Chapter Text
The princess hadn’t seemed like herself since the ceremony. As soon as Han thinks the thought, for potentially the thousandth time that standard week, he groans, rubbing his face with a hand. How would he know that? He’d spent what, maybe an hour, maybe less, running around a thrice-damned Death Star with her. How was that supposed to be any sort of an indication of someone’s personality?
And even if it was, the princess had been through a lot. More than a lot. She’d suffered the sort of stuff that could break a person’s entire being, shatter them into nothing more than hollow shells of their past selves, full of nothing but space dust and regret.
The fact Leia was still capable of carrying on with duties like the awards ceremony suggested she had nerves of absolute durasteel. Or of ice, given how cold she’d been since then. Han couldn’t even rattle her into a snappy comeback, no matter how many your worshipfulnesses he’d launched, like a volley of sarcasm against her icy shields.
Maybe that’s the real Leia.
Maybe he’s thinking too much about it.
Nah, that’s not a maybe, that’s a definite. Han groans, staring down at his mug of the now-mostly-cold caf, wishing the Yavin IV mess hall had some sort of alcohol. He’d even take a swig of Toydarian Rum if someone offered it, even if the last time he’d drank the fizzy orange liquor he’d had a headache for three days straight.
A headache would be better than… this concern he felt for the princess. It's not romantic, whatever this is, because he's felt similar concern for Chewie, the last time the Wookie listened to his rumbling stomach and not Han's advice, choosing to knock back an entire thermos of hot chocolate when a mechanic had offered it a few months back. But a Wookie's food poisoning and a princess's grief for an entire lost planet shouldn't merit the same feelings. Hell, the princess shouldn't summon any sort of feelings, not when he's damned certain he's not going to court her (as that term seems a lot more fitting for however one impresses a princess in matters of the heart) and when he knows he's got to get back to Tatooine, and fast. Maybe he just needs to find someone else who can care about the princess for him. Like a surrogate worrier, or an auntie-for-hire. Or... Was he supposed to play matchmaker? For a Core-World Princess? Nah. He had to be out of his mind to even consider that.
Han groans. He’s already got Chewie and that damned Skywalker kid to keep an eye out for, the last thing he needs is to feel like a worried porg hen, brooding on and on, about a third person. There’s a reason that the Falcon didn’t have bunk beds, and it had a lot to do with him liking his solitude. And if he'd wanted to go into the match-making industry, it certainly wouldn't be out here on Yavin IV, where the pickings were slim and the pockets weren't deep.
“You alright there, soldier?” a voice asks.
“Not a soldier,” he retorts.
“Well, you’d be an awfully dim spy then.” The speaker is a green-skinned Twi’lek woman, wearing a Rebel pilot’s gear. “What are you, visiting family? Or a recruit that’s given up on things?”
“No family to speak of, and I can’t give up on something I don’t believe in the first place.”
“You’re a barrel of laughs, aren’t you.” She sits across from him and tilts her head, studying him. There have been lots of rebels, ever since the awards ceremony, who had tried to get to know Han, at least a little, but something about this woman’s questions felt different. Maybe because it’s clear she’s not looking for romance, or for him to run her cargo somewhere. She’s a pilot herself, after all, so they have that in common, which probably helps. “You’re Captain Solo.”
“Who’s asking?”
“No one,” she replies. “But I’m pretty sure we all know your face, given that big medal you and your friend got.”
“It’s a good-looking face, what can I say?” Han tries for his best grin, figuring the practice never hurts, even if this isn’t the time or the place to flirt with anyone. No, he’s got to get that last hyperdrive gear tightened and get the Falcon ready to fly out, before the Rebellion sinks any more thorns into his sides.
She shakes her head. “Not right now it isn’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Han’s brow furrows and he taps his chest. “I’ll have you know--”
“You look like a lost bantha cub,” she cuts him off, a hand on her hip. “And you sigh like one too. So, you gonna tell me what your major issue is, or are you planning on firing off one-liners until the walls of this place cave in?”
“Why?” Han’s aware he’s asked perhaps one too many questions, but he’s also aware that no one has ever quite called him out like this woman had. It’s like someone handed him a puzzle and took away half the pieces. She’s not flirting with him, he knows that much, but as to why she’s putting up with him when he’s in a mood like this, he hasn’t the faintest clue.
“I like to consider myself pretty good at rescue missions.” She holds out a hand. “Name’s Hera. Hera Syndulla.”
