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Stocking Stuffers

When he walked into Carlist Rieekan's office in late afternoon, Han had the good grace to look a bit sheepish. Carlist put his hand to his heart in an exaggerated expression of shock, leaning back in his chair. 

"General Solo," he exclaimed. "You're alive!" 

Han waved his hand at Carlist flippantly. 

"Yeah, yeah," he griped, grabbing a chair from Rieekan's conference table, and dragging it over to the desk. He swung it around and straddled it, crossing his arms on the back and leaning forward. "You busy?" 

The other general raised an eyebrow at him. 

"I am the Lieutenant Supreme Allied Commander of the Interim New Republic," he retorted. 

"We got a Festival Week truce, though," Han said. "You can't be that busy." 

"You'd be surprised."

"Quit whinin', you're only here in case SAC Donna gets assassinated." 

"Supreme Allied Commander Dodonna may assassinate you if you keep calling him that." 

"He needs to loosen up," Han drawled, "s'not my fault the title he decided on for himself has the acronym 'sack'. He shoulda run it by someone." 

"It's 'Donna' he hates."

"Yeah, I know," Han shrugged. "Leia says he's being a bit misogynistic if he's feeling demeaned ‘cause I call him a traditionally female name." 

Carlist snorted. 

"I bet she does," he said, practically able to hear the words in her voice. "What can I do for you, Han?" 

Han gave another little shrug, lifting his chin and looking around the office.

"Well, something got you into work," Carlist said. "I doubt it was that you suddenly remembered you are in the Interim New republic Military and should occasionally act like it." 

"Hey, I show up for the battles." 

"As you said, there is a temporary truce," Carlist pointed out, "you have over a hundred performance reviews for your garrison due."

Han blinked at him seriously. 

"You know I'm not gonna do those." 

Carlist leaned forward and put his head in his hands, amused. He laughed, scratching the burgeoning growth of a beard that sprawled over his face, and gave Han a look. 

"This is why Jan is so bothered by you. Why did you keep your commission if you don't want to be in the military?" 

Han flashed a grin at him. 

"Leia likes the uniform."

Carlist glared. Han raised his brows. 

"I got to do somethin'," he said, "I thought my 'staff,'" he said the word with some skepticism, "was supposed to do the admin work." 

"Perhaps, but your staff says they've never seen you." 

Han feigned outrage. 

"I was headline news in the holos last week!" 

They had to have seen him. His picture was all over the place. He smirked. He'd never admit to it, but he wasn't entirely sure what his job was when he wasn't fighting, or planning a fight. He hadn't gotten that far in the Academy before they booted him, and up until very recently, his continued role as a general had been nose to the grindstone fighting to beat the Imperial remnant back enough for the interim government to take hold as the defined future of the galaxy. With the recently achieved truce - brokered by Leia - there was less bloodshed, at least for a little while.

They were all getting a cautious break, a glimpse of a real end to the bulk of the fighting, and if the short peace was successful enough, Leia was confident the fledgling government could use it as a sweet incentive to bring a definitive end to the Empire. 

"I am curious to know what the hell you're doing when you're busy not showing up for a normal work day," Carlist said. 

Han opened his mouth. 

"Think very carefully about your next joke." 

Han closed his mouth with a snap. 

Carlist shook his head, narrowing his eyes. 

"I like you, Solo, but she's still my sovereign."

Han saluted, then pointed at Carlist, his lips tightening. 

"That," he said, "is why Jan is bothered by me, y'know." He couldn't resist circling back to that, expressing his irritation. He'd always gotten along relatively well with Dodonna, though they had spent most of the Rebellion fighting in different sectors or based off different planets. In close quarters, Han rubbed him the wrong way, and Dodonna's coolness increased with every escalation of Han's relationship with Leia. "And she's not his sovereign." 

Carlist nodded. Jan was a good man, he just had some long-held traditional blind spots, and while he respected Han's acumen, his sensibilities were bothered by...the rest of his personality. 

"I get it, I know he's been...frosty -- "

Han laughed sarcastically. 

"--and I try to mediate it. Try to remember he has known Leia since she was a toddler. And you are not subtle." 

"About what?"

"About your," Carlist waved his hand vaguely, as if Han straddling a chair the way he was illustrated the point, "you...you're not...chaste."

Han started laughing again.

"What I mean is, in public, it's somehow clear the relationship is...explicit...even if you're only...looking at her." 

"All of you need to get a fuckin' hobby," Han groused, then gave Carlist a solemn, deadpan look. "Besides, I'm a virgin." 

Carlist pointed to himself. 

"Yeah? I'm the Emperor of Tatooine." 

"Long live the king." 

Grinning again, Carlist sat back. 

"You really just barge in here to flirt?" he joked. 

Han smirked a little and straightened up. 

"Picking Leia up at the Senate later," he said. "Figured I'd see if you were in. She's gonna be late gettin' out, anyway." 

"Date night?" 

