Leaning on the countertop, Han Solo scanned his surroundings with fading hope. As though the place would become the fantasy that had suckered him—him! Cynical survivor—into breaking out his cred-chip number.

No, suckered wasn't the right word, Han conceded, eyeing plushcord hoverseats, Snivvian art. The Fondor 6000 was so expensive to produce there were only...what, seven in galactic use? But for all its splendor, the Fondor wasn't the unit Han expected to find waiting at the private wharf. He'd booked a coishush. Cozy and quaint, these floating cottages once formed an artists' community on Aldera Lake. The boat in the holo-brochure was a reproduction, unavoidably, but otherwise perfect, a rustic blue, painted with cezith water-blooms.

Ekriket, the rental agent, had tried to steer Han grander. At the time he'd figured this for standard up-sell, same for any customer, but confronted with this opulence, Han had to wonder. He hadn't used an alias with the young Togruta. After a lifetime of guises, he was a high-ranked representative of the New Republic, mandated to avoid the merest whiff of fraud or identity theft. Yet even as he understood why the behaviour of public servants must be governed, even as he observed these orders, Han tended to forget what they meant in a personal sense: Han Solo was famous. Not just his name, but his face, as was the much prettier one on the woman he lived with.

And...yeah, Han thought, catching his glum reflection in the crodium-plated chiller, if your task was booking a houseboat for a princess, you'd go for the Fondor. If, say, you'd never met said princess but felt you knew her. If you saw your client as a loveable but primitive smuggler blowing his chance to impress her.

If you'd...maybe...seen Rebel Lovers.

That stupid flick! Did it have to be such a hit? Han hadn't planned to watch, but Leia wanted to be prepared for the inevitable interview questions about it. So good old Vykk Draygo pirated the film from the holonet, professional ethics be blasted in this circumstance. Bloodstar Studios had made enough coin off their backs. First scene pissed Han off so much—Princess Lala?!—he popped half-up from the pouf couch. 'Not inspired by actual events,' my actual ass!

Tugging Han down by his belt, Leia curled against him, launching such sarcasm at the wallscreen that he was soon snuffling helplessly into her hair. Speaking of stuff that script got unforgivably wrong, Princess Lala was a priggish simp, not wickedly funny like Leia Organa. Snuggled in the dark, she and Han snacked, wisecracked, and screamed giddy horror at the unsexiest sex scene ever. It was, all in all, a pretty great night.

Until Stam Drekko was frozen in quinonite.

Drekko was six lines into his flowery goodbye when Leia shoved away the puffcorn with a tiny gagging cry. She pushed off Han's chest, pressed her fists into her eyes and Han saw she wasn't laughing anymore but—Aw, no. Leia. He pulled her hard against his heart and held her. Right here, huh?

Now Han knocked his knuckles on the white jade counter. This slab alone could rent the coishush twice over, but it reminded him of Stormtroopers. No, the Fondor didn't suit Han and Leia. It was, however, what a romantic Togruta travel agent might give the Rebel Lovers, if she'd seen the movie five times, and had that power. One clerical error, and Stam sweeps Lala off to sea in royal glamour!

Han blew a frustrated breath. Ekriket's motivation was benign, but damn it, it was ignorant, too. She'd missed the point of the coishush, what it would say to Leia: that Han listened when she spoke of Alderaan, that he'd always help keep it in their shared life.

"Kriff."

The soft curse shook Han from brooding. Turning, he slid aside the woven silkweed panel dividing living area from sleeping. Behind it stood Leia, yellow sundress pulled just to her waist as she struggled to fasten her strapless bikini top. Blue with pink dots, Han's favorite but...hadn't it fit Leia better last time she wore it? Maybe it shrunk in the 'valet. Because, hot damn—not that Han was opposed to more bare Leia—it sure wasn't closing now.

Stepping into the compact chamber, Han was about to, uh, assist her when Leia inclined her head at the laroon-wood sleeper. The thing was so ornately carved and draped, so high and wide, Han wasn't sure if it was a bed or—

"Behold," Leia said, hushed, "we've found the lost Bardottan altar."