He shakes her hand, finding her grip as confident as everything else about her personality. “Don’t suppose a stiff drink comes along with your rescue mission?”
“Not when I’m four months pregnant, it doesn’t.”
Han’s eyebrows nearly meet his hairline. She puts up a hand. “Here’s the deal. No pity, no questions from you. You’re pretty much the only person on this whole base that doesn’t know my sob story, and I’d rather keep it that way.”
“But-”
“I could use the distraction. Tell me about your problems, so I don’t have to think about mine.”
It’s a proposition that leaves him a little more flustered. Whatever happened in her past must be tragic, but then again, they’re in the middle of a ragtag Rebel headquarters. Probably half the people on this base had broken hearts, if not worse. War was never kind, least of all to those in love. “So, I don’t like worrying about people,” Han admits. “And I’m… there’s a… person--”
“A friend?”
“No.” Han might be the type to throw around words like buddy and pal as liberally as a good Corellian cook adds garlic to dishes, but those words aren’t the same thing. Buddies are good for a round of drinks, or to deal you into the next game. A pal’s someone who might owe you a few hundred cred that you could really use, or just as likely, you could be the one who owes the debt and would rather not pay it anytime soon. Friends? Sure, Han’s got them, spread out across the galaxy, but he’s damned certain that if anyone on Yavin IV counted as one, it wouldn’t be the ice princess herself.
“Lover?” Hera asks, waggling her eyebrows.
“Absolutely not.” Any thought he’d entertained, however briefly, of that, has long since been squashed. He’s sticking around to make sure Luke’s doing alright, then he’s heading out. The brief fancy he’d entertained of courting a princess had been decimated by the actual dealings with the stubborn, hot-headed woman.
“So are they your commanding officer then?” Hera muses. “That would certainly rule out calling them a friend or a lover.”
Han stretches, and yawns. “Not a soldier, remember?”
“Those blood stripes on your trousers had to come from somewhere.” Hera nods at him, and since his legs are under the table, it’s proof she really has seen him around before. Something he can’t say the same for her. He’s pretty sure he’d remember running into a tall Twi’lek woman somewhere on this base, especially one as confident as Hera. She reminds him a bit of… no. It’s best not to think of Bria, not now, not ever. Even if Hera seems exactly like the sort of woman Bria would have befriended, when she’d joined the Rebellion.
“A story for another time.” Preferably a time they both could drink. Because thinking of the blood stripes, and of Bria… it sent Han’s thoughts toward a darker, more lonely place than he’d prefer to linger. He’d gotten this far in life by always locking away the worst parts of the past, saving only the bits that made for good bragging or even better tales shared across a cantina table. But to think of other things… Nah. Wasn’t worth the effort.
“I’ve got it to spare, trust me.” Hera sighs. “After someone ratted me out for flying during Scarif, I’m stuck here. Grounded. Literally.”
He’s not such a fool as to need to ask why. “It’s not a fun story, I’ll say that much. I’ve got loads better ones.”
“I’m sure you do.” Her gaze turns softer for a moment. “But it’s those hard stories that shape us into all that we’re destined to be, too, no?”
Han’s rather sure he’d prefer not to be shaped into anything resembling a destiny, but he’s also sure that arguing with a pregnant woman is a recipe for trouble. She’d mentioned a sob story, and Han’s no fool to do the math there. A pregnant woman on a Rebel base, with no mention of the child’s other parent… Something that feels uncomfortably like sympathy twists in Han’s gut. “I’m a little sick of the harder stories, myself. Won’t mind a nice easy one if my destiny’s got the choice.”
Hera laughs, and the sound echoes in the empty room. “Do you ever find yourself at a loss for words, Solo?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Her smile bends, the way that only grief can, and she replies. “You remind me a little of someone. Which is funny, because I’d certainly never thought that before, based on what I’ve heard of me.”
“Ah, so you have heard of me.” Deciding he’s stuck in this conversation for the long haul, Han shifts his posture, pulling his legs from under the table and propping them on the top of it. He notices his left boot is scuffed, and shrugs at the sight.
Hera leans over and promptly pushes his feet back to the floor. “Manners, dear,” is all she says, and yet, it makes Han blush worse than if he’d lost to a stormtrooper in a battle of accuracy.
“So, you were asking about… who I’ve been thinking of?” Han mutters, trying hard not to look directly into those disapproving eyes. “Cause she’s not a friend, or a lover, or nothing like that., She’s just a… a person that I spent some time with. Been through sort of an unexpected adventure with,” that was putting the whole Death Start situation into rather light terms, but he supposed it worked. And I know she’s got…. How’d you put it? A sob story? Of her own. But it ain’t my place to pry, and there’s no way I can fix it.”
