Work Text:
Tendrils
Strategizing warfare was hard. Political subterfuge espionage had been hard, yes, but Leia had been brought up to that. She'd been trained in it. Tucked in with the ranks of Rebellion with a significant role in High Command, she was behind the learning curve when it came to the nitty gritty of military planning, though she had been determined to take an active role since she'd been forced underground with them. The time for politicking was past and she'd locked up her diplomatic tools in exchange for fatigues and blaster drills.
It was exhilarating, and it was hands on, and it kept her busy. It was better than being secreted away in some precarious safe house, awaiting the end of the war, a pretty little figurehead trotted out as a martyr and a rallying point, yet she still knew that she was often out of her depth in rooms with battle-hardened career military officers like Crix Madine or even Carlist Rieekan, who had significant expertise despite having been raised a pacifist. She'd been conferred the rank of General solely based on the conversion of her royal title to military equivalent, but she knew that men like Bren Derlin, Ledick Firest, and Col Serra outstripped her in knowledge, and even Han, with his limited Academy experience, had insight she often didn't see right away.
She was not intimidated by rooms full of men, but she did dislike being the least proficient person at the table. She committed herself with relentless drive anyway, observing and absorbing when she couldn't contribute, but offering insight for long term strategy when she could. The war was the entire focus of the 'right now' so to speak, but they still needed a nation builder's input for the big picture, helping to determining what dirty decisions might later be vindicated, and which ones might turn them into the monsters they fought.
It was hard, so hard. Leia thrived on high stress and plenty of work to do, keeping her mind occupied - but lately she was at a breaking point, pushed to an exhausted edge by the cold and the isolation and the sheer pressure of the last couple of years.
A small part of her had wanted to bow out of this strategy session, except there wasn't any point when she'd just lay awake staring aimlessly at the ceiling. So she stayed, rehashing ideas, critically examining their gathered information late into the night. The first half of the meeting had consisted of quite a lot of arguing back and forth between Han and Col Serra, as they debated the best smuggling routes to achieve several of the upcoming objectives, but as the hours dragged on the company dwindled. Serra departed to pick up a watch shift, Bren went to bed. Led stayed the latest, but Leia outlasted him, too, until she was left with Crix and Carlist -- and Han, though she wasn't sure why he, of all of them, lingered.
He, who wasn't even enlisted and ranked - but he seemed smug he'd out-argued Serra in terms of routes. He kept offering insight on the various Imperial garrisons he'd outwitted on the planets they were analyzing. He was either sticking around to preen, or he was lurking because Leia was sticking it out. A small part of her understood he often hung around because she was there, and she liked it. She was so cold, and weary, and focused on this, that she didn't have the energy to ignore that small part of her right now. It was comforting to understand that Han liked being around her, because not many people did. And besides, he was standing right next to her, and even without touching her, he radiated body heat.
"Bren's probably right," Madine grumbled, pouring over pages of intelligence they'd already sifted through. "This is just going to be a risk no matter how we undertake it."
"What else is new?" Carlist asked. "Solo's right about the supply route, though," he said, nodding at Han.
Leia leaned over the table, her hands braced flat on it. She sighed, scouring the maps. The coordinates ran together, and she blinked, meticulously working to keep the three missions under review straight in her mind: supply run, disruption strike, extraction. She thought Han would be best at leading the extraction, but he wasn't going to be considered; Serra was the smuggler who was enlisted.
Strands of her hair, escaped hours ago from her braids, fell in her face. It had started coming loose after the brief, and she felt like she was constantly pushing it back. She tapped one of the maps, clearing her throat.
"I don't think Luke should lead the strike," she said. "There may be collateral damage, and he's got an increasingly popular, mythical image with the average person - if he's identified as the leader, and any non-combatant dies, it could turn opinions against him."
Carlist nodded.
"He's the best pilot - "
"You think?" Han interrupted loudly.
