Work Text:
In Writing
Leia was tired. Tired and frustrated and so daunted by the work to come. She thrived on political strategy and diplomacy, but tonight she was just all exhaustion, and she could barely muster even her usual quiet simmer of faith that they would successfully build this new Republic.
Mired in warring factions, brutal Imperial remnants, and petty infighting, she feared for the future, and she chomped at the sour bit of restraint she had to smile around every day.
Late in the evening, she lay her head on her desk in her temporary apartments in the old Imperial Palace, and she held her eyes closed in a dreamless, sleepless rest. She had her head down when Han came in; she heard him, and then she opened her eyes and saw his boots as he approached, and then his hand was warm against her back, and he was kissing the back of her neck lightly.
She sat up and leaned back slowly, tilting her head up. He kissed her on the mouth and sat on the edge of her desk. She put her head back against her chair, sighing, and let her gaze run over him.
“You were nowhere to be found today,” she murmured.
She often ran across Han several times throughout the day, even if they were not working directly together. He had been conspicuously absent all morning and afternoon, though it didn’t necessarily worry her. They were all busy rebuilding, and Han had upcoming campaigns to plan – he’d be off planet again after the new year.
Leia dreaded it.
“I was doin’ stuff,” Han retorted.
“Mysterious,” she whispered, intrigued.
He reached into his vest inner pocket and pulled out a short cylinder, holding it out to her. She reached for it, quizzical, and touched the end, pausing to consider it before taking it. The cylinder was plaster, sturdy, with a decorative raised wedge at the end that indicated a top could be twisted and removed. It shimmered with gold detailing and had a messy dark blue bow tied around the center.
When she did take it, the cylinder was lightweight, either hollow or containing something quite small.
She tilted it towards herself slowly, lips pursed.
“What is this?” she asked.
Han shrugged.
“Present,” he said.
“For me?”
Han smirked at her, arching a brow – who else? He got up and strolled around her desk, walking over to her shelves – empty, except for the detritus of long workdays – and then to her austere sofa, where he sat down. He leaned over to the decorative kaf table and started scratching at the design on it.
“Open it,” he suggested. “I was at the taxation office all day for that,” he muttered, “and the engineering offices, and the pilot management bureau, and the licensing center,” he listed.
He shot her a look.
“Why aren’t we abolishing that stuff?” he quipped.
“Democracy isn’t a free for all, Han,” Leia murmured.
Curious, she stared at him across her desk, and then examined the cylinder thoughtfully. She tugged at the ribbon, loosening it easily, and then ran her fingers over the little notch on top, turning it to break the seal of it.
She paused, flicked her eyes to him again.
“You were where?” she asked, skeptical.
He scratched harder at the table, fidgeting anxiously.
“Just open it, Leia.”
She did, turning the notch carefully. She removed the inlaid top, and peered inside the cylinder, thinking at first that it was empty. She then caught a flash of silver and realized one thin piece of durasheet was curled neatly inside. She dipped her index finger in and drew it out, the silky feel cool and alien to her.
Her curiosity deepened, and a bewildered smile touched her lips – she hadn’t seen a hardcopy document since she had worked espionage. They were so rare – and what would Han need with one; how did it connect to this day he described?
She set the cylinder aside and held the durasheet delicately, her eyes lingering on Han. He continued to hunch over, and appeared to be studiously avoiding look at her, as if he was wary of her – or shy, nervous about something.
Leia smoothed out the sheet on her desk, looking it over.
“Need you to sign it,” Han offered.
She heard him, furrowed her brow, and began reading. The document was all in aurebesh, a registration affidavit with several clauses of technical language. Leia realized quickly it was a litany of legal information regarding the Falcon: its docking location, its inspection records, its insurance, its enhancements. She had told him he might want to look at doing this now that a stable government was taking place, and they were likely to establish a home base on Coruscant, and he needed to take steps towards complete legitimization – though she noticed he’d left out a few of the Falcon’s riskier modifications.
She thought briefly he must just want to preen at her for doing something so mundane and responsible, but then she noticed the ownership section at the end, where listed next to Pilot and Owner, Han Solo, she found her own name on the second line:
- Pilot and Owner: Han Solo [General; Republic; Corellian]
- Pilot and Owner: Leia Organa [Princess; General; Republic; Alderaan]
There was no designation of secondary, or co – it was her name equal with his, plain and simple.
Filed for record; a legal right awaiting her signature on a blank line next to his scratchy, messy scrawl.
Leia touched his name, and then hers, her vision blurring. He’d never mentioned he was thinking – and she’d never have dreamed he’d – her hands drifted to the ribbon she’d pulled off the cylinder, signifying this was a gift for her.
She moved her lips soundlessly for what felt like ages before she was able to make a sound.
“Han – “
“Somethin’ happens to me, Chewie’ll want to go back to Kashyyyk, to his clan,” Han said gruffly. “All I ask is that you take ‘im. Then she’s yours. Somethin’ happens to me…I don’t want that ship with anyone else.”
Leia stared at the registration for a long time, the aurebesh blurry and brightening, sharpening, and then growing fuzzy again. She pushed aside the thought of something happening to Han and focused instead on the importance of him placing her name on his ship without reservation.
