition, he managed a successful sneer as he glared at her. "And I don't need you ordering me around."

He was sounding better, Leia thought as she glared back, and she might actually have believed his declaration of health if it weren't for the drawn look on his face.

Leia was surprised as she experienced a sudden heat boiling up inside her—she felt like a concussion grenade, ready to blow. She couldn't stand any of this anymore. The trip to the bank that had brought back such painful, bittersweet memories of her family, followed by the aborted lunch with Han that had seemed to hold such promise. Then there was his unbelievable behavior with IG-88, followed by the startling, breathtaking fear she'd experienced when she thought he was dead. She slammed the armload of supplies back down, astonished by her own ferocity. Bracing her hands on the table, the princess leaned forward until her face was level with his.

"What in the hells is wrong with you?" she snarled at him. Her face was inches from his.

Han actually pulled back from the angry princess before he seemed to recollect himself.

"What are you talking about? Nothing's wrong with me." He leaned forward again. "I keep saying that, why in the hells won't you believe me?" he growled.

"Nothing's wrong with you?" Leia countered in disbelief. She straightened again and paced once around the lounge. "Then why did you go charging off after that kriffing droid?"

Returning to face Han, Leia saw that his hazel eyes were hard with anger; the specks of gold in them glittered like crystals in fleckstone. It made his face unnervingly handsome.

"You could have been killed, you stupid nerf-herder," Leia continued, then paused and drew a shaky breath. Her tremor was pure rage, she assured herself. She believed that, too, right until the next statement leapt unchecked past her lips. "I was afraid you were dead," she choked out.

Leia would happily have bitten her tongue in two if she could take those six words back. She watched with mounting horror as the anger in Han's face morphed into smug satisfaction. The glitter in his eyes went from angry to taunting.

"Sweetheart," he purred, "I didn't know you cared."

Now the princess was shaking from rage—at Han—and at herself. Why had those words spilled out of her mouth? How could she work around her blunder? For one awful moment, Leia's mind was a confused blank: Did she care for him?

"You risked everything we accomplished on Ord Mantell; you undermined the entire mission. For what?" Yes, this was good, Leia thought as she scrambled for a reasonable response, one that didn't include affection for the vexatious man. It was even true. "For some reckless, macho idea that you're invincible?" Crossing her arms across her belly, the princess turned her back to the smuggler. Her anger fizzed now, like the switch on a thermal detonator.

"That's not it, and you know it." Han rose from the holotable, bracing two fingers on its surface to steady himself. His color was high with indignation, and his brows lowering, but his voice was no longer taunting, and there was the faintest hint of vulnerability behind the sparks that seemed to shoot from his hazel eyes.

Leia felt her heart thudding in her chest, and willed it to slow. "I don't know what you're talking about," she responded, making her tone crisp, indifferent.

"Yes, you do," Han countered stubbornly, slipping around the table to stand in front of her. "You thought I was dead and it bothered you."

Bothered might be the biggest understatement Leia had heard in a long time, not that she would admit it. "Like I said, you undermined—"

"Then what were you doing out there without your boots on?"

"What?" Leia was honestly confused. Han waved one careless hand in the direction of the princess's feet, then crossed his arms across his chest. He leaned back against the bulkhead, an insufferable smile plastered crookedly across his face.

Leia looked down, and for the first time since Han had run out after IG-88, she became aware that she was in her stocking feet; she stared at her tattered, bloodstained socks in disbelief. Now she understood Chewie's muttered comment about leaving footprints, she could see the bloody smudges on the deck plates. Gods.

"I, uh," the princess began, then stopped. Leia swallowed with difficulty. For the space of a heartbeat, she wanted to say that she did care what happened to him; that she cared for him. But one look at that self-satisfied grin and she was hard pressed not to tell him that she hated him.

In the end, Leia said nothing at all. With quick, angry motions she gathered the first aid supplies back into her arms. Then, turning her back once more on the still smiling pilot she moved, in a fast, stiff-backed march, in the direction of the crew quarters.