" - X-wing pilot," Carlist corrected smoothly, "we have with us right now, but Antilles would handle it fine - and if we have so many forces out on missions at once, having Skywalker here in case we're attacked is good, since we'll be twice as unprotected."
"When we're that handicapped with fighters, she should be off planet," Crix said, thrusting his thumb at Leia. "Easier for her to escape, but -- "
"I'm right here, Crix," Leia murmured.
She looked up, and when she tilted her head, her hair fell in her face again. She pushed it back.
"Don't talk about me like I'm not in the room."
Crix shrugged, nodded.
"Easier for you to escape if you're not trapped down here if a whole fleet arrives and catches us with our dicks in our hands -- and it draws attention towards you, makes the base safer if they split forces to chase you."
"Watch your language," Carlist warned, flicking his eyes to Leia.
Crix grinned.
"She wants to be treated like an equal!" he protested.
"I've heard her say worse," Han offered.
Leia rolled her eyes. Corellians.
"Equal or not, Princess Leia isn't bait," Carlist snapped.
"His reasoning makes sense," Leia noted.
She leaned forward slightly. Hair in her face again. Irritated, she swept it back. She poked at it a little to tuck the loose strands into her circle of braids and hoped it would stay. Han watched her, his gaze idly following the movements of her hand. He wondered why she didn't just tuck it behind her ear - it was clearly distracting her. It was distracting him, though probably not for the same reasons. She just wanted to see better. He was thinking - suddenly - how he'd never seen her hair down, and even a few strands seemed scandalous, which begged the question of what her hair would look like if it was all down --
"If we choose to do all this simultaneously, I can go on the supply run," she offered. “Ord Mantell doesn’t have a huge garrison. It’s a backwater.”
"Inviting yourself?" Han asked. He shifted to look at her, but she her eyes on the maps and mission plotting overlay stretched out on the table in front of her.
How had he never seen her hair down?
"You never seem to mind," she retorted.
Han grinned.
"You'll have to wear a disguise again. Can I pick? I'm thinkin' blonde wig, girls' clothes - "
"These are girls' clothes," Leia protested, gesturing at her austere snow fatigues.
"Says who?"
"I am a girl, and I am wearing them."
Leia shifted her weight. A few strands of hair fell in her face again. She frowned, distracted, and brushed at them. Han eyed her openly, his eyes tracking the movement of her hands -- just put it behind your ear and give us both some peace.
"In a convent, maybe," he said. "See, best disguise for you is showing more skin, 'cause no one would be looking for -- "
"My language is a problem?" Crix interrupted, pointing accusingly at Han. "He's flirting with her."
Carlist rubbed his forehead. Leia glanced at him through her lashes; his expression seemed to indicate exasperation.
"Well, Crix, you're in my chain of command."
Crix squinted at Han. He leaned over slightly to Carlist.
"Do you want me to fight him?"
"I think," Leia said mildly, "If we can do the disruption strike first, it may cause just enough chaos to make this extraction less fraught."
There was a short silence after she spoke, the men redirecting their attention. Crix cleared his throat.
"Less fraught for us tactically since the defenses would be compromised, but we'd risk that turncoat being killed before we can get them out - very few people could have slipped us this intel," he said.
"At most, extraction and disruption have to be executed simultaneously. That's a lot of Rebel resources to put in damn near the same place. And ideally, we need the supply run around the same time for medical purposes, and we'll need to lie low for a month after - "
Leia hung her head. Hair fell in her face again and she shoved it back again. She grit her teeth, frustrated with the whole thing.
"Maybe we should call this, and get Firest back in here tomorrow morning, fresh eyes - " Carlist started.
"I think we'd all get some damn sleep if we could figure it out now," Crix offered.
Leia blinked tired, dry eyes. She stifled at yawn at the idea of rest and reached forward to pull a datapad towards her. Her hair fell in her face, and as she rocked back on her heels and situated the datapad in front of her, she shook her head, giving up.