"There's a floral exhibit at the botanical gardens she wants to see."

"Aw, and people think you're some sort of heartless criminal."

Han smiled a little. He curled his hand into a fist, cracking the knuckles, his head cocked. He did have a motive in seeking Carlist out, he just wasn't sure how to approach it. Things were changing; there were seismic shifts in the galaxy, and it rippled into the lives of everyone in it. The war was cooling off, even if it wasn't over - almost a year to the month after Endor, and they'd made astronomical strides. Han didn't pay much attention to the politics, but he was deeply invested in the personal, and it wasn't lost on him that his involvement with Leia was no longer a wartime affair that could end in one of their deaths at any moment. 

There had been something easier about that. An immediacy, an urgency; when danger and death were a constant threat, there was no planning possible, there was only seizing every moment, feeling every touch, as if it might be the last. He understood the subtle differences as the relationship evolved, and he didn't want to fuck it up. He never wanted it to end, though Leia seemed to be getting increasingly anxious he'd want to break it all off now that she was, so to speak, 'back' in her political role. 

"Han?" Carlist prompted, wary of the silence. 

Han shook his head, resetting. He cleared his throat. 

"Yeah, yeah, uh," he started. "I was lookin' to get some...advice." 

"I'm honored," Carlist quipped. Then, more seriously: "I'm listening." 

"This, ugh, festival week," he said. "It's kinda the first one we get to observe. Everyone, yeah, the whole Rebellion -- former Rebellion," he muttered, "but we as in, me'n' Leia. Where we can breathe and we're...together." 

It wasn't that he'd never thought of Leia during the holidays. He had, he'd even brought her things before. He wanted this to be a little different, though. In the past he'd always hedged his bets, not gotten too sentimental because he never knew where he stood with her emotionally, but at least that was clear now. 

"I wanna get her somethin' real nice," he said. "Or do somethin' important for her. Thought you'd have some ideas." 

"Hmm. Well, to be honest with you Han, you probably know her better than anyone," Carlist replied. "Not to blow you off, but I doubt I or Luke or Mon or anyone else could top anything you'd come up with." 

Han scratched his chin. He did know Leia that well; he should have been more specific. 

"That's why I kept my commission," he said abruptly, "so I'd have money to buy Leia stuff that isn't from her own account," he joked. "'M a scoundrel, not an asshole." 

Carlist snorted. He watched Han carefully, and then sat forward. 

"Well, I don't know how serious you are, and I don't know if this is overstepping, but there's one obvious important 'somethin' you could do." 

Han waited; Carlist waited. When Han didn't seem to catch his drift, Carlist cleared his throat. 

"I meant a proposal -- " he started, at the same time Han keyed in on his meaning and said: "Oh, you mean ask her to marry me?" 

"Bit cliche, during the season," Carlist allowed. "But important." 

With an unreadable expression, Han asked: "Am I allowed to do that?" 

Carlist frowned. 

"Legally? Or are you asking my permission as a...blessing?"

Han didn't want to expressly say that he'd actually had some concerns that he might not legally be allowed to ask the last Princess of Alderaan anything of the sort. His silence was enough to answer, and Carlist gave him a nod. 

"You can ask. Answer's up to her." 

"Yeah," Han said, and shook his head. "Not that, though." He hesitated. "She'd say no right now. I don't wanna put her in that position. It'd upset her to say no." 

Carlist sat back heavily, breathing out. That Han thought so genuinely surprised him, and he was miffed, like he was missing something. 

"You might be selling yourself short," he ventured. 

"Nope," Han argued. "She needs time." 

"She does?"

"Yes," Han said, and when Carlist gave him a skeptical look, he reiterated the point: "I don't need time. I know what I want." 

Carlist ran a hand over his face. 

"I thought you were both past all this," he chose his words carefully, "will-they, won't-they." 

"We are," Han said. "She needs time to see how I'm gonna be with her, and the politics," he trailed off. He didn't want to outright call Leia paranoid to Carlist's face, but that was the gist of his understanding. They were fine. She trusted his promises to her, but she was lately unable to trust that he wasn't going to end up hating his life when he saw what it was really like to be in her world outside of the war. He knew he wanted to be with her, and he knew he'd make it work, and he was okay with her needing time to see that she wasn't tying him down against his nature, because he knew her fears were not tied to a doubt of his feelings for her, just a general wariness of the galaxy to come. 

"Right," Carlist said slowly. "I -- "

"I was thinkin' more about somethin' traditional to Alderaan," Han said quickly. "Stuff that she'd have done for festival week there. Not generic, galaxy wide stuff."

Carlist crossed his arms. 

"Oh, hmmm," he mumbled. 

There were ceremonies within the royal family Han wouldn't be able to replicate, and he might offend accidentally if he tried. Alderaan wasn't too unique in terms of festival week, but Carlist was impressed with the thought behind Han's request, and he bowed his head and sat with the inquiry, trying to come up with something meaningful. 