Her big eyes sparkled, but she kept a straight face, in keeping with the dictates of their game. On Coruscant they loved to play it, poking fun at their government-issued penthouse even as they enjoyed it. Free to enjoy it because, it was implicit, the home they'd eventually choose together would be different. Sure, it was hypocritical to revel in the lavishness and reject it, but this was part of the closeness and the amusement. So they mocked their gigantic closet, but Han hid presents for Leia in it: antique haircombs here, custom sparring boots there because she wore hers out fast, kicking his ass. Meanwhile Leia stocked the pretentious pantry with the peppery candies Han sucked on at work. They kept him sharp, and each shiny fiery heart made Han picture Leia in the market, mentally mapping some precarious negotiation as she shopped. Reaching back at checkout to pluck the red packet off the rack—oh, Han likes these—the sweetest sort of afterthought. It wasn't something Han took for granted.

So Han's heart surged with hope at Leia's gambit: Leia didn't know he'd booked a coishush, of course she believed the Fondor was Han's nod to their inside joke. He could work with that, he could start over! Bantering with Leia about this snob-tub could make it...theirs. Could make it warmer.

Han sprawled across the sleeper—swathed in heavy crimson satin, thing was sinister—and winked at the woman he adored. Patted the mattress and tossed them off, the thoughtless words that would chagrin him long after Leia forgave them.

"Up for some fun here Princess, or..." Han waggled his brows. "...will we create a monster?"

Leia's fingertips paled on the clasp between her breasts. Her mouth dropped open in rare gracelessness. Han stared back in peculiar shock, as though he hadn't spoken the words himself, but heard them alongside her. Because he couldn't have...he would never be the one to inflict this hurt, so apparent in Leia's face. Not after—Han flashed back to Endor. Everyone looped on teddy-bear hooch, splurging on the future like lottery winners. Lando was gonna liberate Bespin, Chewie planning to rout every slaver. Wedge and Wes were...hells, Han didn't remember and Luke was all hey gang, let's build a Jedi Order!

ButLeia made no vows, and later, lying under her in fur and leather, Han asked her why.

You didn't either, Leia countered.

Han nuzzled her temple. Hey, ain't it obvious? Gonna woo me a Princess. At her soft laughter Han chuckled too. Yeah! Gimme the whole bit. House, houndpup...coupla kids,

Her brow creased. Han. Do you mean that?

You and me? He growled it, hands roaming down Leia's lower back, squeezing for emphasis. Bet your sweet little—

No, I know us. She said it with wonderful matter-of-factness, and to be half that word with Leia Organa made Han close his eyes, draw her closer. Leia curled around him, her hair falling around them, so close he felt her blush. She'd rallied a galaxy to her cause, yet Leia confessed her dream as if it was hubris. I'd love to have a chi—

Silence severed her confession like a laser axe. And if Vader hadn't been roasting both in some clearing and in the ninth and final hell, Han would've torn out his mechanical throat for that. For Leia's grief as she watched it crack, her secret, cherished plan for peace. So poignant in proportion to all she'd accomplished, all she was yet to take on, to the goals of everyone else.

Leia didn't officially cancel the subject. She calmly deflected it whenever it was raised, which it constantly was. In public. Newscasters, interviewers, co-workers...even that B'dassian ambassador with her fancy manners leaned across Mothma's dinner to ask Leia when she'd be taking Han into the mating hut. Worst were the holotab covers: Leia caught candid on Coruscanti streets, glorious strong petite figure circled at her middle. Some imaginary swell, or telltale angle. Prurient bastards! Made Han's trigger finger twitch. All she gave of herself to the galaxy, and Leia's womb wasn't off limits?

In private Leia never mentioned children again, so Han didn't either. Didn't want to add to the invasive clamour, especially when he remembered her small, devastated weight in his arms on Endor. But Han also saw the way Leia looked lately, on their regular bench in Green Park. Younglings everywhere, squalling, playing, riding on their fathers' shoulders, shoving fistfuls of chow up their nostrils. Newborns napping in hover-prams, or nursed by their chatting mothers. Watching them, Leia was so lustrous with pain and longing, Han wanted to say something. But what he glimpsed shimmering in Leia's eyes was too delicate to throw clumsy words at. He'd wait, Han resolved. Until after Vreni. When they were engaged, if he could pull it off. That was when that stuff got decided, right? How they'd get hitched, where they'd live, when or ever have a kid?

Good thing you waited, Slick. Really finessed it with 'let's make a sex Sith!'

"Leia," Han vaulted to his feet. "Leia..."

He reached for her, but Leia flung her bikini top to thick carpet, yanked the ribbed bib of her dress up over her bare breasts. She hurried to the sliding doors, opened to the wraparound deck, and stepped through gauzy curtains without looking back.