This time, Han reached over and wrapped the slight strands loosely around his fingers, pulled them back, and tucked them behind her ear securely. The back of his knuckles brushed the skin behind her ear. Satisfied, he nodded to himself and let his hand fall, admiring his handiwork for a second -- better, he thought; that saves her the trouble.
It was a swift, subtle movement; his hand was there, and then it was gone. Her first thought was merely a vague sense of gratitude; why had she been pushing it back instead of tucking it behind her ears? Han put his hand back down on the table, easy and fluid, like the touch was natural, like he'd done it a thousand times. He flexed his fingers.
She felt herself move her hand slightly to touch his in thanks.
It was only when she looked up, about to agree with Crix, and she noticed Carlist was looking at Han with some degree of shock, that an alarm went off in her body. Delayed as it was, it was instinctive; culturally ingrained, and though Carlist had hastily composed his expression, Leia's sense of decorum had been triggered, and her back stiffened. She fumbled with the datapad, took a step away. She ran her hand over the strand of hair, straightening. Han stood next to her, unbothered; oblivious.
"Carlist is right. We, um, we should call it, ah, call it a n-night," she stammered.
She compressed her lips, trying to steady herself. She pushed the datapad away, hesitated, and then gathered the files she had brought with her and tucked them under her arm. She turned, damn near executed a perfect about face, and stepped out of the room so quickly Han was left blinking at her spot, unsure she'd been there at all.
He took a half step forward, confused. He looked around.
"I guess we're done," Crix snorted, amused. "That was weird," he added. "She looked," and then he paused, as if gauging whether he'd offend Carlist by continuing, "she looked like she'd seen something obscene," he finished politely, though Han doubted that's what he'd have said in rougher company.
Han looked at Carlist, frowning.
"Did I do somethin'?" he asked, internal alarms blaring.
Carlist hesitated.
"It's, ah, her hair," he said.
Han shrugged.
"What about it?" he asked, bewildered.
"You're not supposed to touch it," Carlist said, grimacing. He gestured at the table. "Crix, can you...?" he started. Crix nodded, tacitly agreeing to handle clean up. "Thanks, I need to go -- "
"Hang on; what d'you mean?" Han interrupted, grabbing Carlist's upper arm as he came around the table to leave.
Carlist scratched the back of his head.
"It's sort of a cultural thing," he muttered. "It's fine," he said. "It's not a big deal."
"Didn't seem fine!"
Carlist shook off Han's grip, holding up a hand to placate him.
"It's fine," he said again. "I'm going to go check on her."
Han turned sharply to watch him go, too. He swung back, raised his eyebrows at Crix. Gathering up documents, Crix shrugged at him.
"Probably should keep your hands to yourself," he said, unconcerned. He navigated the table and slapped Han on the back as he went back. "Look at it this way, Solo - 'least you can't be court martialed by the Rebels."
Han scowled at him, left standing alone in the room with an uncertain sense of dread. He waited a beat, lifting his hand to look at it cautiously. He frowned -- he wasn't supposed to touch her hair? He'd touched it before, hadn't he? He was sure he had. He hadn't meant anything by it -- it wasn't like he'd done anything lewd, and they were in mixed company -- ! He looked around him wildly, trying to center himself. He turned on his heel and left the room. Chewie might have some insight, Chewie always knew about stuff like that - cultural stuff - so he went in search of Chewie - and came to a stop at the end of the hall when he heard Leia and Carlist's hushed voices around the corner.
"Your Highness."
Carlist called after her quietly, taking long strides down the hall. He hurried but was careful not to slip. Leia listened to the peculiar shuffle that echoed around the icy walls when people ran on the salted, treacherous terrain, and she took pity on him. Steeling herself, she stopped a few steps around the corner. She folded her arms across her chest, took a deep breath, and turned to face him.
