Disclaimer: Star Wars, Leia Organa, Han Solo, and all recognizable names, places, and characters herein do not belong to me. No profit was made from the writing of this.

Rating/Warnings: K; none.

Time frame: IV: A New Hope filler scene; in the ~1 day between Leia, Luke, and Han's arrival at the rebel base on Yavin IV and the Death Star's approach.

Notes: This ficlet was inspired by a few questions I had of myself. First was: when did Han fall in love with Leia? (It has always been my belief that Han fell in love with her first, and that it was very soon. I just didn't know when exactly). Second: what made Han decide to turn back? (Luke, of course. But I've always felt that there was likely something more as well.) Thirdly: Han and Leia's interaction in the scenes post-Death Star blowing up always seemed a little...strange, when compared to what you see before the Death Star battle. And lastly, Leia makes a very strange comment to Han-one that surely had to come from somewhere...but we never see Han do or say anything that would suggest to Leia that he was a chivalrous man. Thus, this ficlet was born, written to answer (at least tenuously) those questions.

I hope you enjoy!

"I knew there was more to you than money."

-Push You Away-

He saw her slip out of the conference room and followed. Perhaps it was the way she ducked around the doorway, as if she was trying to avoid being seen. Or perhaps it was the way she darted, the most urgently that he had ever seen her move. Regardless, when Leia Organa fled the conference room, Han Solo found himself following.

Han pushed open the door to the community 'fresher and walked in, unheeding or uncaring of the Women Only sign hanging on the swinging door. He stopped abruptly, boots freezing to the flagstone floor, eyes taking in the sight of the spitfire princess leaning over and vomiting into the nearest sink.

He moved without thinking, his feet unfreezing just as suddenly as they had frozen, and they bore him forward. He was by her side in an instant, reaching out to take hold of her shuddering shoulders with one hand, bracing her head with the other. He could not ignore her flinch as he touched her, but then she was retching again, and sagging in his hold as her own arms, which had been braced on either side of the sink and only just holding her up, suddenly gave out.

"Easy there, Princess," Han murmured soothingly, sliding his arm more securely around her back and under her opposite arm, the better to support her weight. "Shhh," he crooned, just barely audible, "you're gonna be just fine." Leia retched yet again, weakly, though nothing came up.

She was shaking so hard now Han though she couldn't possibly stand on her own, but a few seconds later, he felt her tense and try to pull away from him. "Let go," she hissed when he didn't release her, bringing one hand up to push away his hold around her side.

"I don't think-" Han began, not quite sure if he was worried or irritated. But then Leia was twisting away, sliding from his hold—and his support—as easily as sand through a sieve.

She didn't fall, like he thought she might, but she did stagger, her trembling legs betraying her. Arms instinctively wrapping around her stomach, Leia twisted just in time to brace her back against the narrow space of wall between the first sink and the second. Only then did her legs give way, and she slumped down to the cold stone floor in a graceless crouch, arms still couching her stomach.

"I tried to warn you," Han said, not quite able to keep the smug quip from his lips. The expected scowl darkened Leia's face, and the glare she sent his way was as icy as he had anticipated. But then the ire was falling from her face, and she was curling over her arms and bracing her forehead against her knees, her breathing loud and harsh in the unnatural chill and silence of the 'fresher.

Han knelt down in front of her, not quite sure what he meant to do or hoped to say. So for a long moment he simply sat there, watching as the princess he had come to expect fire and cruelly sharp snark from huddled in on herself on the 'fresher floor, unable to even stand. He reached out to touch her knee to lend comfort and support, then remembered her flinch from before, and drew his hand back.

"Hey," he said instead. "You okay?" As soon as the question left his tongue, Han realized just how stupid it sounded. Of course she's not okay, he thought. She was just puking her guts out. She can't even stand.

"I'm fine," Leia said—snarled—from her fetal position.

Han sighed. I don't know what I expected, he thought grimly.