His ship. This was the Falcon, this was his only honest possession, this was his everything. With the war over and her accounts unfrozen, Leia could buy the world and then some, and yet he found a way to give her something that meant more than the rarest jewels.
She smoothed her hands over it, her touch delicate. She felt as if she could feel the sentiment in the document, an ethereal warmth burning into her skin. She caught her breath and got up, her knees weak – steadied herself, and went to him on the sofa.
Han leaned back, finally looking up at her. His eyes darted around anxiously, then fixed on her – it was as if he was unsure of the gesture, not in the sense that he didn’t want her to be a part of the Falcon, but in the sense that she might find it too intimate, too…hasty.
He wanted to give her everything, but he had almost nothing, and he wanted a way to show her that with everything so uncertain, he was a constant – and so recently she had started to dwell on her lack of home, her feeling of alienation in a peaceful galaxy. These apartments she lived in now, that he shared with her unofficially, reinforced her transience; the old palace was a temporary headquarters, and with each day that passed, Alderaan was more and more gone.
“You have to sign to make it official,” Han said, his voice low and husky. “I gotta warn you, though, I prob’ly owe a bunch of back taxes.”
“Ah, that’s your play, is it?” Leia quipped, sitting next to him.
She curled one leg under her, sliding the other over his lap, and leaned back. She rested her hand on his chest, her heart racing in her chest.
“Han,” she started again.
“I want your name on ‘er, Leia,” Han said, interrupting her again – there was nothing malicious in it; he was all earnest desire. “You said she feels like home, well, she’s yours, too.”
Leia pressed her hand into him. She leaned close and kissed his jaw, trailing little kisses to his ear, then over his throat, and finally back up to his mouth, closing her eyes tightly, and swallowing down tears. She took a deep breath, nodding, her nose brushing soft against his cheek.
“I know how much the Falcon means to you,” she whispered. “The significance isn’t lost on me.”
Han shrugged, leaning towards her comfortably.
“Figured it wouldn’t be,” he said.
“You don’t have to do this to prove you love me.”
“I want to do this,” Han insisted. There was a ferocity in his voice that humbled her, and he reached for her leg, wrapping his palm around her knee firmly. “You’re a permanent part of that ship, Sweetheart. I just want it in writing.”
Leia leaned heavily into the back of the sofa. She rested her elbow on the back, and leaned her head into her palm, eyes on his profile. He turned to her after a moment, drawn in by her intense gaze, and he grinned at her in that roguish way of hers that sent a rush through her, set her pulse racing.
“And I figured it would get me laid real good,” he drawled. “Nice gift, right?”
She laughed softly, her hand running silkily up his chest to his neck. She stroked his skin with a light, wandering touch – yes, it would get him laid, more than once, but beyond that she saw the vulnerability in his gesture. His quick wit and relentless capacity for teasing had always exhilarated her, but Han’s emotional tenderness was a salve for her rough soul, and he reminded her of it in the most unexpected ways, with the ease of an expert. She’d never forget the way he walked in here tonight, tossed her that cylinder out of his pocket, waited with trepidation for her to open it.
You’re a permanent part of that ship, Sweetheart. I just want it in writing.
She wanted him in writing, too. She wanted him permanently. She had vaguely wondered where they were going, what they’d become as the dust settled, and she had always thought they should talk about it, yet in this moment it seemed so simple, so obvious, and there was no need to draw it out.
“Han,” Leia murmured, her hand reaching his face, cupping his jaw. “Will you marry me?”
He drew back, startled. She etched a memory of his face into her mind: his wide eyes, his parted lips, the subtle way his breathing hitched. He reached up and caught her hand in his and squeezed it. It took him less than a heartbeat to answer, punctuating it with a nod of his head –
“Sure, Leia.”
She surged forward and kissed him, silence surrounding them – until he grabbed her waist tightly to pull her closer, and she was so breathless she broke away with a gasp, half-laughing, half-sobbing. He drew his hands up over her ribs, feigning a sudden, stern look.
“You only get the ship if I die,” he teased. “If you get wise and divorce me,” he shook his head, “bet’s off.”
Leia choked on a laugh, shaking her head.
“Han,” she said his name again, such a pure word for her, such a pure sound for him. “We couldn’t get divorced if we tried.”
He broke into a soft grin, shaking his head.
“Nah,” he agreed. His smile faded, but it faded into a determined look, his eyes burning with desire, with heart. He held her tightly, tilting his head against hers firmly. “You really want this, Sweetheart?” he asked. “Want me? ‘Cause I got to be honest…I want to marry you real bad.”
She nodded, threading her fingers into his hair.
“Yes,” she said. “I want it in writing,” she echoed, then shook her head, adjusting her words fiercely, possessively, “I need you in writing,” she put her thoughts into words for him, an affirmation.
He kissed her, pulling her into his lap.
“You did the askin’,” he murmured between long, slow kisses, “let me get you a ring.”
“You gave me your ship.”
“Ship’s for you,” Han said gruffly. “Ring’s for everyone else.”
Leia nodded, melting into silence, into the rhythm of touching him. The exhaustion of her day faded; faith in the days to come flared in her soul again, determined. She had Han, and he had given her a foundation to stand on that steadied her more than he could know, and from that she could rebuild it all.