"I know I could just search the 'Net," Han was saying, "but there's all kinds of shit on there, s'pecially since the destruction, and I'd rather get an idea from the source - I don't want to make her sad, though, so if there's anything," he broke off. "She's just been...it's just been...rough, lately." 

Carlist looked up sharply. 

"She's okay?" 

Han shrugged. 

"I mean, yeah, I guess, it's just that she's kinda setting up a whole new government and her planet ain't a part of it. Sinks in a little more." 

Carlist grimaced. Han had a...unique way of hitting the nail on the head in the bluntest of ways. Carlist felt it, too, the...settling. The heavier and heavier knowledge that the war was over, and victory did not bring Alderaan back. So many worlds were finding their way back to the ways the Empire had destroyed, whether they'd waited two years or twenty - but people like him, like Leia; there was no going back. 

"Look," Han said. "I want her to know I don't forget what she's lost. She doesn't talk about it a lot. She can't. I'm trying to do what I can." 

"Makes sense," Carlist said. He sat forward and put his elbows on his desk, placing his forehead between his hands. "Good on you, Han," he added, and frowned to himself. "Let me think."

He was still thinking, but he was covering for his own emotions, too. A festival week without mission plans or the Imperial shadow, a festival week with a truce, and time off...he wasn't so sure he'd thought about it so closely. It was going to be hard, and he was very glad Princess Leia would have Han. He tried not to get too lost in his own thoughts, lest this get awkward, and redirected back to Alderaan....Alderaan, Alderaan, festival week, specific traditions -- he snapped his fingers and looked up, a triumphant look on his face. 

“You should stuff her stocking!” 

Han blinked. He cocked his head slightly.

Was that some sort of euphemism? 

“What?” he demanded. 

He’d never felt like hitting Carlist Rieekan before. Did he feel like hitting him? Yes, he did. He was shocked he’d say something like that in reference to Leia, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t want to hear anyone talk about Leia like that.

Only he was allowed to. And only in private. 

Carlist blinked back at him. 

"Why do you look like you're going to hit me?" Carlist asked, bewildered. 

Han, back ramrod straight, eyed him warily. 

"'Cause I don't know what that means," he retorted, "but it sounds like somethin' I don't wanna hear anyone say about Leia." 

Carlist just looked confused. 

"You asked -- "

"Yeah, but that I can come up with on my own, and unless there's some special way you do it for festival on Alderaan - "

"That's the whole point, it is unique to Alderaan. It's usually more for children, but I think she'd -- "

Han gave him such a look of alarm that he stopped talking, his mouth hanging open. 

"What's the matter with you?" Carlist asked, exasperated. 

"What the hell are you talking about?" Han demanded. 

Carlist simply stared at him for a moment, wondering where Han had gotten lost. He hesitated, then held his hands out, frustrated. 

“I’m trying to tell you about stocking stuffers,” he said. “You get these little gifts and – what the hell did you think I was talking about?”

Han lowered his head. He rested his chin briefly on the back of his chair.

“Uh,” he started. “You – “

“What did you mean ‘say about Leia’?” Carlist quoted.

Han looked annoyed.

“S’just it kinda sounded…y’know, ‘stuff her stocking’, like – “

Carlist held up his hand abruptly, the realization dawning on him.

“Good gods, man,” he interrupted, eyes wide.

He pushed back his chair roughly and pointed in the general direction of his feet.

“Stockings, literal stockings, as in socks!”

Han winced.

They stared at each other, Carlist paralyzed by the mortifying thought of ever uttering anything so crude in reference to a girl he thought of as a daughter, and Han really feeling much the same way, considering Leia saw Carlist as a surrogate father. After a long, awkward pause, Carlist cleared his throat loudly.  

“Why don’t I just go on with the explanation of our entirely innocent, pure little tradition?” he asked crisply.

Han waved his hand, thinking – by all means.  

Carlist nodded. He pulled his chair back to the desk in a somewhat prim manner, and then Han swore he smiled a little.

“Right,” he said. “As I was saying, technically this tradition is something we do for children, but I think Princess Leia would find it sweet, and adults tend to look on it with such nostalgia it would probably mean a lot,” he explained. “The idea is you have a festive pair of stockings, and you fill them with trinkets. Nothing expensive. More like…candies, small bottles of hair oil,” Carlist waved his hands, “stuff the person would like, or think was funny. You tie them closed with a ribbon for girls, or a leather shoelace for boys, or gold twine for nonbinary, and one goes on their pillow for when they wake up. Then the idea is they must go…find the other one.”

Han listened intently. When Carlist paused, he asked:

“I’d hide one of ‘em?”

Carlist nodded. He lowered his hands.

“She finds it, opens ‘em both, and there’s all these goodies spilling out,” he trailed off a little, his smile taking on a pained look. He fell silent, and then he looked sheepish. He shrugged. “Well, you can see it’s meant more for children, but – “

Han ignored that.