XXXXXXXXX

"It was stupid. I'm sorry."

Leia turned from clear, calm sea. Han stood on the deck behind her, forehead rumpled above rueful, determined eyes. Handsome and antsy in t-shirt and shorts she'd demanded they buy for fear he'd melt if he wore full Solo regalia—two damn belts!—on vacation. Leia reached to hook her fingers in his waistband, draw Han closer. With a grateful half-grin, Han let her.

"I know how you meant it," Leia said. "I...I only took it personally because I've," She glanced at Han, settling on his forearms on the railing beside her. "Well. I'm late, it's made me a bit—" Leia waved a hand. "Anyhow. I overreacted."

Automatically Han peered upward, clearly thinking as the pilot he'd always been, and also the disciplined professional he'd become. Late in terms of their frequent travel, tight schedules.

"No, I meanmy..." Leia smiled faintly. "Late is a silly way to say it. Like one's cycle is delayed at customs somewh—"

His squint flew wide on blue sky. "Your period is what's late?"

"Yes. But,"

"Help me out, Sweetheart," Han said slowly, pushing off the railing to face her. "Late, or missed?"

"Basic is so strange. Isn't it? Missed," Oddly flustered, Leia watched her palm smooth Han's thin linen t-shirt. Coral, the only colour left in his size. He tolerated it for her, and it did gorgeous things for his torso and eyes. "As in a crucial left turn."

Tucking his chin, Han caught Leia's own between fingers and thumb. Gave her a look: drolly patient, exasperated.

"...oh fine. I just missed the second left. But,"

"What?" Han choked on a laugh. "What?"

"No, no," Leia said. "You can't believe...Han, you're a spacer! You know that if you, ah, enter invalid co-ordinates—"

"I don't believe anything, yet."Han said. "But I'm lookin' a lot harder at my pretty co-pilot with the hyperspews!"

Leia's heart resumed that stubborn, eager stutter. "You think there's a chance."

"Course there's a chance. There's always a chance."

"But we're both—the statistics—"

"Right. The odds." Han nodded sagely. "Which apply so much, to us. Ever,"

Leia surprised herself with the force of her smile. Han's own grin broke, broad and relieved, to see it.

"So...what do you want to do, Flyboy?" Leia said. "Get a systems readout?"

"Not sure why we're talkin' about what I want, but since you asked, can we scrap the analogy before I say—"

"Thrusters," Leia supplied.

"That's my girl." Han's mouth gentled. "Do you want a test?"

A straightforward question. It should be, it was for everyone else: plus or minus, true or false. For Leia the problem remained. Same old smoky ghost of Endor, drifting in her peripheral vision. But Leia felt Han's hand span the bare dip of her back, and this reminded her of their first time as lovers. Two fugitives from Hoth, both marked for death, still damaged from the emotional wreckage of Ord Mantell. Drifting in space. Everything was threat. Yet in Han's arms, Leia had been unable to make out more than the shade of her fears as they passed.

Leia took a breath. "Yes."

XXXXXXXXX

The Doaba wasn't a shop, proper. It wasn't fully a restaurant, either. It was a cozy hybrid, three small round tables attended by mismatched chairs, neatly stocked shelves along a brick wall. Swivelling slowly by the counter was a hover-rack of datanovels and holomags; on the chalkboard listing daily specials, dusty pastel bubble letters announced that all store profits went to support Coroneti street youth.

It was a warm place, humble and clean, and as she and Han entered Leia closed her eyes to inhale its essence. Baking bread, kaffe; polished wood, savory odors from the kitchen. Leia stopped to stroke a black-and-white pitten, perched on a chintz armchair, watching a large wall-set aquarium like his own personal holoscreen. Squinting amiably against a sunbeam, the pitten gave a silent mew of greeting. An Aurebesh-engraved nameplate dangled from his collar, and Leia scratched under his chin so she could read it.

"Hi, Dapper," she murmured. "My, you are dapper, aren't you? In your tuxedo."

Dapper gave an inviting purreeet?, and Leia bent to tap her forehead to his. He butted her with such enthusiasm that Leia laughed aloud, and when she straightened, Han was staring down at her, expression so intense Leia caught her breath. Urgent and tender, nervous underneath—the way Han used to look at her on-base, like he had a secret, or a question.