“You sure you don’t want to try?” Hera leans in, and Han’s pleased to see her eyes are glimmering again. A woman like her shouldn’t look sad, not when she seems to have so much joy and hope within her. Hera Syndulla might have heartbreak in her past, but Han would be willing to bet the Falcon that she’s not the sort that’s going to melt into a puddle and give up. “Sounds like something right out of a story, no? A beautiful woman in need, a scoundrel who helps her…”
Han lets out a bark of laughter. “Not like that at all.” Maybe in a different universe, in a different lifetime. In this reality, though, he’s fine with calling the princess an acquaintance and leaving it at that. He’s had enough complications ever since leaving Tatooine. He doesn’t need another one.
“Oh?”
“I just want Leia to be happy.” The words feel too simple, too easy, for all that they’d been true. He’d been trying, maybe, to convince himself to woo her, to impress her and court her, but his heart hadn’t been in it. Once the adrenaline had died down, and they’d all gotten a good night’s sleep, it had been hard for Han to see her as anything other than a young woman who’d lost everything. And Han, he knew, would be just one more person for her to eventually lose.
No, the princess deserves someone loyal, someone who was less of a scoundrel and more reliable. He doesn’t think Luke fits the bill, either, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell the kid that. Maybe if he ever ran into Lando, he could set the two… Nah. The more Lando stays away from the Rebellion, the better. Beside, that smooth talker would just cause more problems for Leia, or for Luke, whichever one caught his eye first. And the whole reason Han had this ridiculous conversation with Hera had been... to figure out a way to make the princess smile again. Whatever it took. He'd just assumed the woman might suggest a box of chocolates or maybe a scented candle. Han had heard most women liked those things, for reasons he'd never figured out.
“So it is Leia.” Hera grins at him, the sort of smile someone has when they got dealt a particularly good hand. “Excellent. I’ve been looking for a smuggler who’d help me out.”
“Woah there, lady, I didn’t--”
“It’s General,” Hera responds, standing up. Only now does Han realize, as he stands as well, that in her tall brown boots, she’s not merely taller than average, she’s taller than him. “And congrats, Captain Solo, your next mission starts now.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Han points at her. “Who said anything about--”
“You help me, and I’ll make it worth your while,” Hera replies. “I’ve got contacts that can buy you more time with Jabba and--”
“Who told you about--”
“Leia,” she replies, already walking away. Han finds himself forced to follow, as sure as if there was a tractor beam pulling him along. “She and I get tea together twice a week. Have for a year now.”
Wait a minute… so had all her questions simply been… Han fumes, feeling like he’d been playing Sabacc against someone with a hand of cheater’s cards. Not that he, personally, was against using the same deck of cards himself, if given the chance, but really, it was the principle of the thing. Hera's a soldier and apparently a commanding officer at that. Shouldn't she, of all people, play by the rules? Then again, she might be a soldier, but in a military that Rebel is part of the name. Maybe he shouldn't be assuming much in the way of logic for whatever governs the affairs of Yavin IV. If Hera already knew Leia, then… “What was the point of all of that?”
“Making sure you truly see her as a friend, and nothing else.”
“I don’t see her worshipfulness as anything more than a pain in my--”
“Language, Captain.”
“But--” Han protests, even as they turn down the next hallway, heading toward the landing bay. At least, he’s pretty sure that’s where she’s leading him, though he’s not exactly sure why. The whole conversation had shifted from musing to action with the same speed a podracer could fire up at the start of a race.
Hera replies, “I don’t disagree that you two are about as suited as an oil stain and a freshwater lake, but I’d heard rumors that--”
“From who?”
“Chewbacca, of course,” Hera laughs, the sound bright and merry, even as they pass through the last door and into the landing bay itself. “He says you need more time before you jump into a relationship, and I’d have to agree. You’ve got to work on making friends.”
Han’s torn between cursing that furball of a first mate and the stubborn general he’s following, but given that he’s now sure the two might team up on him, he settles for insisting. “I have friends.”
“Good.” Hera turns to him, finally facing him once more. It’s a momentary distraction from realizing the Falcon has already been turned around in the landing bay and her motors are purring, ready to take off. Chewie had a lot to answer for… Hera smiles and holds out her hand. “And now you’ve got one more, dear, so let’s get going.”