“Is the kind of stocking important?” he asked, serious. “Should it be some she already has? Should I buy new ones? Special fabric?”

“A lot of parents use a pair of stockings their child has shown preference for throughout the year, some buy a new pair, and a lot also have a special set of festival stockings – some hang them up on the hearth as decor for the season.”

Han nodded, working quickly to memorize. He’d never heard of this, and he didn’t think it was silly. Yeah, it sounded like something a kid would enjoy the hell out of, but Leia needed something carefree and innocent.

“And the gifts?” he prompted, lifting his shoulders. “It can be anything? Is there anything that has to go in there, that’s uh…a staple?”

Carlist thought about that, unable to recall anything particularly traditional. He shook his head.

“No, what matters is that you know the person well enough to stuff it with things they’d love. Sometimes one stocking will have mostly small trinkets, and the other will have one thing that's kind of bigger and takes up the whole stocking.”

Han turned his head, looking off to the side. He grinned to himself, a good sense of satisfaction washing over him. This was the sort of thing he’d be looking for. He didn’t need an expensive gesture – Leia had more money than every god beings had ever thought up, she could buy whatever she wanted – he needed something intentional; meaningful.

Nodding, Han turned back to Carlist, eyes gleaming.

“That’ll do,” he said. “Damn. That’s good.”

He got up, pushed the chair aside, and paced the floor, rubbing his jaw. He stopped and turned, one hand on his hip.

“You think,” he started, looking at Carlist warily. “Will it…really upset her, though?” he asked. “You think it would make her too sad?”

Carlist leaned back heavily, his expression turning grim.

“I don’t think you can avoid that, Han,” he said. He reached up to rub his chest, an almost subconscious movement. His palm ground against his heart, pressing the decorative badges on his uniform into his undershirt. “There’s no remembrance without pain.”

Han sighed. He crossed his arms.

“Would it ruin the day?” he clarified. “I know I can’t fix it, but I don’t want to make it worse.”

Slowly, Carlist shook his head.

“No,” he said, voice quiet. “I don’t think it would ruin anything.”

In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he thought Princess Leia would be touched by the effort Han had gone to. He wondered when the Organas had let the tradition lapse. The common age for stocking stuffing and hiding to end was usually around ten or eleven.

“You should do it,” Carlist encouraged.

Han bit his lip, nodding to himself. It sounded easy, which relieved him; didn’t involve learning a new language or skill, though he’d have tried if that was the only option. He was confident he could pick out, and as for the stockings – socks – well, he already had an idea about that.

He strode forward, leaning down over the desk.

“Carlist,” he said. “Thanks,” he emphasized, and held his hand out.

Carlist stood to accept the handshake, squeezing Han’s hand with a nod. He stepped back, studying Han with approval. Han straightened, ran his hand through his hair.

“And, uh, sorry about that misunderstanding,” he said, his voice a little to wry for Carlist’s taste. Sure enough, Han looked up, a smirk on his face. “I don’t need to be told to do that.”

Carlist pointed at the door.

“Out of my office, Solo,” he ordered, good-natured. “Or I’ll let Jan court martial you.”

Han pretended to bow to him. He hesitated a moment, waiting to give a silent, additional nod of thanks, making sure Carlist understood he really did value the input, and then he turned on his heel and strolled out as casually as he’d come in, outright ignoring the echo of Carlist’s voice as it echoed after him, shouting at him to at least show his face around military headquarters occasionally.

Han ignored the jibe, though he figured Rieekan had a decent point – but reporting for duty would have to wait until after festival week; he had shopping to do.

Leia woke up slowly on the first morning of festival week. With the truce holding steady, at least for the holiday, and nowhere to be, she had the luxury of a lie in. No alarm to jar her from a restless night, no immediate demands for the day. It was a rare thing, and she let herself bask in it, coming to consciousness in a languid way, eyes closed as the rest of her senses awoke. The scent of fresh kaf and sweet fig syrup and crisp bacon surrounded her, and she reveled in the warmth of their sheets and their bed, content with knowing Han was up making breakfast. She could spend the next few days recharging, and enjoying him.

The past year fighting the Imperial remnant, consolidating power, had been hard. It was a concise way to describe it, but there was no other word for it.  Insurrection had been hard but it was singular, focused; there was one goal: overthrow. There was a certain simplicity to firing a weapon at an enemy that did not exist when attempting to govern. Freedom fighters in charge were no longer rebels, they were liberators; there were power vacuums to be filled, reconciliations to be brokered, justices to be served, and political structures to be reformed. It long, grueling uphill work. It was energizing and hopeful but simultaneously draining, and could feel hopeless. 

Leia had faith. She worked hard for the victory she had earned - and she earned this break. 

She stretched, rolling onto her stomach and reaching her arms far out in front of her. Her fingertips brushed the headboard, and she arched her back and flexed her feet, a pleasant shiver running up her spine. Though she relished the smell of Han's cooking, the tradeoff was that he was in the kitchen, and she wished she could roll over and snuggle up to him. She yawned, and finally let her eyes drift open. 

