a/n: a companion collection of plotless nothing! this serves as a piece that exhibits the depth of emotion that exists without a sexual component necessary. thus, read alongside 'Luxuria' ... a celebration of both.

Dreams

It was so late – so quiet, so dark in the apartment; she was sure the only light was coming from the strained glow of lamps in her study, and the flicker of her electronic screens as she worked, worked, worked.

There were so many days, that had become so many nights, lately, that wore her down to the bone, and yet there were things she needed to do, people who needed her, a whole galaxy she served –

Vision blurry and sore, Leia fought drowsiness as she strove to finish what she'd committed herself to for the night – at her elbow sat a cup of tea, lonely, cold, and abandoned, at her feet, her shoes and socks had been cast off – across the study, on a sofa she never used, slept Han.

She stared at him in the waning lights, feeling the internal tug of war that always plagued her – work harder – no, take care of yourself; sleep – she stared at Han, her face softening, the stress in her chest quieting.

He'd brought her the tea, without a word; he'd stretched out there to keep her company, hoping to tempt her to bed, falling asleep there when his charming grins and sweet flirtations failed to budge her.

She turned to her work, her throat tight – his admiration, and his support, made her want to triumph, to achieve, to work harder; and that very same admiration and support he gave her made her feel safe, and justified in taking a break.

She shuffled through the papers and digital holofilms on her desk, beginning to organize things for tomorrow, forcing herself to pull away from all this, shake him awake, fall asleep next to him –

Something caught her eye amidst the ruckus of work on her desk, and she paused, brushing her hand through the mess to pull a wrinkled, plain piece of old sketch paper out from the chaos – the sort of paper Han used to plan rigs on the Falcon, or write personalized I-O-Us – so those around him knew it was an authentic Solo promise.

She held it up, her brow furrowing –

Love you, Sweetheart.

- scrawled across it in Han's distinct, sloppy penmanship.

She looked up over it, her eyes rising above the edge, watching his chest rise and fall – when had he written it, left it for her? It could have been this morning, it could have been days ago, weeks even – tucked under files and datapads, waiting to be found when she needed it.

Leia brought it forward and held it to her lips, as if she could taste his heart in the words.

She got up, and abandoned everything, coming to his side, and kneeling beside the sofa, her hands brushing over his knuckles, his jaw, and his hair. She leaned closer, pressing her forehead against his temple so gingerly, careful not to wake him.

She took a deep breath, and felt the weight of the world fall away from her, all because he was there, because his love was ubiquitous, and undemanding. She slipped her hand down the neck of his shirt, sliding her palm over his chest and resting it over his heart.

Han turned his head abruptly and cleared his throat, grunting softly and opening his eyes. He grinned at her sleepily, and arched his brows.

"Used to dream 'bout wakin' up to you," he drawled charmingly, throwing her a flirtatious wink.

She lowered her nose to his for the briefest moment, smiling.

"Wake up," she whispered. "It's real."

-alexandra

story #369