But before Han could confess, or ask, a human woman emerged from a swinging door in the brick wall, carrying an empty tray. Her filmy floral dress swirled about her sandals, fair hair cropped close to her elfin head. When she saw she had customers, she smiled, then clicked her tongue at the pitten.

"Dap! Were you not meant to alert me? Hello, hello. I'm Myk, I'll have a table cleared for you in—"

Myk's Basic was inflected with High Corellisi, and Leia felt Han's hand tighten on hers. His entire affect stiffened with the effort to resist it, the term he wasn't supposed to use anymore.

It was Wedge who'd checked Han's habit. Sabacc night at the Organa-Solo apartment, their last before Vreni; Han and Wedge getting in a hand of Spike while waiting on Lando and Janson. Leia was settled in the pouf couch, trying to absorb enough of a report to justify being dealt in herself. As she read, she half-listened to a Galactic Public Holoradio program discussing the catastrophic collapse of CorelliaBank. Coronet must pull together! the frantic mayor's voice crackled from the speakers.

Han's zest was caustic. Won't someone save the Shaughsk?

Normally Leia loved hearing Han speak Olys—something primal about it, privileged, intimate—but not that word. Han didn't say Shaughsk so much as spit it out, a bitter flavor. Not at all the throaty velvet he gave min larel, or even fuck.

But it wasn't Leia's place to protest it. She didn't want to protest it! Han had the right to resent Coronet's elite as long as he lived, if he wished. Maybe it was the fact he wished to yet that stung her. Like the reflexiveness of Han's spite proved some lingering wound Leia couldn't reach, and even if she could, she suspected he wouldn't let her. Though Leia had to admit she did the same with Han, about babies. About Vader.

Might be time to cut that out, Solo, Wedge said.

Oh yeah? You think so? Propping his chin on his fist,Han wore the fake captivation that made his disdain unmistakable. Gods! That routine used to drive Leia batty. Luke, too; even stoic Chewie ground his fangs over it. But Wedge just nodded, sipping his whiskey.

New galaxy, right? We're building a new galaxy.

Huh. Han nodded. Is Imp outta bounds now, too?

Wedge squinted up from his own cards. Shaughnessi aren't the same as Imps.

Like some sarcastic master of ceremonies Han stretched an arm toward the elaborate sound-system. Modulated journalistic tones issued from the speakers, listing post-war arrests and corruption busts of Coroneti stockbrokers, bankers, politicians. Why all the Shaughsk getting banged up with the Imps then?

They're not all going to prison,

Sure. Han said. Some of 'em are—he coughed—allegedly dead.

In Wedge's wince, Leia saw the day on Hoth they got the news: Customclass vanished off Korsktt, signal winked out. Boom. And Leia knew Wedge was remembering, because she was too, the explosive public fight this sparked between Han and Leia, shattering the fraught silence after Ord Mantell.

Have some respect, Wedge said quietly. Rell walked the walk.

Leia dipped her head in private Alderaanian tribute. Prixati Rell was lost in service to the cause, and Leia honoured that. She just wished she could muster posthumous liking for him. And wasn't that, Leia berated herself, a galling level of self-importance? Dredging her memories for some vague fondness, as though her regard could compensate for a very life.

Meanwhile, Han suffered no such regret, and allotted respect only as he saw fit. Rell walked all right! With a pocketfulla Rebel credits, Han said, and rolled the dice. To look at him now, one would never guess Han recalled their pitched battle on Echo Base at all, despite starting it himself! Crashing Leia's blaster practise decidedly uninvited. No longer the dishevelled, unshaven, devastated man Leia had woken to find beside her medbunk, holding her knuckles to his forehead. Han had reverted, in their estrangement, to cocky walk and brutish mouth. Only his eyes remained the same, searing, anguished.

Oh yes. Leia thought, watching Han lean back in his hoverseat, smug over the sum of his luck. Han Solo: so flippant, so tough. Never mind, Leia thought in sudden, desperate frustration, his complexities, her own. Never mind the ways Han met her, dreamy, shocked, at the inarticulate nexus of sex and love.

Leia dragged her palms down her cheeks. Sleepy, on the verge of weeping. Stars, what was wrong with her, lately? Why was she dwelling on...why did she feel so out of—

What happens if, Wedge began.

Koccic sulng il pla, already, Han yawned with lusty boredom.

Obligingly Wedge rolled the dice, then rolled his eyes at the result. But when Han reached gleeful for the pot, Wedge spoke again, like an afterthought.