"Hey, your Worship," Han called after her. Leia ignored him.

"Leia!"

Leia punched in the code to open the door to her quarters. She stepped briskly inside as it whooshed open without looking back.

She didn't see Han Solo reach out his hand toward her, or the look of bleak disappointment on his face as she had hurried past—and slipped away from him.

####

At his first sight of him, Chewbacca worried that his friend had been more seriously injured than he'd first appeared; then he saw the little princess stalk off down the access corridor toward the crew quarters, and he understood what ailed the Corellian. The Wookiee's furry eyebrows gyrated and his black nose crinkled up as a small smile played around his lips. He wondered, briefly, as he stepped into the lounge, that if by the time the princess and the pilot finally sorted out their feelings for one another, they'd be too old to act on them.

Han Solo was once again slumped down on the bench behind the holotable, with one hand hanging limp at his side, the other dejectedly fingering the drink bulb filled with water. The Corellian stared glumly into the ship's small galley, though his eyes seemed to light up a little when he spied the cold box.

That would be a bad decision. Chewie knew that if his friend consumed the strong Devaronian ale currently in the cold box, on top of the pain meds he'd taken for his injuries, it could create a deadly combination for Han. He harrumphed loudly, attempting to draw Han's attention away from the enticing prospect of drowning the new and unfamiliar feelings he was experiencing for Leia with liquid comfort.

"What do you want?" Han's head jerked up at the sound of his friend's voice and he hurriedly straightened in his seat. "Don't tell me that now you want me to do something," he pronounced, scowling at his copilot. "A few minutes ago you told me I wasn't in any shape to do anything."

The Wookiee considered taking his friend to task for his surly attitude, but the man's physical discomfort, along with his obvious emotional pain—the kind that couldn't be alleviated by a pain patch—made him take a gentler approach. After all, it wasn't that long ago, at least in Wookiee terms, since Chewbacca had discovered how painful true love could be. Instead, he warbled conversationally as he squeezed himself onto the bench across the dejarik table from Han.

"Okay, five hours till we're back on that miserable ball of ice; I can't wait. Thanks for letting me know," Han sneered.

Chewie felt his hackles raise, and he struggled to bite back the sharp retort hovering on the tip of his tongue. Patience, he reminded himself. Leaning back, he barked out his concern over the Falcon's hyperdrive, instead. The ship always had her idiosyncrasies, but a faulty hyperdrive could prove disastrous—to a smuggler, or to a member of the Rebel Alliance.

"My ship is just fine," Han snarled in reply. "I don't need you siding with her High and Mightiness, telling me what a piece of junk it is!"

Enough! Chewie thought angrily. He worked as hard as anyone, keeping the Millennium Falcon spaceworthy, and if he had a concern about the hyperdrive, Han ought to take him seriously. Besides, he knew the Falcon's fitness, or lack of it, had nothing to do with her pilot's bad humor.

The Wookiee snarled back at Han, showing just enough of his sharp white teeth to let Han know he was really angry.

"What?" the Corellian asked again. "What did I say this time?"

Chewie drew in a deep breath and plunged ahead, offering what he deemed to be an obvious piece of advice.

"What in the kriffing hells are you talking about? What makes you think I need to tell the princess anything about the way I feel? And feel about what?" Han's eyes shifted away from his friend's—a sure tell from the Corellian—letting the Wookiee know he was traveling down the right track.

Chewbacca paused to consider his next move; high stakes sabacc wasn't as tricky as this conversation was becoming. He'd been friends with Han long enough to know that if he said too much, the Corellian would close up completely. He warbled out a carefully considered possibility.

"Feelings?" Han scoffed. "Of course I have feelings for her; I'm gonna kill her someday!" He turned his head away, focusing in some unidentifiable spot across the hold.