Han stood, turning to the sink. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Leia lifting her head fractionally, following his movement. Give her the chance to find her footing, he told himself, fighting the urge to drop back down to the floor and cup her cheek, turn her eyes up to his and force her to tell him the truth. He turned on the tap.

Water, cool and clean and clear, streamed from the faucet and into the sink, washing the bile and undigested food down the drain. Han wrinkled his nose at the sight, thankful for his iron strong stomach. Cupping his hands, Han splashed water along the edges of the sink, rinsing the last traces clean.

"Uh, I don't think they have any cups in here," Han said regretfully. He glanced around to make certain he hadn't just lied, then looked down at Leia.

She was truly looking at him now, with her head leaning back against the wall, though he hadn't seen her move. "That's fine," she said, before closing her eyes and turning her head away from him, leaning back more comfortably against the uncomfortable wall. Her voice was surprisingly steady, lacking the thready tremble Han had expected. Yet, all the same, her voice was lacking its usual authority—the cool, comfortable bite of command that she seemed to wear as a second skin.

Han looked at the princess for a moment, long and hard. She did not respond to his gaze—merely sat with her eyes closed tightly, her legs tucked against her crossed arms, shivering helplessly. He came to a decision.

"Come on, Highness," he said, returning to Leia's side and kneeling. She opened her eyes and turned her head, a glare and what Han guessed was a sharp retort ready on her lips. And then she froze, eyes widening slightly as she looked at him. Just what that meant Han had no way of knowing, but he took the opportunity she gave him without pausing to question her.

Han slid an arm around her back, beneath her shoulders. She stiffened, drew back a fraction of an inch—but Han was already lifting her to her feet as easily as if she was made of straw.

She's so light, Han thought, unable to ignore the twisted feeling in his gut as he felt the bones of her ribs pressed against his hand and forearm through the thin, sheer material of her dress. And then the pieces slid into place, the picture snapping into focus, the shifting puzzle that had pricked at his thoughts falling into order.

Just how long had she been the Imperials' prisoner? How many days—how many weeks—had the princess been locked in the cell, at the mercy of harsh hands? How could I have been so blind? Han cursed silently, instinctively tightening his hold protectively around the trembling woman in his arms. Why did I not realize…

Because she hadn't been bleeding. She hadn't been bruised, or weeping, or curled up in a pathetic ball in her cell. She had come out with fire in her eyes and scathing acid on her tongue, head held high and hands reaching for a blaster.

Not all torture was physical. And for a disturbingly long moment, Han had allowed this princess to make him forget that.

"Come on," Han said quietly, gently, shifting his hold ever so slightly so as to be able to hold Leia more securely. "I'm sure you at least want to rinse your mouth out."

For the first time, Leia didn't fight him as Han supported her back to the sink, though she braced her own hands against the cold, hard edge as soon as it was in reach. Keeping one arm around her to keep her upright, Han turned the tap on again with the other. The water rushed out, splashing his wrist with cold droplets, and Han quickly tightened the knob, slowing the flow to a more comfortable stream.

Leaving her elbows braced against the edge of the sink, Leia cupped her hands beneath the water. She cursed as some of the water spilled over her fingers as her hands shook—vaguely, Han wondered just where a princess had learned such a word—then brought her hands to her lips.

She rinsed her mouth thrice. Each time, Han thought her hands grew a little steadier, as if, by rinsing her mouth of the bitter taste of bile, she was cleansing herself of the weakness that set her trembling.

"You should try to drink some, too," Han suggested. "I know you probably don't wanna, but-"

"I'm not a child, Han," Leia said, cutting him off exhaustedly. "And I'm no stranger to throwing up." Her elbows were still braced against the sink despite Han's arm around her back, her fingers trailing in the flowing water. Her head was hanging low, but, though there was a bone-deep weariness in her voice, the tremble that had plagued it was curiously gone.