What happens, Han, Wedge said, when you get a Shaughnessi rookie?

Leia watched Han's jaw tighten in grudging admiration. Cornered, and too smart not to know it. He couldn't argue that flying talent depended on class without echoing the rhetoric that he'd defied himself. And the Coroneti reform busts meant a coddled swathe of youths would soon be helpless. Not starving, or homeless, under the social services of the New Republic, but broke, shamed, untrained in practical skill, all thanks to the crimes of their parents. Certainly no more money for the fanciest ships, private lessons that had made the old structure so uneven.

That caste system had oppressed Han, and a lesser man would've relished the turnaround. Ground it in, ground it down, taken his own turn as gatekeeper. But whatever his prejudices Leia knew, better than perhaps even Han, that his ethics permitted much, but not injustice.

Young talent comes up on your roster, Wedge pressed. She'd follow you into the Maw no questions asked. You'd let her die there? 'Cos her pop's a broker, washed Imp cash?

...aw, fuck you, Antilles, Han muttered, at last, into his glass.

No one but Leia ever got true surrender out of Han, but it was concession and Wedge sat back, contented. Han opened his mouth to fire off a parting shot.

But then Han seemed to take it in: his winnings on the leather-inlaid card table; bottle of Whyren's, and not just any Whyren's, but the special blend the distillery sent all Corellian members of the Rebellion. The sound-system, the billiards and holodarts and pouf couches; the home holocinema where he and Leia had watched "their" sex scene, bawling laughter like terrified nerfs. Leia watched Han's gaze travel over each luxurious feature, attached memories collecting in those grey-green depths. A sort of snowball effect, and by the time Han's eyes reached hers they had warmed to amber, brash mouth slanting into something softer.

Holding his stare, Leia rested her cheek on her palm, tension dissipating, her own lips curving wryly upward.

You. He pointed at her. I know what you're thinkin', Princess. Han wagged that finger at Leia, face filled with pride and affection and knowledge of her. The joy and relief of being known himself, head to toes, flaws and strengths. You're thinkin': the balls on this moon jockey I shacked up with? In his penthouse, all 'Eat the rich!'

"Pharm aisle?" Han grunted at Myk, now.

Hand extended in mid-greeting to the shopkeeper, Leia inwardly winced. Han could be like this, when he was tense. Disconcertingly blunt, and his Estok accent was nearly thick as it got that night in the Falcon's cockpit Leia dared him to speak only Basic while she...anyhow, it didn't necessarily mean he was upset, or resentful. Just under pressure, of one kind or another.

Myk appeared unfazed by the Solo manner. "Not an entire aisle, I'm afraid." She led them toward the shelving, speaking briskly over her shoulder. "First aid, mostly. Painkillers, antiseptic, women's health, contracep—"

"We'll take it from here." Han was so brusque that Leia's "Thank you very much, Myk," came too fast, too personal, too much like redress.

"You are most welcome." Myk nodded at Han and Leia, then glided back the tables, pausing to stroke Dap's nose, mildly scolding him for laxness as Doaba's host.

Han was already shuffling tins and packets on the highest shelf. Bandages, tampons, bacta gel, those damn headache pills that induced amnesia...then Han's hands stilled. The flip-flops he hated squeaked under his shifting weight.

"Little late for those, Hotshot." Leia said softly.

Han blinked at the box of condoms his palm rested on. He smiled at her, but it was sickly.

"Listen, Princess. 'Nother thought." He licked his lower lip. "What say we hold off till we're back on Coruscant?"

"I—now you want to wait?"

"Might be better to wait," Han cajoled. "See your doc, get a, an official...we could be sure, like. Sure-sure."

Rising on tiptoe, Leia craned her neck. Han spun so quickly to face her that he nearly tripped over his unfamiliar footwear. He braced an arm on the shelf, but not quite as though catching himself. More like he was using his frame to block her. Leia frowned up at him.

Han's eyes were wide, pleading.

Leia swallowed. He'd taken her unexpected declaration in remarkable stride, but that was typical Han in a crisis, all the way back to the trash compactor. She'd been upset, on the Fondor, Han had felt he'd upset her. What if Han's drive to shield her had briefly distracted him, but it was sinking in, now? What she'd said. What it meant.

For all their closeness, Leia didn't know if Han wanted to be a father.