Chewie could see the muscles in the smuggler's jaw work as he clenched his teeth. He found himself wondering how humans had gotten as far in the universe as they had; their emotions were so primitive. He felt his impatience rise again. While all humans appeared to suffer from emotional myopia, it seemed as if Han was particularly sense blind, although Leia appeared to be afflicted to the same degree. Well, he'd come this far, the Wookiee thought, he'd best just take it all the way. He awroofed his suspicion at the back of Han's head.

"I'm in—" Han stopped mid-sentence, glancing in the direction Leia had taken, before turning to glare at his friend. "You think I'm in love with her?" He struggled to look disbelieving. "You're crazy!"

The last of Chewie's patience vanished. He half rose from his seat, and raised his arms over his head. With an impressive display of flying hair and sharp teeth, the Wookiee made his case, each point peppered with an impressive variety of Shyriiwook invective.

As he concluded his argument, Chewbacca sat back down on the bench, never taking his eyes from his friend's battered face. Well, he thought, that's done. Let's see what happens now.

For several interminably long moments, Han said nothing. His face set in an angry scowl, he only stared at the Wookiee, his chest rapidly rising and falling. Then, to Chewbacca's complete surprise, the smuggler slumped where he sat, dropping his face into his hands. Chewie awrooed a gentle question.

Pulling his hands away from his face, the look Han gave Chewie was fierce, but somehow forlorn. "Even if I am in love with her—which I'm not—what's the point? She's made it perfectly clear she's not interested in me."

Chewie swallowed a sigh. A yearling cub had more sense than Han Solo! He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Maybe it would be better to just leave well enough alone; the two would figure it our eventually. Chewbacca looked at Han, who had returned his own gaze back to his drink bulb. Then again… Well, General Rieekan had made it clear that he would be happy to see the princess with Han, and he seemed to be an intelligent human. Chewie whuffed softly.

"Thanks for trying, pal," Han answered. "But the princess isn't afraid of anything. If you think she's scared because I have feelings for her, you're crazy." Han took a drink of water, carefully avoiding the sincere look on the Wookiee's face.

Chewie barked out a possibility. The look on Han's face as he turned to look at his friend was desperately hopeful.

"Maybe," Han said thoughtfully. "I suppose she's still kind of young…"

Chewie warbled encouragingly.

"Okay," Han concluded in a firmer voice. "Maybe I'll give it one more try." His bruised face assumed a more normal, confident grin. "I was doing pretty good with her at lunch," he observed. "I probably would have done even better if we hadn't been interrupted by that kriffing Falleen." Han said with certainty. "I think I made a pretty good impression on her with my charm."

Chewie only moaned, shaking his head in disbelief. Then he looked straight into his friend's eyes, and rumbled intensely, occasionally waving a hairy hand or tipping his head to one side for emphasis.

"You're joking, right?" Han asked when the Wookiee finished.

Chewie shook his head firmly in the negative.

"I should be nicer to her?" The Corellian's eyebrows moved upward in a fair imitation of his co-pilot's. "She should be nicer to me," Han declared. "Anyway, I tried nice with her already; you can see how far that got me." He waved his arm at the door to the crew quarters, which remained unyieldingly closed.

The Wookiee barked in irritation.

"I am not acting like a stupid cub," Han maintained as he glared at his first mate. Chewbacca, however, was used to dealing with his stubborn friend, and just glared back. Han looked away first, exhaling noisily through his nose.

"Okay," he conceded. "You may have a point. I shouldn't let my pride get in the way. After all," the Corellian offered with a smirk. "I am the adult in the relationship."

Chewie's guffaws echoed through the hold and out into the Falcon's corridors.

####

Leia swatted her palm against the switch plate, and the door to the crew quarters swished shut, cutting off a rumbling honk of Wookiee laughter. The two smugglers were probably having a good laugh at her expense, she thought angrily.

No, that wasn't fair to Chewbacca, Leia chided herself. The big Wookiee was a gentle soul, and not the kind to be hurtful. Besides, he was always a perfect gentleman, especially toward her. Which was more than could be said about his Corellian friend.