Skidding a little, Carlist stopped level with her, and they both took a step out of the way to the side. It was late and the halls were empty and quiet. Leia looked at a point just beyond Carlist's shoulder for a moment before she met his eyes. She searched them quickly for any sign of reproach, or even a glimmer of the shock she'd seen back in that room, the shock that had reminded her she was supposed to react to a man touching her hair in public, with that sort of brazen familiarity.
Carlist certainly hadn't hesitated to think of it, that much had briefly been written all of his face - he'd had the look of a man thoroughly scandalized by an indecent act. It was gone now, but she remembered it, and it had shaken her. Her thoughts melted together unsteadily as she sorted out why she had no response to Han's touch and grappled with how it would obviously look to Carlist, well aware of Alderaanian customs as he was.
"Princess, are you alright?" Carlist asked, ever cordial.
She gave one curt nod.
Carlist floundered, uncertain.
"I - well, good, that's good," he said lamely. "He seemed to genuinely not know," he added.
Leia blinked.
"Who?"
"Han."
"Not know what?"
Carlist cocked his head. He studied her carefully, and Leia winced, realizing she sounded unhinged. She wasn't fussed about Han, not really - not in the way Carlist seemed to think she was? She was worried about --
"Han," Carlist said again, "seemed to genuinely not know he shouldn't touch your hair."
Carlist nodded at the tucked away strand for emphasis. Leia glanced down at her feet.
"No, he wouldn't," she murmured.
Carlist shifted his feet, folded his arms. He frowned.
"I can still have Crix fight him -- "
"That isn't what I -- "
They spoke at the same time. Leia broke off with a faint laugh, and Carlist stopped, out of sorts. He waited for her to speak again, and when she didn't, he sighed.
"You ran out of there so abruptly, I thought you were offended or...upset."
"I am," Leia said sharply.
Leia unfolded her arms. She put one hand on her hip, and rubbed her forehead.
"No, I'm not, I," she corrected, trailing off. "Han's fine, that...he can," she stopped talking.
She bit her lip, trying to figure out what she wanted to say. Now that she was thinking about it, now that she was back in the right mindset and she had been jolted into sharp awareness of years of her social conditioning, she was unnerved by Han so casually touching her hair, but it wasn't so much that specifically as it was a creeping -- horror? sorrow? -- that she hadn't reacted to it. It felt like she'd forgotten something of Alderaan, or like she was comfortable with Han -- and she was, it was just the...intimacy of the touch, and Carlist witnessing it.
"Nothing is going on between me and Han," she said.
Her face turned pink. She licked her lips.
"I know it looked...I know I seemed okay with that touch. I was. I mean - well, I mean I'm not mad at Han," she said tersely. "I saw the look on your face, and I don't want you to think - "
"I was just caught off guard," Carlist said quickly. "It's a habit. Please don't think I would be upset. That is - custom is custom, of course, but you're well within your rights to let anyone touch your hair." He cringed. "I, er, know you don't need permission from me, Your Highness."
A little twinge in her chest told her, unexpectedly, that she maybe thought she did.
"I don't want you to think I'm sleeping with Han," she blurted.
It was Carlist's turn to turn slightly pink. He coughed, cleared his throat, and softened.
"I don't think that's any of my business, Leia," he said, dropping her title. He folded his own arms, and frowned, studying her face and choosing his next words carefully. He wanted to be respectful of her privacy, but he wanted to make another point clear, as well. "Your personal life isn't any one's business," he said, "and it wouldn't offend...us."
He cringed again - was that clear? Did it make sense? If she was worried he had some sort of psuedo-paternal, toxic concern over her so-called virtue, she was wrong, and though he did sometimes dare to think of her as a daughter, because he was a man who'd lost children and that void needed filling, any attention he paid to Han Solo's obvious attention to her was vigilant only because he wanted her to be happy, and he did not want her to get hurt.
"Us?" Leia quoted.