He'd told her he was safe on the way to Bespin, but that was hardly philosophical position on parenthood. More his breathless disclaimer; Han knew Leia had reason to think him unprotected. She'd been there when Nim, the slicer, tried to corral Han into the medbay queue to receive the contraceptive vaccination mandated for new enlistees. Predictably, Han resisted, bellowing down the temple halls like a minotaur that his business! Was! his business! As Han stalked off the Blutopian muttered in his own tongue, Fine. Leave a spacer brat in every port. His tentacles blanched when Han wheeled, snarling, What did you say to me? Han's reaction had startled Leia, intrigued her: both his facility with languages and his anger were incongruous with the dispassionate mask. The slicer took it back. Fast.

The offence he'd taken suggested to Leia, then, that Han wasn't inclined to siring children. But these years later, Leia well-knew Han's nurturing bent—it was there with her, with Chewie, Luke. Igvor, his students. He actively cared for the Falcon, too, even the loishbalm grown so lush and hardy it made Leia ache for missing Breha. And there was that recent afternoon, Leia late to meet Han for lunch in Green Park. Hurrying along the path, she'd glimpsed him sitting up on the back slats of their regular bench, younglings flocking around him, Captain Solo, Captain Solo. Han was holding an X-wing he'd folded from flexflim sandwich wrapper, and his smile—

"Han." She spoke so quietly he ducked to hear her. "If this isn't all right with you, you have to say so."

Seizing Leia by the hips, Han pulled her into his own harsh whisper. "Wait, huh?"

"You're acting so...I know when you're,"

"Kest, Sweetheart!" Han's forehead wrinkled. "Sure, bit of a shock but—Leia, I like the idea." His smile was quick, private, almost shy. "Like it a lot."

Leia touched his face through a sudden mist. "Is there a test on that shelf, or not?"

His smile faded. He gauged her a moment, then pressed a sighed kiss to her forehead. "Yeah."

Han turned Leia in his arms, her back to his chest. He pointed at a box on the top shelf. Pastel blue, printed with some contemplative female human. The text was Corellian, so Leia didn't understand Han's apprehension until she glimpsed the key implement through a transparent window in the packaging.

A lancet.

XXXXXXXXX

Back on Yavin, the Alliance instituted a contraceptive vaccination drive. The vaxx was offered by patch, capsule, or needle, with most beings opting for the poke. Han would've, too, if he hadn't had his booster just before he met Leia and Luke. The needle was more reliable than the patch; Han knew a few friendly beds in port, with an adamant rule against adding cribs. And no way would he line up for a pill, reminded him of Shrike, doling out his addictive treats. Han hid them under his tongue, sold them on the street. Bankers on a bender, bachelor party, whatever, Shaughsk liked a high, andHan liked to eat.

Anyway. Han didn't mean to eavesdrop on Leia's conversation, but...look, the woman had a voice could make her a fortune in certain lines of work. Not that Han would comm her up, some lonely run, to swap a little honey talk. Han grinned to himself, supine on a hoverboard under the Falcon's lowered ramp. Her Zealousness? No chance. He'd ask what she was wearing and she'd try to recruit him.

He found the fleeting, chaste vision strangely appealing.

Yeah, it was a great voice, sultry, smart. But wow, could Leia project it, and here she was hailing the kid right next to Han's ship. Luke, have you had your contraceptive vaxx? This struck Han as a weighty subject for public consumption. Not just for royalty, for anyone, if Luke's reddening ears were any indication. Han grinned again, lifting slim hips to slip a screwdriver from his belt. Poor Luke, Han felt his pain. There was a time that even hinting at the big hot mystery could make Han...well. A topic didn't have to be sexy, exactly, to shunt a young guy's blood to places inconvenient.

Plus Leia was gorgeous by anyone's lights. And she had that voice. And that voice was real nice, even while speechifying how syringes were in short supply on-base. To ration them, she was hoping that more recruits would choose vaxx by capsule or, as she herself planned, the patch.

You too, Captain! Leia called. Han started, nicking an oil line with his screwdriver. Shit, he hadn't known she clocked him there, she have a recon droid in today's hairdo?