There was something on Han's pillow, placed delicately right in the middle, situated strategically in her line of sight. She slid her hand over to the pillow and lifted her head, peering at it. It appeared to be a curiously lumpy knot of fabric, dark blue, and bloodred, and -- 

She lifted her head a little more and then sat up, drawing her legs to her chest. She held it in the palm of one hand, her other feeling over the thick, soft material, pausing to linger at the edge of a silk ribbon that messily tied the makeshift pouch closed.  It was a sock - one of Han's bloodstripe socks, to be specific. She knew them well, had become closely acquainted with them on the trip to Bespin. They were knit out of warm, butter soft wool, deep night sky blue in color, with crimson rings around the neck and down the ankles. They were specially made by a tightly controlled industry in Coronet City, and Leia had teased him relentlessly about them, thinking it both dramatic and cute that Corellia issued regulation socks to go with the stripes. 

She had also coveted them, and worn them often, because they were the warmest socks she'd ever encountered in her life. 

Turning the sock over thoughtfully, her lips pursed, Leia heard faint clinking, felt objects shuffling around in the stock -- it appeared to be full of items. She stroked the edge of the ribbon that tied it: a long, sturdy, iridescent ribbon with glitter embroidered at the edges, similar to ribbons she wove into her hairstyles sometimes for formal events. Looking closer, she found the cream ribbon was patterned subtly with clouds and birds in flight; at the very edge of it, in neat, tiny calligraphy, was scrawled one word: Organa. 

She furrowed her brow, giving the ribbon a little tug to pull it loose. The bow unraveled, and the mouth of the sock loosened. She hesitated, glancing up at the bedroom door. It was barely cracked open, and there was no sign of Han, other than the persistent scent of his cooking. He'd clearly put this on the pillow, but what had possessed him...? 

She tipped the sock over, and a modest handful of trinkets fell into her lap. She turned them over one by one slowly, taking stock: a small bottle of the pearlescent nail lacquer she favored, which she always seemed to be running low on. Two vials of the precious, expensive scented oils she combed into her hair on special occasions. An assortment of her favorite gourmet chocolates in a mini signature gold box, a bundle of sage stone hair pins tied with another beautifully painted ribbon , a satchel of t'iil seeds, and what appeared to be a figurine carved out of hydenock. 

She picked that up delicately, examining it, identifying it quickly as a thranta, complete with a little leather saddle. She held it up closer to her face, delighted - the sock was stuffed with little trinkets, and she couldn't fathom -- 

Stuffed, it was stuffed!

Oh, she thought, realizing dawning on her, memory flooding back in a rush -- festival mornings in Aldera when she was a child, waking up with silk stockings tied to the end of her bed filled with candied fruit and book chips and map, neatly drawn in her mother's elegant hand, to guide her to the next stocking -- 

She clutched the sock to her chest, drawing her knees up, the items jumbled in her lap. 

"Han," she murmured, understanding what he'd done. 

She closed her eyes, sat with it for a minute. 

Then, quickly, she tucked all of the items carefully back into the sock save the ribbon, and she got out of bed. She pulled her robe from the bed post, slipping it on and tying it loosely at the waist. Ducking into the 'fresher, she brushed her tangled hair back only with her hands, letting it tumble over one shoulder. She tied it with the new ribbon, and placed the sock in her pocket, venturing out of the bedroom after a cursory search - she was sure he'd have hidden the other one elsewhere, though, to lure her out. 

She took her time down the hall, her gaze alert as she stepped into the main area of the suite they called home, one large expanse of apartments in the once vibrant, now archaic, Alderaanian Embassy. Rather than take the sovereign's rightful suite, she'd elected to maintain her old quarters, once she'd decided this was a good temporary place for her on Coruscant; she couldn't bear the thought of occupying her parents' space, couldn't stomach the dust and broken glass littering her mother's old vanity. It was bittersweet to be here, but somehow it made more sense than anything else, during this transitory period of nation building. 

While trying to find a place for herself, for her people, in this new world, it felt like the best place to do it was from pseudo-Alderaanian soil, and she knew this place like the back of her hand. She knew the nooks and crannies, the best secret hiding places, but Han wouldn't know those, so she kept her search to well-lit corners, to the main sitting room, with its high ceilings and bright windows. 

She did not have to look far; Han had opted for ease rather than tease, and when she rounded the sofa, there on the expansive accent table was a serving tray with breakfast staples: kaf and cream and honey hotcakes and bacon and fresh-squeezed citrus juice, arranged with newly bloomed gingerbells and there, next to the vase, the other sock. 

Noise drifted from the kitchen; Han tipping pots and pans into the sink, rustling utensils, tidying up. Leia tiptoed to the front of the sofa, sat down on the edge, taking the sock's mate out of her pocket and placing it on the table. She studied the two of them together for a moment, wondering what kind of work Han had put into uncovering the old tradition. She leaned forward to take the trinkets out of the stocking she'd already opened, lining them up one by one, her eyes lingering on the remaining stocking. It was more formed, stretched a little tighter; indicating perhaps only one item inside.

