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Leia doesn’t let herself think of Scarif, while she sits in her cell. She pretends she heard confirmation the agents were rescued. She pretends… she pretends a great deal.
Mostly, she pretends that Alderaan still exists. That it is still full of song and light and all good things.
She pretends, too, that a certain young captain still exists. That his smile might one day light up again when Bail speaks to him in the language they both share. That he might shyly nod at her when they pass in the halls of various rebel bases.
Leia is given a good deal of time to herself, between the torture segments and the interrogations, and she uses all of that time to escape into dreams.
It’s easy to do too, since the captain had been the one to give her the briefing on Imperial Interrogations. She knows what questions they’ll ask, and they, completely unsurprisingly, still to form. She knows how not to answer, and she knows how not to flinch when they hurt her.
Because, as he had said, they can break your body, but you can protect your mind.
Of course, no one had warned her about protecting her heart, which was stupid. But what had they known? They were military leaders, not debutante-ball-planners. There was no time for love in war. Why would her father think she’d get a crush on some young intelligence officer? Why would Bail notice if the man he’d picked to teach his daughter had eyes that could see into your soul and hands that could be so gentle you’d swear they were a dream.
Sometimes, those hands were a dream, while she waits in her cell. Leia sleeps often, and while she sleeps, she lets herself dream he’s next to her, kissing her, stroking her hips with those delicate hands. Holding her tightly. In her dreams, the captain, her captain, is alive and Alderaan knows nothing but sunlight. It had been sunny, her last day there. She’d concluded her lessons with him, and they were headed separate ways. Him off on a new mission, and her to the Senate. But he’d smiled at her, and kissed her hand in a way that she thought meant he wouldn’t forget her, and she’d been happy. So very happy.
In her dreams, that happiness lingers. In her dreams, the captain becomes a friend, a lover, all the things she knows will never come to her in reality.
Because there’s only so long a dream can last on the Death Star.
The door starts to slide open. A rescue. She knew it. Knew it in her bones, the way she knew the plans made their way safely off her ship. But it’s the way, too, she knows the captain isn’t here. It’s not him, in that grey officer’s uniform he’d worn so terrifyingly well, that she should expect to see. He'd impressed her, when he'd shown her how a spy could blend in to so many different scenarios. Had turned her teasing jab about his height into a lesson about unassuming people being able to move so well through crowds. He'd given her hope that her own lack of height wouldn't be a weakness. But she still knows that this rescue, because that's who it has to be, it's the wrong time for an Imperial, won't be from him.
But she still hopes it will be.
And of course it isn’t him.
So, the words that slip out her mouth aren’t princess-toned, not at all. But she doesn’t feel much like being a princess right now. Not when her heart is hurting for a lost love that never even had time to blossom. Not when she knows that being rescued is only the next step on a very long path that can never leave home again. Not when the sun will never shine on her Alderaan or on his smile again.
A memory is a fickle thing, and in that moment, it betrays her, providing words so close to what she’d said to him that first day she’d met him, last year. Her father had introduced him, Captain Cassian Andor, the Rebellion’s finest, and she’d said something flippant, something stupid, because at that time, she hadn’t realized how serious it all was.
She was a fast learner, in that regard.
But not fast enough to save him.
But memories are fickle things, and she hopes, impossibly, it’s him underneath that white helmet. Although he’d never wear a disguise so poorly. Maybe, her mind whispers. Maybe tease him. Like you used to. Maybe if you tease him, it really will be him. Maybe it’s all been a dream.
She pushes herself up a bit from where she’d napped, and drawls, “aren’t you a little short for a stormtrooper.”