Hoisting herself up onto the narrow bunk she'd claimed as hers, Leia indulged herself, letting her rage boil through her. It felt like steam swirling through a fumarole; she swore she could hear it hissing, searching for some way to escape. And just like the energy trapped beneath a planet's crust, her fury needed an outlet. Leia would have been happy to pace the small space of her quarters, but now that she was aware of their condition, she realized her feet hurt too much. She mouthed an unintelligible curse; the condition of her feet was just one more thing for which to blame Han Solo.

Leia pounded balled fists into the bunk, spitting out a teeth-baring oath. Everything was Han's fault—all of it! The bounty hunters, the mad escape from Ord Mantell, the difficulties Luke and Chewie had suffered getting the generators—and her sore feet—it all led back to the Corellian smuggler. If he weren't such an insufferable, overly-confident, reckless scoundrel…

Reaching down, Leia carefully peeled a tattered sock away from her bloody foot, little shards of duracrete and scree pattering down as she dropped the ruined footwear onto the deck. Grimacing a little, she dabbed at the wounds on her foot with a small rag she'd dampened in the 'fresher.

What in the name of all the galactic deities had been rattling around that thick Corellian skull of his when he'd gone tearing after that bounty hunter droid, Leia asked herself for the umpteenth time. She felt her indignation cool a little as she removed the other ruined sock and wiped at the scrapes and cuts on the sole of her other foot. The princess knew exactly what Han had been thinking; if he'd been thinking at all.

Han Solo had attacked IG-88 to protect her.

Leia felt the last of her anger dissipate as she became aware of a new, unfamiliar, and much more pleasant heat begin deep within her. It slowly spread up and through her extremities—Han had been willing to sacrifice himself for her. She quickly dismissed the distracting new feeling. She didn't need protecting; the fact that Han had been willing to risk his precious hide for her meant nothing. One noble act didn't make Han Solo any less of a scoundrel, did it? Of course not; she was crazy to think any different. It certainly didn't mean he cared for her…

Gods! Could Han possibly feel…? Leia banished the thought with a shiver. And could she possibly be feeling the same thing toward…? The princess quickly sent that thought to join its mate. Of course there were no feelings of anything between her and Han Solo. Ridiculous! Besides, there was a war to be won; she had no time for personal feelings. It was one thing to enjoy the sight of Han's broad shoulders, or to revel in the way his trousers clung to his admirable backside—after all, she was only human—but anything more…

Leia shook her head in disbelief at her own unruly emotions. How in the hells did Han Solo always manage to do this to her? Leia groaned inwardly. She had been a perfectly normal, rational woman before she met the Corellian.

"Leia, are you alright?"

With a start, the princess turned toward the voice. Luke Skywalker stood framed in the open doorway; his head tipped slightly to one side, farm boy innocence radiating off him. So maybe the groan hadn't been as inward as she'd believed.

"Of course I'm alright," Leia bit off, her angry, confused feelings finally making their escape. "I don't know why you have to ask."

"I was just thinking that your feet must be hurting." Luke pointed at her bare, scraped feet. His gentle blue eyes were wide with confusion, and tinged with hurt.

She quickly looked down at the ruined sock she still clutched in her hand, hoping to hide the flicker of embarrassment she felt. She had no right to make Luke bear the brunt of her hot feelings; Han bore full responsibility for those. She was a seasoned diplomat, she informed herself, the least she could do was act like one. Pulling the cool, recycled ship's air into her lungs, Leia softened her scowl to a smile.

"They just look bad," Leia lied. "I hardly feel anything." She dropped the other sock to the deck, where it joined its ruined fellow with a spatter of dust and debris. "How's your arm?" she asked him, indicating his torn sleeve with a nod of her head. "I hope you took care of it."

"Yeah." Luke hopped up onto the bunk opposite Leia. "It really was nothing, like I said." He pulled off his jacket, revealing one rolled up sleeve. A bandage was wrapped skillfully around the burn wound. "Chewie and Han helped me with it."