Instead of reaching for it immediately, she turned to the mug of kaf, fixing it with the cream and honey, drawing out the suspense, the thrill. She took a sip of the kaf, savoring its near-scalding temperature, and reached out to touch the petal of a gingerbell. 

Han cleared his throat, and she turned her head, seeking him. He stood off to her side, drying his hands with a towel. He strode forward, stopping next to her. He dropped the towel on the edge of the table, nodded his head. 

"You gonna open that one?" he asked. 

Leia set her mug down, stood up, and rose up on the tips of her toes. She seized his jaw in her hands and pulled him down to kiss him, threading her fingers into the hair at the nap of his neck, then sliding them over his shoulders and down his chest. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close, happy to return the kiss. When she needed air, she sank down to the flats of her feet and rested her forehead at the center of his chest, catching her breath. Han placed his palm on the back of her head. 

"Hmm," he mumbled. "Guess I did okay." 

She let her hands fall to his hips, then dropped to the sofa and tugged him down next to her. Han slouched next to her, draping his arm behind her. He lifted her hair off her shoulder and kissed her neck, fingers brushing the new ribbon, noting she had already put it in her hair. He smiled to himself. Leia sat forward, reaching for the little thranta figurine. She placed it in the palm of her hand, balancing it, and turned, holding it out to him. 

"Where did you find it?" she asked, reverent. 

"That?" Han asked, nodding. "I didn't. Chewie carved it." 

Leia let out her breath. 

"It's so small. It's so detailed," she said, shaking her head. "How could Chewie...? With those big paws of his -- ?"

"He has specialized tools," Han said. The Wookiee's carving kit was extensive and allowed for extreme detail, including thick-handled instruments that tapered into much smaller, more delicate picks made for making small things just like this. His people often made even smaller charms for diadems and token satchels; this had been only a minor trial for him, and he was happy to do it at Han's request. 

Leia made a show of patting it on its head. She set it down near the gingerbell petals, then leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands, staring at the line of little gifts. Han ran his hand up and down her spine lightly, two fingertips creeping over each other in a soothing dance. 

"I was almost out of this," she murmured, nodding at the nail lacquer. Her eyes drifted to the hair oil. "That's your favorite scent," she noted, "the honey citrus." Her gaze drifted again. "T'iil flowers, they're so hard to find now," she trailed off. She leaned forward again to run her fingers over the bundled jade pins. "More hair pins for you to untangle." 

"I like doing that," Han said lazily. "Open the other." 

"Mmm, my other stocking," Leia said. She reached for the sock, and a piece of bacon at the same time, popping it into her mouth. She then turned the second stocking over a few times, feeling along the outline, trying to discern as much as she could from the shape. The sock was stretched a little, and she shot a playful glance at Han's bare feet on the floor, guess the item was a little bigger. 

"What is it they say about big feet?" she quipped. 

Han laughed. 

"Think its hands, Sweetheart." 

Leia smiled. She wriggled the edges of the sock, being gentle with it while she freed the final gift. She'd already divined it was something rectangular; when it was settled in her palm, she found it to be a jewelry box, no doubt made of the same hydenock bark as the thranta. The carving of this was cruder, not infused with Chewbacca's years of cultural expertise, which instantly told her Han had made it himself. He wasn't as skilled as Chewie, but his talent was far from negligible. 

Leia laid the sock next to its mate and held the jewelry box atop her knees. Han's hand continued to move steadily up and down her back, and she took a moment to admire the handiwork. Simply carved, Han had just sketched vines into this and then glazed it, and if that alone wasn't enough to make her tear up, she was sure whatever was inside would. 

She lifted the lid. Tucked into one side was a packet of spices for mulling with Alderaanian wine; innocent enough. Tucked into the other, nestled in velvet, was a fine-toothed ivory hair comb. She bit her lip and reached for it, fingertips hovering near it.

It was bone white and polished smooth, so sleek it looked like silk.  The handle of it bloomed with a sculpted floral scene, dusted with powdery diamond substance that made it glitter and when she finally allowed herself to touch it, it caught the light, and she saw threads of gold inlaid in the white, sprawling over the ivory of the comb in an abstract design that finally coalesced into something she recognized -- mountains; snowcapped mountains; those that had risen around the palace in Aldera.

She couldn’t imagine where he’d have found such a thing. At least some of it had to be custom designed.

She drew her thumb over the detailing, wordlessly handing him the jewelry box so it wouldn’t fall off her knees, so she could better handle the comb in both hands. She touched it with an almost devout attention, mesmerized.

“This is,” she started. “Han, this is,” she broke off, unable to speak.