Han scowled, swiping at grease pattering his cheek. Damn vaxx order. Didn't even apply to Han, yet Rebels kept trying to convert him to their safe-sex Exultation. Like yesterday, that Blutopian slicer. Solicitous at first, but when Han refused the vaxx he got nasty. Brat in every port. What did he know about it? Desk-riding prick. Sure, it could all be resolved if Han fished his medchip out of his bunk drawer, took it to Base Records, proved he was, uh, set only to stun. But why should he, was the principle. Han was not enlisted! His sex life—or lack of it, lately—was not Alliance business.

Don't fret, Your Worship. Han said, smearing sealant on the perforated line. Won't raid your sharps.

Excellent, Leia cried. He couldn't see her, but she sounded...urgent. We are well-stocked with capsules, though there's also the patch, if you prefer that. Shall I book your appointment? Morning, or evening? Or, I could bring your dose to the Falcon, if—

Han sat up so fast he nearly bashed his head off the directional valve, thrumming with sudden defensive anger. Pushy little—! Whatever random Rebels thought of him, Han could give a fuck, but did Leia believe he was some typical pig-lizard, irresponsible spacer? Sowing potent oats all over six sectors? He'd figured Leia had more respect for him than...hells, he'd just had her over for supper. Csolcir. East Coronet street food, she liked it, no sneering or...and now here she was—

Han felt words rise in his throat, ones he couldn't take back once spoken. Wouldn't want to retract them, because they'd propel him off this backwater!

Why d'you care, Highness. You claiming royal rights to my first night?

But before he could snap them at her, Leia ducked—only slightly, she was so tiny—under the mid-slope of the ramp. When Han saw her expression, the venom dissolved on his tongue. He'd read it all wrong: Leia wasn't being intrusive, haughty, contemptuously bossy. She wasn't out to tranq-dart some dumb, lust-addled Estok. Leia's eyes glittered, she was gnawing her smile: skittish, hopeful, grateful-in-advance. What she looked like was a junkie trying to fix, and though Han knew Leia would never touch spice, this instinctive association led him swiftly to the next.

Needles.

Han was once given his own taste of Imp playtime, though a Wookiee-freeing nobody got just the budget treatment, boots and fists. But in the brig, he'd heard of the sophisticated methods applied to high-level subjects, and most of them had to do with needles. Scan grids, intravenous serum; orb droids bristling with fine electrified spikes, voltage calibrated to a target's stubbornness.

Didn't come more high-level than a royal senator spy. Didn't come more stubborn than...

Leia Organa couldn't take a jab, not anymore. Who could blame her? No one, if a human being was all she was. But she was also the icon lashed to the mast of the Good Ship Alliance, turning the same still face into the most threatening weather. That figure didn't breathe, let alone bleed.

The solution she'd come up with wasn't quite a lie. Battle of Yavin had recently happened, which meant transfusions, sedation, operations. The base did run constant shortage on everything, no one knew that like the guy paid to stock up. Yeah, it was a decent story. Might even be mathematically correct. But if there was an official mandate away from needles, Han was certain, Leia had orchestrated it herself, whether or not she faced what that meant.

If Leia convinced enough troops to choose vaxxing by means other than injection, it would prove the rule. It would become the truth. She wouldn't be ashamed to do it, too. The Empire wouldn't have broken her of needles, she'd be forswearing them, in support of the Alliance!

Ah, Princess.

Han almost sighed it aloud. Propped on his palms, looking up into Leia's wide shiny eyes, Han was swept by an irrational urge. Wanted to snap sixty black-collared necks, drop them at those miniature feet. Up the body count, tax on every puncture, every jolt. Kiss some calm against that troubled forehead, after; touch her hectic pink cheek, tell her—

He tore his eyes away. Damnit, the draw of her, she was like a planet! That was why they all signed their lives to that dotted line, wasn't it, just to float in Leia's orbit. Well, Han couldn't, that was settled. He would've, however, taken a vaxx to make Leia feel better, if he was even close to due for a booster. As Han wracked his brain for something to offer, Luke leaned into view, bracing an arm against a strut. He scanned Leia's face, then glanced at Han, and they decided their scheme in an instant. Their chance to put it into action, the mute pact to protect her they'd formed after the sound-file debacle in the mess.

Sure, Leia, put me down for the pill.

Luke played it just right, a reasonable response to a reasonable request, nothing to twig Leia to their guardian angle. Leia beamed at Luke, then braced her datapad at her forearm, clicked her stylus and scribbled Luke's name into her list.

When Leia looked back up, her expression wasn't frantic anymore, but trusting, expectant. And you, Captain? The patch, or the capsule?