Of course Han helped him. Leia could feel the heat start inside her again. He worries about everyone but himself. With difficulty, she swallowed down the angry lump in her throat. Just don't think about him, Organa!

Luke watched her for a moment, a faint frown marring his features. "Well, at least we got the generators. General Rieekan will be happy," he said into the awkward silence that filled their quarters. "Chewie was amazing."

Leia felt some of the tension ease out of her body; she'd be happy to talk about Chewie. She smiled and nodded in agreement.

Thus encouraged, Luke continued to detail Chewbacca's heroic behavior. "You know, he loaded those generators all by himself. He said he wasn't going to leave them behind." Luke smiled and leaned forward confidentially. "I know that Chewie wants to become an official member of the Alliance," he continued. "And he would, except for Han."

Startled, Leia looked up from tending her foot to stare at Luke. "Did he tell you that?" she asked him.

The young man shifted a little in his seat. "Not in so many words," he admitted. "But Leia, you've said it yourself; Han is reckless, and he isn't willing to commit to anything."

Leia felt the muscles in her chest tighten. How could Luke say those things about Han? Han, who was Luke's best friend. In the past two years, the pilot had taught Luke about maintaining a spacecraft, and given him tips on combat flying; the smuggler had coached the farm boy about the game of sabacc and about picking up women; the man had risked his life for his friend, and for the Rebellion, perhaps more times than the princess could count.

Two standard hours ago, he'd risked his life for her.

How dare Luke say those things about Han? But Leia knew she couldn't really fault the young man; after all, she'd said the same things about Han herself, sometimes even to his face. The weight in her chest increased, pressing on her heart. She wondered how she'd dared say those things.

"Leia!"

The princess drew in and expelled one shaky breath, then another. Her vision cleared and the rushing in her ears dissipated as she became aware of Luke's hand on her shoulder, his worried face near to hers.

"Are you okay?" he asked her. "For a second I thought you were going to pass out."

For a second, so had she. "I'm fine," said Leia. "Really," she added, noting the dubious look on Luke's face.

"You're sure you don't need me to get Chewie? Or Han?"

"No!" Leia objected loudly. The last thing she needed right now was a visit from Han Solo. "No," she repeated in a more moderate tone. "I'm really fine." She smiled a little. "My feet do hurt a little, and it's been a busy day." She looked at Luke, her eyes not quite meeting his. "I think I'd like to take a nap, if you don't mind." Her gaze moved to the closed door.

The young man took the hint. He grabbed his jacket and opened the door. "I'll just go see if Chewie needs anything," he said as he left.

Leia twisted herself around, and she did indeed lay down as the door slid shut behind Luke. She stared at the bolts in the ceiling as she tried to calm her thoughts. She knew there was no way she could sleep, not with her thoughts chasing each other through her head at faster-than-light speeds.

How could I have let this happen, she wondered in disbelief. Because, there was no denying that it had happened: Leia had real feelings for Han. Not just the affection one felt for a close friend, though those feelings were part of the mix. No, she shuddered, what she felt for the Corellian smuggler was parsecs beyond the love for a friend.

For several long moments, Leia allowed the new, unexpected feelings to course through her unchecked—the pain and the comfort, the heat and the attraction—the love.

"No!" Leia cried out, her despair echoing off the bulkhead walls. She raised herself up in the bunk, hugging her knees to her heaving breast. No! This was a path she wouldn't follow, a path that she couldn't follow.

Willing herself back to calmness, the princess took control of her errant emotions. She had learned as a child that duty came before all else—especially personal wants and needs. She was a princess of Alderaan. Moreover, she was the last princess of Alderaan. As that princess, she would take her feelings for Han and wall them away, sequestering her love for him in the same dungeon where she hid her feelings of grief, of longing, and of joy.

Leia lay down on her side, facing the bulkhead. She slowly counted her breaths and waited for their arrival back at Echo Base.