She resorted to pressing her lips closed tightly, her eyes stinging. She hinged forward and touched the comb to her forehead, closing her eyes. Han’s hand drifted all the way up to her neck, and he leaned forward next to her, resting his arm fully across her shoulders. He rested his chin above her ear, then kissed her temple.

He reached out to set the jewelry box on the table with her breakfast, and soon after she reached out to place the comb in it, bringing her hands to her face. She held her fingertips to her eyes, pressing lightly, and then straightened a little, taking a deep breath.

“It’s very pretty,” she said huskily, frustrated at herself for being unable to find more eloquence than that.

“You like it?” he asked, quiet.

“I love it,” she answered, just as quiet.

She sat up, and turned to him, drawing one leg up onto the sofa with her. When he shifted to face her, she put a hand on his chest, her eyes stinging. She jerked her head towards the table, swallowing hard.

“The stockings,” she said. “Where did you hear about the custom?”

“Finishing school,” Han quipped.

Leia bit her lip. She blinked, and tears dripped down her face, tears she wiped away carefully with the heel of her hand. Han reached out to do the same, knocking her hand away.

“I asked Carlist for somethin’ I could do for you,” he admitted, thumb drawing a line under her eye, and then tracing the bone of her jaw down to her lip. He lingered there, then let his hand fall to her lap. “He said it wouldn’t upset you too much,” he added, wary.

Leia settled down into the sofa more, fingers curling against his chest.

“I’m not upset,” she breathed out. “I’m,” she paused, trying to find the words, “waking up to that on my pillow…it's a good memory. I miss good memories,” she whispered. She leaned to her right, swept the socks into her hand, and held them to her chest. “This means a lot to me.”

Han reached up to touch the edge of the ribbon she’d tied in her hair.

“I know it’s been worse, Leia,” he said. “More time to think and all. More time, uh – “

“Found a new government? When my planet started the rebellion? When they’re not even here to see the way it all turned out?” she finished, her voice cracking. “Yes,” she admitted. “It’s been hard.”

She looked down at the socks in her hands.

“And I know I don’t get it,” Han said, “not like you do, not like Carlist does. I do know nothin’s gonna bring it back, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to…forget about Alderaan to get through the pain. Or get over it ‘cause you think I’m going to get tired of it hurting.”

It was difficult to sit and watch her cry and know nothing he said or did was ever going to alleviate the horror of an entire planet, an entire people, lost, but all his energy lately was directed towards making her understand, in any way he could, that he was in this for the long haul. He wanted to be tied down; he wanted to be boring – there had been enough violence, enough excitement, for one lifetime.

Leia brought the socks up to her face and wiped her eyes. She looked up at him.

“Are these clean?” she asked faintly, mustering a little smile.

Han laughed. He nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, and arched his brows, “and they’re yours, you can keep ‘em,” he said.

Leia dropped the socks between them and reached out to touch his face. She pursed her lips as if she’d speak, but said nothing, only leaning closer. She curled up next to him, resting her head on his chest. He was so comfortable, so warm, and this gesture was so heartfelt, so thoughtful. She wasn’t sure she could ever verbalize it – she had long stopped remembering Alderaan during festival week; she had looked forward to this week to take some time off with him, and he had made it so much more.

He kissed the top of her head, hugging her.

“Breakfast is gonna get cold,” he reminded her gruffly.

She laughed, pressed herself against him a little longer, and then nodded, sitting up to stretch, to turn to the gorgeous display on the table – the food, the drink, the flowers, everything. She bit her lip, gazing over the meal – and then she picked up a piece of candy, expression coy, and unwrapped it.

She took the jewelry box in hand again, examining it – noticed, that in the top left corner of the inside of the lid, he’d engraved something. She held it closer to her eyes, focusing intently – Corellian runes, which took her a moment to decipher, and then she closed the lid, turning the toggle lock with a sigh, and shooting him a look over her shoulder.

“‘I know’?” she quoted.

Han folded his arms, arching his eyebrows.

“Your Worship, that is the smoothest I’ve ever been, and you know it.”

Leia laughed. She set the box aside; Han sat forward and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his lips to her ear.

“And I do know,” he promised, “how you feel. Even when you can’t say it,” he emphasized. “I learned. I know you.”

He rubbed her back, fingers twisting into her robe. He breathed in slowly.

“I know I want to be with you the rest of my life,” he murmured.

Leia believed him; she’d always believed him. She believed in Han’s desire for her, his love for her; it was all the rest she doubted, not because she doubted him, but because she knew exactly how rough public service was on the family, on friends, on loved ones, particularly when they were not saddled with the burden. She trusted him not to want to leave her, but she didn’t trust this burgeoning New Republic not to rip them apart, and she couldn’t help but shy away from his intensity sometimes, test him unfairly.

This morning, for the first time, she felt a little less anxiety over what he might get himself into; she felt a little more certain that he wouldn’t be eroded by the strain of her career or bored by the grind of standing by her.

She let her eyes drift closed, felt enveloped in quiet sadness, missing home, but simmering with peaceful, sunny nostalgia.