"I never said you were," Han replied, and even he could hear the defensiveness in his tone. "I'm just saying-"

"I'll probably just throw it up, too." Her sigh was quiet, barely audible over the constant patter of water against the sink basin. "I haven't been able to keep anything down for a while now," she admitted. "Well," she amended, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath and then reaching up to turn off the tap, "nothing but the cocktails they gave me every couple of days, to keep me alive. Not that they gave me much else," she finished sourly.

Han didn't have to ask who they were. Nor did he ask about the cocktails she had mentioned—he had a decent guess what she was referring to. It had been a standard hazing ritual in the Navy for new recruits to be forced to drink what had been nicknamed "prison piss." Officially named Kotisza, it was a revolting mixture of a dozen chemicals and solutions meant for the sole purpose of keeping a body functioning, no matter the stress it underwent. It had been rumored that some of the Select Units drank the stuff during missions in order to keep themselves moving, no matter the amount of injury or lack of sleep sustained during the operation. Officially, however, its sanctioned purpose was to provide a cheap, yet effective way of keeping prisoners alive—specifically prisoners undergoing interrogation.

"You still need to drink," Han pointed out. He hesitated, then asked, "When was the last time you had one of the cocktails?"

"About a day before you and Luke came. They forced me to drink one, after…" She swallowed, and did not finish the thought.

So, almost three days, Han mused. That means she's going to need something in her system sooner rather than later. Much sooner.

"I'll be fine," Leia promised. And then, before he could do anything, say anything in reply, Leia was stiffening, straightening. She pulled away from Han's touch—it was only then that he realized that he had been doing little to actually hold her up for the past few minutes. Uncertain of what else to do, Han took a small step back, ready to catch Leia if she fell again, but far enough away that she had enough space to move without feeling hemmed in or trapped.

Leia turned on the tap, cupped one hand, and lowered her head to take a small sip. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, turned off the water, then turned her back to the sink and leaned against it. She was still shaking, but she seemed to have regained some measure of control over her body. Her legs, at least, were supporting her.

Looking up, brown eyes met hazel. And Han felt himself trapped, locked into place as surely as if those dark, hauntingly beautiful eyes were pins and he a bug. The air was bound inside his chest, and his heart felt as if it had been torn out and replaced somewhere around the region of his stomach. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe—and he wasn't sure he wanted to.

"Thank you."

He almost said "You're welcome."

You crazy fool. Don't you see what she's doing? She's spinning her web of lies and trickery, trying to draw you in and trap you, just like any other politician. Because she is a politician. A princess—a princess, high and mighty, born and bred in the lap of luxury, with no idea of what it means to struggle day to day just to survive—what it means to truly suffer. Don't let her drag you in. Don't let her suck you down. Don't let her trap you in her ideals, in her words, in her eyes.

You blasting fool. Get out. Get out, get out now, before she binds you so tight you can't breathe, can't think, can't move. Get out.

Han smirked, crossing his arms and lifting an eyebrow. "At last, some proper appreciation," he said with just a hint of deriding laughter. "Yaknow, even after saving you from that Death Star and bringing you here—risking my own neck and my ship, I might add—this is the first time you've actually thanked me."

Just for an instant—for a flash, a fraction of an instant—Han thought he saw true hurt flicker in Leia's eyes. She pulled back, eyes widening, lips parting as if to gasp though she made no sound.

And then her eyes were narrowing dangerously, her lips thinning into a painfully white line. "That's all the thanks you're going to get, you arrogant, entitled womprat," she spat. And then she drew herself up to her full height, spun on her heel, and stalked from the 'fresher, all traces of her weakness vanishing beneath the veil fury rolling from her shoulders in waves.

Han watched her go, smirk still in place. The door swung shut.

And then Han was left standing alone in the middle of the women's 'fresher, and the smirk bled away from his lips and his eyes, leaving only a strange sense of hollowness in its wake.

Notes: I would love some feedback, be it constructive criticism, what you didn't like, or even an anonymous "I liked it." Most importantly though, I hope you enjoyed it.