Han didn't answer. His reticence rooted not in privacy or pride, this time, but lack of practise in accommodating others' emotions. Han feared if he told Leia he was vaxxed, he wouldn't stop at that: he'd babble the way he did, sometimes, when he was on the spot: I already had it. By needle. Needle needle needle. Han could only stare at Leia, mouth slightly agape, on his back at her feet. Like some big dopey fish she'd landed. Leia's pretty eyes narrowed, and Han wondered if he was giving off some nervous vibration. But before Han could crack and do something idiotic like act it out—roll up his sleeve, poke, ouch!—the kid saved the day, waving across the hangar.

Hey. Wedge! He elbowed Leia. C'mon, you talked to the Rogues, yet?

Then the Hero of Yavin was winging Leia away from the Falcon, so Wedge must've truly been there, the kind of fortuitous wave Luke was so good at riding. Leia went along, but cast an ambiguous look at Han as she passed. Disappointment? For whatever reason—maybe for once he didn't want Leia to think he was being plain difficult—Han found himself calling after her.

Capsule?! Lady, I'm Corellian. Might as well dose me with candy.

Leia spun to walk backwards, facing him. Patch for you, then. She quirked a brow. Hotshot.

Cor. Ellian! Doncha know what that means? Han hollered as Leia got farther away. Better slap them patches all over me. She was still facing him as she moved, and he pushed up on an arm, gestured at his rangy frame in oil-stained white shirt, faded trousers. Like a lost parcel, Sweetheart!

Leia burst into laughter. The real thing, supple and deep. It carried behind her when she turned away, catching up to Luke. In her happy wake, Han let himself collapse to his back. He put a grimy hand through his hair, closed his eyes into the sound of Leia. All gods, it felt good rolling over him.

XXXXXXXXX

There was nothing Han could do now, to help Leia with it. Too late, the sequence had been initiated. Leia stared at the box on the shelf, ashen and hypnotized. She was breathing faster, hairline dampening in the warm shop, little beads practically spelling out Ord Mantell. Made Han catch his own breath, break out in his own sweat. Ord Mantell, he was back there too, stumbling through the script issued him by special ops, along with the glasses and itchy suit. Leia hiding her delight behind her hand, her stare on him so promising and soft.

The wiggle dance...is er, performed by the male in order to persuade his mate...

Then that high whining whistle. A bird? Han had had birds on the mind and on his flimiscards. A nightbird, that was what he thought untilLeia's sweet muffled laughter turned to shock. Until he watched her blanch, touch her throat—

"Alright," Han said carefully to Leia, and to himself. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, stole his other arm around her waist. "Let's sit down a minute. Get a glass of water, talk this over,"

She nodded, dazed, her breathing still off, damp skin gone greenish. Han steered them back to the tables, trying not to rush.

Myk smiled up from the cleared surface she was scrubbing. "Ah! Did you find..."

When she saw Leia, Myk's eyes sharpened. She pulled over the armchair, shooing Dap out of it. Delivering Leia into the seat, Han had only just crouched beside her when Myk had her clean roughened hand on the back of Leia's neck, under the loose braid. In his heightened state Han was about to snap this stranger's arm before he realized Myk was smoothly guiding Leia's head down, folding her at the waist.

"Hold her there," Myk ordered, hurrying for the kitchen.

Leia wheezed, face pressed into her knees. Han slipped his hand onto Leia's head. Stroked, slowly; when Leia tried to sit up, he pushed lightly back. "Hey, hey. Eizel—"

The swinging kitchen door banged open, and a tall, fair-bearded man charged out. He wore an apron, faded floral-patterned shirt, shorts, sneakers, blond hair gathered in a bun at his nape. He clutched a wet cloth in one hand, first-aid kit in the other, fever-scanner tucked under an elbow. The guy was so to-the-rescue that Han almost laughed, not snidely, but in an admiring sort of relief.

Then something took Han over. Body, instinct, animal scent, whatever, Han was on his feet between the cook and Leia, right hand closing at the tanned throat. Dimly Han heard the metal kit clatter to the wood floor, the scanner smash, cloth thickly splatter. He marched the big man backward, very fast, slamming him into the aquarium wall. The man choked, gurgled, grabbed at Han's wrist. Furrows opened in Han's skin; Han just squeezed tighter.

"Halle metes chun," Han hissed into the contorted face of Prixati Rell. "I knew it, you sneaky motherfucker."