straightouttacarbonite | a galaxy far, far away . . . .

"Out here," she says, drawing him away from the Ewoks' settlement until there's more shadow than light. With the starlight above their heads, it's not impossible to navigate, and there's little to fear out in the quiet darkness.

Little around them, at least. The only things worth worrying about are truths less tangible than anything they might find on Endor.

Finally, they're in a little grove of trees that seems suitably far from the party. Leia sits down at the base of a tree, leaning back against its trunk. The moss is soft beneath her, and she can't help thinking Even if I end up sitting here alone, I'll be comfortable. Cold comfort, but she can't ask for much better at this point. Not knowing what she does.

"Come here," she murmurs, tugging his hand toward her. This whole conversation--the possibility of it, not even the words they've started to share--already feels like an ending. One last lingering embrace, and then she can say it.

Han can hold his liquor pretty well; he's had enough to be pleasantly tipsy, but not much worse off. But the further they walk, the more sober he feels, troubled by how quiet she's being. It's beautiful out here; he can barely appreciate it until she stops, folding into a hollow between the tree roots.

Sitting there, her hand curled in his, he feels like that's the only tether holding them in place. She's pressed her back against the tree but he can't help thinking it seems like she's going to float away. Getting ready to cast him off, maybe. An hour ago everything seemed fine but now that feels all too possible.

He sinks to his knees, then sits beside her. Far too close, if she means to be rid of him, but that's who he is. He doesn't intend to be let off easy.

"Let's have it," he says softly, weary.

As far as she's concerned, he's nowhere near close enough. Leia wraps her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder for a breath, and then another. If she could, she'd stay right here for the rest of the night, letting herself be awake without really thinking, just thanking the Force for the fact that Han's beside her right now. They're lucky to be alive, could easily have been among the lost. But until he knows the truth, she'll never be able to luxuriate in his nearness with anything like contentment. A secret will always lie between them.

"It's Luke." It's not really Luke, but it starts and ends with Luke in her mind: Luke, who told her, and Luke, who brought Vader's body back to the moon. "I didn't tell you everything today--not everything he told me."

She looks at Han, holding his gaze as long as he'll let her. She'd be a coward to say this to his chest or to the ground, and if there's one thing Leia Organa refuses to be, it's cowardly. "Our father--our birth father--was up there on the Death Star."

It sort of takes him by surprise, that she comes closer rather than shying away. He couldn't shake the sense that she was trying to let him down easily. Maybe she's trying to let herself down easily; he doesn't know, and instead of wasting more time trying to guess he just slips his arm around her, lets her take her time. If this is the last of it-- he can't imagine why this should be the last of it-- then they might as well both savor it.

And when she speaks he snaps to attention, meeting her gaze. She's no coward and he isn't, either; he won't be the one to look away, only to let his brow furrow with confusion.

"That doesn't make any sense..."

As tempting as it is to wait and let him puzzle over this, she can't. The conversation's a runaway bantha, and the only thing she can do is explain until all the words careen into a wall and everything's over.

"It does," she tells him, reaching for one of his hands. It feels selfish, wanting to slip her hand in his and twine their fingers, but right now, she finds she doesn't give a damn. One last moment when she can keep Han to herself, safe and strong within her grasp, is what she can have. She's going to take it. "He was the reason Luke had to go up there, Han. He had to face Darth Vader."

There's the truth, one that's only weighed on her for the last day. It kills her to think that Luke kept it to himself so long.

Selfish he can handle. A minute ago he was sure she was trying to chase him off; if she's not, then hell, she can hang on all she wants to. He curls his fingers around her hand, warm and sturdy, reliable. Except he's still totally confused about what she means.

"Because he killed Luke's--" your, he should've said-- "father?"

It's halfway between statement and question. That's what the old man said, isn't it? And what difference does it make, anyway? He's not in love with her father, after all, whoever he might have been. Whether he was a senator or a spice runner or a Jedi, it's all the same, doubly so if he's dead. The only reason he can see not to declare himself too drunk to have this serious a conversation and forget it is that Leia's clearly tied herself in a knot, which means he needs to help untangle it.

The distance of the question, like they're just discussing Luke's parentage, makes all of this a little easier. And it feels more true, anyway--her own parents died four years ago, not yesterday, no matter how her brother might feel.

What'd be easier still would be Han just understanding what she means, so they could move on from this and get to the part where his eyes narrow and he jabs a finger in her face. But this is Han she's talking with; one gets used to having to spell everything out in bright, bold Aurebesh.

(It's probably better that she does, anyway.)

"No." Her fingertips dig into the back of Han's hand until she can feel the bones under his flesh. This is it--this is the end of all of it. If there was a way to curl even closer to him without ending up on his lap, she'd do it. "Because he was his father."

Even if it was only for scant minutes that actually counted, she has the feeling that Luke will carry those with him forever.

Subtlety has never been his style. For Han if you mean to say something, it's best just to say it and be done with it. Leia, of course she's diplomatic when she needs to be, but she's never been afraid to speak her mind to him. Maybe that's partly because she's kept him so long at arm's length; there couldn't be much fear of driving him off when that's what she was intending to do, but he's stuck around in spite of everything. By now, he figures, she's got to know he's not going anywhere.

Which is the only reason he doesn't snap back the obvious accusation that she must be joking. Because it's utterly ridiculous; Luke is about the furthest you could get from someone like Vader. The only resemblance is a total inversion.

He opens his mouth, and then shuts it again, looking at her like he hasn't seen her until now. (Really, he does that a lot, if for different reasons. If he lives to be a hundred he'll never be tired of looking at her, he's sure of it. If she lets him keep doing it that long.)

"Are you sure?"