"Ahh...if you did become involved romantically...we wouldn't be...angry......because Solo isn't...the same rank?" he tried.
"Are you using the royal 'we'?" Leia asked dryly.
"Seems so," Carlist muttered. "I'm speaking for the diaspora."
Leia's lips twitched. She was unsure if she wanted to laugh or cry; she was unsure if that was the sort of assurance she was seeking. Carlist was somewhat like a father to her, and she was just struggling with the idea of watching her break custom without appearing to care about it, not so much Han being...Han.
"If you aren't upset with him for touching your hair, then no one else is. I'm sure as hell not," he said firmly. "Don't...hold back on account of any hang-ups you might have about what people might think."
"Carlist, are you trying to say you want me to sleep with Han?" Leia asked, deadpan.
He closed his eyes, and gave a protracted, exasperated sigh. She smiled a little wistfully.
"No. I'm saying...I don't know what I'm saying," he muttered, and then took a moment to think about it. He cleared his throat, then tried again, holding both of his hands up in earnest. "I just wanted to see if you were comfortable with that," he said. "As for the look on my face, well," he shrugged, apologetic. "I'm old, Leia. I got caught off guard because it's just ingrained into my bones that you don't do that. I thought you would be upset."
Leia put her fingertips to a place above her heart lightly.
"I'm not upset with Han," she said. "I...saw your face and - until I did, it didn't occur to me to think twice about him touching my hair. Han doesn't know any better, so that's beside the point but the idea that you would think I'm treating our customs as flippant is unbearable, and the fact that I needed to be reminded that it was custom," she paused, her throat tightening.
That was it. Twofold: she was so comfortable with Han, even without any underlying physical intimacy, that she hadn't immediately cared that he touched her hair; that was emotionally scary - and come to think of it, he had to have done so before, hadn't he? In the past couple of years? But never in front of another Alderaanian, and it shook her to the core that she had forgotten something that had once been such a dear part of her everyday life. It reinforced the loss, it felt disrespectful, it --
"I don't think that," Carlist said, his face growing pale, and sad. "Leia, I don't think that at all."
He grimaced, her fear weighing heavily on him. But he understood. He knew what she meant. He was quiet for a beat, retreating into himself.
"The amount of grief we have to repress just to get through the day," he started. He swallowed hard. "Yesterday would have been my youngest son's sixth birthday. I can barely remember his face."
The confession, the absolution, hung between them.
"Carlist," Leia said softly.
He gave her a strained, shaky smile, and rubbed his jaw.
"If you're okay, then," he said, steeling his voice bravely. "Ah, excuse me."
His departure was abrupt -- Leia assumed because he didn't want her to see the tears in his eyes or have to bear their burden along with her own. She bit the inside of her cheek, turning to lean heavily against the icy wall, and bowed her head. That relentless little piece of hair tumbled forward, and she seized it, considering yanking it full force from her skull. Instead, she just stared at it, tangled in her fingers -- until what felt like an eternity later, Han walked around the corner, and she looked up.
"...you want me to sleep with Han?"
At the corner, their voices coalesced clearly, and Han stopped dead in his tracks. Her voice was threaded with subtle amusement, but the words sent a bolt of lightning through him, and he felt panicked.
What the fuck?
She was talking to Rieekan. She was talking about...? Han wallowed in his own confusion, frozen to the spot. He briefly debated making his presence known, but he had never had much of a moral code when it came to eavesdropping. There was value in overhearing things not meant for your ears, even if it hurt - it was sometimes the only way to get an unfiltered truth.
He checked behind him to see if his hall was empty, and then silently leaned closer, listening.
"...because it's just ingrained into my bones that you don't do that. I thought you would be upset," he caught the tail end of what Carlist was saying, and it didn't clarify things much.
Consternated, Han stood there.
"I'm not upset with Han," he heard Leia say, and as she went on, things started to clear up slightly -- "I...saw your face and - until I did, it didn't occur to me to think twice about him touching my hair. Han doesn't know any better..."
