One final thank you to everyone who's read and enjoyed this story. This chapter serves as the epilogue.

The Bloodstripe Reflex

Chapter Five

Leia lay back against the soft pillows on the bed and stretched hugely, the silken fabric of her nightclothes slipping across her skin like a caress. It was a luxury she didn't take for granted, not after spending three days and two nights curled uncomfortably in a straight chair, wearing the same rumpled, constricting clothes. She had considered tossing the whole grubby mess into the disposal chute, from whence it would make its way to the garbage masher. As one of only a few who could claim firsthand knowledge of the inner workings of a trash compactor, Leia had thought it was a fitting final resting place for her clothing. However, in the end, reason won out and the princess had set them aside for the autovalet. There was a war on, after all—she shouldn't be wasteful.

Careful to remain on her side of the bed, Leia reached out a gentle hand to stroke Han's pillow. The smile that followed was an odd mélange of tenderness and aggravation. She was more than delighted at the thought of Han being out of the trauma center and back home where he belonged, but the brave Captain Solo had proved to be a most difficult patient. She was pretty sure the staff of the trauma center wouldn't miss him.

Some of his complaints she understood. Being under the tyrannical rule of medroids and physicians, even a physician as reasonable as Della Surran, would be enough to cause any functional sentient to balk. For the ferociously independent Han Solo, it was tantamount to being imprisoned and tortured. She both admired and concurred with his concern about the fate of the young Corellian pilot he had pulled from the burning X-wing, but not knowing the man's fate had left Han irritable and edgy. He hadn't been able to get much-needed rest until he was assured that Rayf Colton had survived and would make a full recovery.

Leia had gone to see the young man as soon as he was well enough to have visitors. It had been a difficult visit. The Corellian pilot had been in tears as he gave Leia the message of thanks that she was to relay to Han, and he'd nearly groveled at the sight of such a prestigious guest as one of the heroes of the Rebellion. It had made the princess very uncomfortable. However, she'd borne it with a diplomat's gracious smile; he was a very sweet, very young man. And it certainly was better than having to write a condolence message to Rayf's family. She had written more than enough of those missives for one lifetime. Or two.

The rest of Han's behavior, however, had been enough to make her want to pull her hair out by the roots—or to strangle Han. Both options held their own appeal. Since he'd returned to full consciousness, he had objected, quite vociferously, to any of the further treatments he needed. From the volume of his objections, one would think that the doctors had been planning to submerse him in flaming oil instead of a simple, hour long bacta treatment. And when the medroid had approached him with what was the last of his inhalation therapy, he had threatened to remove its head and toss it across the room. In both cases, it had taken both herself and Chewie to get Han to submit—er—cooperate.

But by far, the biggest commotion had been on account of Han's hair, or lack thereof. Much of his hair had been burnt away by the flames from the wreck, and what was left was patchy and uneven. Leia had agreed with Dr. Durran that the hair should be cut short. Even though Leia missed Han's unruly mop, it was just hair—it would grow back. However, the first time saw his own reflection he had alternately cursed and sulked. When he discovered that the hair on his arms and upper torso was also gone, he had complained loudly enough that one of the medics had thought Han had a limb amputated. Leia had refrained from telling her beloved that his whiskers were gone, too, at least temporarily.

She also had refrained from telling him that even though he was behaving like a bad-tempered child, she couldn't have been happier. An angry, irritating, and vocal Han Solo was a recovering Han Solo.

With a contented sigh, Leia pulled the covers up over herself and reached for the reader on the nightstand where she'd left it three days earlier. Keying it on, she picked up where she'd left off. It was a ridiculously silly story of lovers separated by circumstances beyond their control, only to be reunited years later—just the thing to lull her to sleep. Mere minutes later, when the princess had reread the same paragraph three times, she was certain she was drowsy enough for sleep.

"Lights, off," she requested. She replaced the reader on the bedside table as the room faded to dark.

"Good night, my love," she said softly as she gave the empty space next to her a loving pat. Her eyes closed…

…and the babies came to life. Leia's eyes sprang open at the still unfamiliar sensation of the twins moving inside her. From the feel of it, they must be playing a rousing game of smashball. One particularly enthusiastic kick elicited a surprised grunt from their mother.

"Really?" she addressed the mound of her belly under the covers. "You're going to do this now? Mom needs her sleep; daddy has been wearing her out." Now was the time to try some direct communication with the infants, Leia thought. Go to sleep, my little ones. Tomorrow is a big day—your daddy will be home.

She waited, holding her breath. For the space of one heartbeat, two, three, there was no movement in her womb. Luke was right, she thought with surprised pleasure, I can talk directly to them. With a small smile, she shut her eyes…and received a sharp kick in a kidney.

"Very funny," she grumbled. "Very kriffing funny." She turned onto her side, stretching out one arm toward the empty space, and encountered a wet pitten nose.

"Spot?" she asked, jerking her hand back in surprise. She realized almost immediately what a stupid question it was. Of course it was Spot. He had greeted her at the door when she'd arrived home, with loud moans of pitten abuse, even though she knew that Winter had been there to care for him every day Leia had been gone—and his food bowl had been filled to the brim. He'd then spent the rest of the evening ignoring her, and making sure the princess knew he was ignoring her.

Right now, Spot was stomping around Han's side of the bed—though how something as small as a pitten could stomp eluded Leia—making little grumbling noises.

"It's okay, Spot," Leia said soothingly. "Daddy will be home tomorrow." Spot was very much Daddy's pitten.

He stalked and grumbled through a few more circuits around the empty side of the bed, before coming to Leia's side and curling up against her. One of the babies seemed to kick out in greeting.

Leia sighed, and reached down to scratch the pitten behind an ear. Just a few minutes ago, she'd been thinking about how empty the bed felt—however right now it seemed crowded. She smiled into the darkness. Tomorrow Han would be home, and everything would feel just right.

Her smile broadened. In a few more months, she thought happily, the bed would even be more crowded.