Maybe that's a stupid question, but he can't help doubting it.

"Of course I'm sure." For once, it's not argumentative--just tired. He's staring at her like he's looking for Vader in her dark hair or the curve of her mouth, and she thinks he already knows the answer to his question, anyway. Somebody had to sire her, even if it was Bail Organa who raised her. "Luke's sure."

And that's everything. If either of them are going to know, it's going to be the Jedi. Han wasn't here for all of Luke's silences in the last half-year, or for the way his expression would shift from cool certainty to something sadder when he thought no one was looking.

There are so many other things she could say--that she just found out a day ago, that she's sorry, maybe--but none of it makes any difference. Han will believe her, and he'll do...whatever it is he's going to do, but she assumes it'll involve finger-pointing...and things will end. She just has to wait, little as she likes it; she can't even find it in her to enjoy the fact that he's curled up next to her, knowing something else is coming.

If he's looking for any such trace, he doesn't find it. Leia looks like she always has. Perfect. Stubborn and young and beautiful and unwilling to show that she's scared, even if she is.

It's hard to put himself in her place; can't imagine what it would be like to learn an awful truth like that. But, then, her entire understanding of family is unlike his, of course he can't imagine what it would mean. She can't seriously believe she's at all like him-- that Luke is at all like Vader-- right?

He reaches up to brush his thumb over her cheek.

Her eyes slip shut as he touches her. It's Han at his gentlest, and his touch feels impossibly right: his calluses, his warmth, the familiarity of his movements.

"Han," she murmurs. It's painfully unfair, having him so near and knowing it can't possibly last. Some part of her is starting to wonder whether it could--but that's asking something huge of him. Something she's not sure she could fairly demand of anyone, let alone someone Darth Vader tortured. "Han, don't--"

Don't tease me like this.

"Don't what?"

In spite of it he doesn't move his hand; she can't mean he ought to stop this, not when she leans into it, when the look on her face begs him not to go. Sure, he can't understand what it'd be like-- to lose and gain so much at once-- but that doesn't mean he can't offer sympathy.

(Of course, not all of it's easy; thinking of Vader puts him on edge, of course, how could it not. But, at least, that's something they all share; it's not a horror of her, not in the least. He's not the only one who's been tortured. Frankly, it's hard to be bothered by it when he's preoccupied by her, by the way she looks. She's lost so much, at her father's hand. That has nothing to do with him, except if she'll let herself lean on him.)

Leia blinks at him. The way he's waiting for an explanation, not throwing in his own opinions, reminds her of nothing so strongly as the first time they'd kissed. Making himself as likable--oh, hell, as lovable--as he can possibly be, despite all his flaws, and waiting to shoot down every objection she can come up with.

"I can't ask you to stay. Not knowing..." She gestures vaguely, sweeping the thought of Vader away from them both. "This. Not after what he did to you."

And her, and Luke, and the rest of the galaxy. Darth Vader kept himself busy over the years.

There's Han Solo's greatest secret: behind all the bluster and arrogance and complaining, he's occasionally a pretty likable guy.

He tips his head to the side, like he's going to lean in and kiss her-- it's a close call, that, because that's one of those things he likes to do, but she seems like she needs a little more than that-- and considers it for a moment. Considers the situation; not leaving, because of course he's not gonna leave her, but how to make that clear without treading too heavily on the things it'd be better not to think about.

"You just worry about what you did to me."

No arguing with him, woman.

A pretty likable guy? More like a dangerously likable guy, and easy on the eyes to boot. This would never have been so difficult if he was easy to leave behind. After three years, dozens of arguments, and a war that's not quite over, Leia knows perfectly well that she's not going to get rid of him entirely. It just seems impossible that he's going to something other than the kind of person she talks to when they can't get out of it.

Or seemed, anyway. He hasn't stormed off yet. And she's selfishly, painfully glad of that. Becoming strangers to each other seemed like the inevitable outcome, but it was something to dread. It's become impossible to imagine a life without Han grousing about something in the corner.

"What I--" she starts, her smile becoming a little less tentative. She's affronted--playfully so, her eyes flashing. "What'd I do to you, flyboy?"

"What didn't you do."

Curling his fingers around her hand, he does lean in, now-- not quite to kiss her, just to tease. He reaches up again to wind his fingers in her hair, the simplest little gesture. It's something he loves to do-- embarrassingly so, maybe, but right now he doesn't give a damn.

"You love me," he reminds her. As if she might have forgotten overnight.

"It's not me I was worried about." She tilts her head into his touch. If he wants to tangle himself up in her hair, she can't find any argument against it right now. His fascination with her hair has always been something worth amusement rather than scorn, not to mention a great deal of fondness. If it means touching a little more of him, who's she to complain. Besides, soon enough, they're going to leave Endor, and she'll have to leave behind this loose, simple style.

At least it seems pretty clear that she's not going to be leaving behind him as well. Her free hand settles down against his thigh, squeezing lightly; she might as well take advantage of the fact that her birth father hasn't retroactively destroyed this good thing, among all the other good things he left in ruins.

"I know."

He can't blame her for steeling herself for the worst. Leia, for all her youth, has lost more than anyone he's ever known. Like hell is he going to be one more thing taken from her. Finally he does lean in to kiss her-- since at last she's not going to take it as a farewell-- though it's brief, barely a hint of what he wants from her. When he pulls back it's far enough to shift, trying to snake his arm around her, pull her close against him.

"C'mere."

Perhaps he ought to say they should go back to the party, the camp they've set up there, but the moss is soft and the forest old enough that it's quiet, here. It feels, for the moment, like they're the only two people on this moon, and that suits him because it means he doesn't have to share her.

a galaxy far, far away . . . .

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