Her voice lowered a little, and Han stopped listening for a moment. He sure as hell didn't know any better - not supposed to touch her hair, cultural, he sort of got it now, but he hadn't meant to make any kind of statement by tucking a damn piece of it out of her way. Had he been out of line? Yeah, there was obviously some sort of Alderaanian taboo he wasn't aware of, but how bad was it? Leia had bolted from the room - was she upset? He wracked his brains again, trying to distinctly remember a time when he'd touched her hair before. It seemed impossible that he'd known her for so many years and it had never happened, but then now that he dwelt on it - her hair was always up, and she was not a particularly affectionate person, so perhaps he had breached etiquette, even in general -
He mussed Luke's hair all the time, like he would a kid brother, and Chewie - but they were male, and admittedly when he touched their hair he wasn't also thinking of what it would be like to run his fingers through it in the heat of a kiss.
Tossing his head as if to clear his ears, Han tuned back in - but there was only silence. He stood awkwardly; Crix had gone the other direction down to where his unit's assigned bunks were, but to get back to the Falcon, he had to turn this corner, but he wanted to be sure they were done, didn't want to risk them knowing he'd been listening. He waited a full two minutes more, and only silence remained, and his breathing seemed thunderously loud.
He stepped around the corner, and stopped again, the heel of his boot scraping loudly. Carlist was gone; Leia wasn't. She looked at him sharply, and he couldn't tell if she was surprised to see him. Her eyes were half hidden by that strand of hair, and after a pause, she tossed her head back and straightened. Pointedly, she tucked the strands firmly behind her ear this time.
He hoped he did a good job pretending he hadn't been lurking just behind the wall.
"Hey," he said.
"You took your time leaving," Leia said, her voice a little cool - had he heard anything?
Without missing a beat, Han retorted:
"Well, yeah, I had to fight Crix, remember?"
She arched a brow, but to his relief, she smiled.
"May I ask who won?"
"You have to ask?"
He put a hand to his chest, feigning offense.
"Right; silly me. Obviously, Crix kicked your ass."
Han snorted. Relieved that she didn't seem out of sorts, he continued:
"Carlist got real touchy about him saying 'dicks' in front of you. Reckon he's never heard you say -- "
"Goodnight, Han," Leia interrupted primly.
She pushed away from the wall, a wry look on her face, and turned to go. He made a move like he was going to grab her hand, then thought that might not be the best idea.
"Wait, Leia," he called her name instead. He waved his hand vaguely. "We have to walk the same direction, so....s'gonna be awkward," he trailed into a mumble.
She obliged him, and turned back, taking a few steps closer. Han folded his arms anxiously.
"Um," he began ineloquently. "Yeah, Carlist told me I'm not supposed to touch your hair," he said. "I didn't know, so I just...I'm sorry."
Leia lifted one shoulder.
"I know you didn't," she said. "It's fine," she said, echoing Carlist.
"I don't want to do stuff that upsets -- "
"Let's not make a big deal out of this," she interrupted. "It is a slight cultural difference, and that is something I've encountered many times in my life."
Somehow, Han doubted that the people with whom she'd rubbed elbows in diplomatic circles were ignorant of Alderaanian customs. He tightened his hands a little, his knuckles turning white on her arms.
"What's he mean?" he asked. "'Cause I want to know not to...is it 'cause you're, uh, royal?"
Leia hesitated. She wavered between telling him to drop it, and offering the information to him. He looked so wary that she chose the latter. His apology was sincere, and she didn't have it in her to be dismissive when he was being genuine.
"That is an element of it. It is a bit more restricted because I was a member of the royal family, but is an Alderaanian norm in general that men don't touch women's hair."
Han nodded, furrowing his brow.
"Never?" he asked. "How's that work?" he snorted, skeptical.
Leia laughed a little.