“I know, Han,” she sighed. There was nothing more meaningful to say. “I’m working on myself. My mind, my heart…they clash.” Years ago, in the gray cell of the Death Star, the Empire had severed the connection between those two parts of her, and it had broken her, and yet it had made her machine enough to survive. She'd need to put in work to mend the connection, but she was willing to do it. 

Han nodded.

“Well, I’ll be here,” he said.

Leia wiped her eyes again, taking a deep breath. She reached for a piece of fruit and bit into it, savoring the crisp tartness of it; she picked up the citrus juice and washed it down, lighthearted.

“This is ridiculous,” she said, voice husky. She cleared her throat, laughing. “You can’t be that perfect, Han. You’re fiction.”

Han leaned back slowly. He rested his back against the couch, watching her pick at the food – much of it was cold now, but the kaf was still a good temp, and the fruit was perfect, and her hair looked incredible, and he relished knowing he’d made her feel good.

“No,” he drawled. “I am bewitched,” he corrected, “and it makes me annoying.”

She threw a look at him over her shoulder.

“And now you’re being saccharine,” she accused, her voice soft, and her expression indicating she was not altogether opposed to it. For her it was just that it could be difficult, sometimes, to accept unconditional affection, when she had missed it for so long, and she had spent years thinking she’d grown too jagged to be touched gently.

He put his hands behind his head, winked at her.

“I’m a sweet guy.”

Leia smiled, turned back to her plate. She chose a piece of bacon, bit into it carefully. She picked up the jade hair pins, her eyes drifting to the jewelry box.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Sweet.”

She laid the hair pins on top of the box, her fingers dipping into the carved vines.

“The ivory comb,” she started. “Where did you…? And the gold filigree, did you…?”

“I asked them to do mountains, ‘cause you said once that what you miss,” Han said gruffly. “Where I got it? Nah, Princess,” he denied. “Can’t give away my source. Might need more jewelry. Later on.”

Leia licked her thumb, teeth scraping the edge of her nail. She brushed her hands off, touching one to her chest and rubbing the skin above her heart.

“It’s exquisite,” she whispered – and it was. A masterpiece; she couldn’t wait to wear it – oh, god, Han, she thought. You did so good. She turned to him sharply, twisting at the waist.

“I didn’t get you anything,” she said nakedly. “I was so focused on the thought of a break – and we've never done formal gifts -"

Han shrugged. One of his hands came down and drifted to her ribs, brushing her waist in a ticklish touch.

“I wanted to do somethin’ for you,” he said. “This was for you. That’s enough for me.”

“Fiction,” she whispered to him, aware at the core that he was very real.

She took her kaf in hand and leaned back, offering him some. He took it and shared a sip, but grimaced at the sweetness of it, and pushed it gently back into her hands.

“You went to Carlist to find something to do for me,” she murmured. “Oooh, you must have impressed him,” she sang softly.

Han laughed a little – then, he laughed harder.

“Hang on – Leia, when I asked him for ideas, he just blurted – ‘you should stuff her stocking,’ and I – “

He related the story to her and Leia, blushing, nearly choked on her kaf. She kicked him, shaking her head, incredulous.

“Han! You’re the only man who could make verbal leap – “

“Only? We ought to do a media poll, sweetheart, it sounded filthy as hell – “

Laughing, she dropped her head to his shoulder. She wiggled her bare feet, nudging his ankles with them. Han kicked her back, and she buried her face in a few more warm sips of her kaf, before she handed it to him, and let him set it aside. She pushed her hand back through his hair, curling strands of it in her fingers.

“He should come over some day this week,” she said, a little twinge aching in her chest. “Carlist. He could use the comfort.”

Han nodded, a touch of a grimace on his face. Leia kissed it away slowly, fingers tangling deeper into his hair, starting a slow, erotic massage against his scalp. He leaned over her, nudging her back into the cushions. She broke away, tilted her head back, took a deep breath.

“You know, I think I like your slang,” she decided coyly.

“Hmm?” he grunted, kissing her exposed neck.

“’Stuff my stocking,’” she quoted.

Han snorted.

“Do you want to?” she asked.

Han lifted his head and kissed her jaw, nodding.

“Yeah,” he said agreeable, morning, noon, and night, Sweetheart.

“Well,” Leia murmured, and then twisted away from him, startling him. He blinked, jolted, thinking she was upset, and he stared at the spot where she’d just been, dazed. He looked up, and caught her standing on the other side of the sofa, bathed in sunlight from the window, and then she took off with a squeal, darting out of the room.

“You have to find it, Han!” she called. “It’s tradition.”

Han turned wildly, his eyes falling on the bloodstripe socks she’d left scattered on the floor. He rubbed his jaw, shaking his head in surprise, and then he grinned, getting on one knee and vaulting over the sofa to give chase, delighted with the spark of whimsy – he took off after her, following in her footsteps through the halls of home, blending old tradition with new.