"Well no, not never," she amended. "Hair is just very private. Women can touch each other's hair, though only women with certain rank could touch mine, and family isn't restricted, but for men who aren't related, touching the hair - especially in public - usually indicates," she paused, blushing, "it would indicate that you've seen it unbound."
Han nodded again, taking it in.
"And that's bad?"
"It's not bad, it's intimate," Leia corrected. She parted her lips, and then tilted her head. "Traditionally it would usually mean you were romantically involved with that woman, but decorum dictated that women in the royal family never had their hair down in public except on rare occasions after they were married, so for me it would effectively mean that you'd slept with me."
Yeah, I fucking wish, Han thought, though not stupid enough to say it out loud. He did smirk a little, before he hid it, and shuffled his feet, ducking his head.
“Right, so when I,” he mimicked tucking hair behind her hair, “in front of Rieekan, it’s like I announced – “
“It had certain implications, yes.”
Han managed to feel some chagrin at that.
“What if a lady prefers women?” he asked.
Leia pursed her lips.
“Meaning…?”
“The hair thing,” Han said. “If you liked women, could,” he paused, faltering – he couldn’t immediately think of a woman on base Leia was friends with, and that hit him like a punch in the gut. “Or if I liked men, then it’d be okay?”
Leia’s expression cleared slightly.
“Oh,” she said. “No. It’s not a direct euphemism for sex,” she said. “It’s about sisterhood. A man who is not a family member is not touching a woman’s hair unless explicitly invited to, regardless of who he is attracted to. A man who wasn’t interested in women still wouldn’t think of touching my hair. Women can touch other women’s hair.”
“Except you.”
The corner of her mouth turned up, and she nodded a little.
“Yes,” she agreed. “For me it was stricter.”
He wrapped his head around it.
“Then a woman who liked women might touch your hair and it be nothin’, or it might be ‘cause you’re involved,” he said.
Leia inclined her head again.
“Why’s it so taboo for men?” he asked.
Leia bit her lip, thoughtful.
“Historically, women don’t have a habit of abusing women,” she murmured, “it is a shared sense of trust that an unknown woman probably isn’t dangerous, but an unknown man might be. So allowing a man to touch your hair, and then to do it in public is,” she broke off, feeling breathless, and then steadied herself and went on: “it’s a massive statement of…intimacy.”
Han let out his breath slowly. He stared at her, seeing her, but absorbed in the ideas. It had been such a casual move on his part; he’d been a little amused by her constant pushing the hair back, driven by practicality and a general sense of ease with her. Desire to touch her factored into it, sure, but he hadn’t viewed it as any different than touching her shoulder or hugging her – he’d hugged her plenty of times.
He rubbed his forehead, shoulders sagging.
“Leia,” he said quietly.
“It’s fine,” she said, an edge to her tone – she hadn’t explained to make him feel bad; she didn’t want it to turn into a point of contention.
“No,” he said, his arm falling abruptly. As he had so many times before, he reached out and touched her arm right above the elbow, looking at her intently. “I’m sorry. I mean it. You were upset.”
He let go of her arm and scoffed at himself.
“Shouldn’t have touched you in front of them anyway, you were busy bein’ in charge,” he added – maybe it had been too familiar. “Rieekan’s gonna call me out,” he snorted.
Leia lifted her head to look at him more closely.
“I wasn’t upset, I – “
“You ran out of the room, Leia.”
“Yes, Han, but I…was, that was,” she broke off, frustrated. How far did she want to go with him, how deep into this? It was difficult to admit it to herself. She put her hand to her lips, then drew it away. “I didn’t think anything of you touching my hair,” she said softly. “I barely noticed. It was Carlist’s reaction.”
Han watched her silently; she scraped her teeth on her lips.
“He was shocked. That reminded me I should have been.”
She blinked hard a few times, keeping her eyes dry.
She struggled with herself, trying to sort it out. Speaking to Carlist, she’d felt more hollowed out over her lack of reaction to the breach of tradition; now, speaking to Han, she was more reticent about the intervening reason, as well.
Han shrugged, his voice loud in his thoughts.
“Listen, we were in the middle of a lot of shit and you weren’t payin’ attention. Doesn’t mean you forgot somethin’ of your home. I bet Carlist gets it.”
“He gets it,” Leia said sharply. “The thing is, if Crix Madine had reached across that table and touched my hair, I’m almost certain I’d have slapped him immediately..”
Han stared at her. His jaw was a little slack, confused. He furrowed his brow, and then understanding dawned on him. He folded his arms.
Oh, he thought.
Leia turned her head away. She scratched her nose, mostly to give herself a moment to hide her face. She was sure he understood; it was written on his face. She had been distracted, she was less connected to her culture these days – Carlist was right; they had to repress to survive – but the fact that it was Han had something to do with it; Han had touched her hair, the brush of Han’s hand against the spot behind her ear was still burning. She wanted Han to touch her.
Restless, she ran both her hands back over her hair, a searing gesture. It shook loose the tendrils that had been hassling her all evening, and they framed her face. She parted her lips in annoyance, and in exasperation. The unruly, escaping tendrils – were they trying to make a point?
Han’s eyes went to her hair immediately. He lifted his hand without a thought, though his head managed to catch up to his instinct before he reached out to touch her again. She watched him, and after the briefest moment considering it, she gave the smallest signal with a dip of her head, a slight flutter of her lashes.
He stepped forward and brushed the hair on either side of her face behind her ears. His fingertips lingered, slipping over the thin, silk strands. He felt her breath on his wrists, and moved his hand backwards slightly, taking one step further, and tucked the strands into the divots in her braids, securing them out of her face for good.
He let his hands linger, soft braids under his palms. He thought of kissing her, even tilted his head a little, yet he held back; something told him kissing her would tarnish the significance – kissing was pedestrian; a galaxy-wide expression of affection. This was different.
He started to say something, but he hadn’t gotten as far as words. He only made a quiet noise in the back of his throat and took a deep breath. Her heart raced; the only thing she could think to do that was half as intimate was to rest both of her hands on his hips. It took every fiber of his being to remain still, not to jump out of his skin.
She felt the muscles under his shirt tighten beneath her fingertips, and a heartbeat later she drew her hands back, roughly breaking away. She took one step back, two to the side, biting her lip, and she swallowed hard – too much; she felt too much. It wasn’t just Han, Carlist had wrenched open some vulnerability, talking so openly about how much they both grieved home, but Han was a big part of it.
Han lowered his hands slowly. He sensed she wanted him to give her space but couldn’t tell if she wanted him to leave. It was late, and they both could do with sleep. He wasn’t confident enough to ask her back to the Falcon, but he didn’t want to leave her. She looked bereft, and so sad. He walked past her, rubbing his hands together to cool himself down, and then turned back abruptly.
“Leia,” he said, stopping to clear the huskiness out of his voice. “You want to go down to the mess with me and grab a cup of kaf?” he asked. “Or tea, or…whiskey,” he muttered, half-joking the last bit.
His offer hung in the air, exactly what it was: something unspoken between them made tangible, a real start. Despite the hour, despite the storm of emotions this whole average night had whirled into, she found herself nodding.
He grinned at her, and she noticed maybe for the first time that his grin, charming and arrogant as it often seemed, had a layer of earnest sincerity to it that somehow the galaxy hadn’t broken him of.
“You can tell me about some Alderaan stuff,” he offered. “So I don’t mess up again.”
Leia didn’t trust herself to say anything. She only reached for his hand, and studied it, and thought of him running it through her loose hair. She felt an ache that matched her own, humming in the steady pulse of his heartbeat through his veins, searing through his skin where it pressed against hers, weaving through her like vines, like ivy. Like tendrils, containing something waiting to be unbound.