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Scar Tissue
********************************* PLEASE do not archive, print, or post anywhere without permission—please e-mail me and ask first. (I just like to know). Disclaimer: These characters and this universe are not mine, I didn't create them, and their owners—Lucas, Lucasfilm, etc. etc., still own them. I'm just borrowing. Rating & Spoilers: I originally posted this as a response to one of the monthly challenges on the Han Solo and the Princess board. This is set between ANH and ESB, and rated PG-13--nothing graphic. (Well, Han MAY be shirtless at one point ... hush, I'm the author! I get to say if he has to be shirtless!) Note: This is a darker version of the one posted at 'A Larger World'. In any event, if you have comments or critcisms, I'd be more than grateful to hear them. Thanks for reading. Thanks to BeckyD and Sue for the once-over. ******************************It was exactly five past nine when they told her. There was a wariness in their eyes, ranging from concern to gloating to pity as she turned from one to the other and they in turn shifted their gazes away. They'd saved it, for the end of the meeting, for the end of a long day. Saved it, because they knew it would hurt her. Saved it, because they'd thought that after everything, after all the deaths and losses and defeats, that this might be the thing to break her. It made her angry instead. Her anger carried her through hours and days and weeks of lost battles and dwindling supplies; discipline and routine propelled her through meetings and paperwork and a thousand other tasks. By the time he returned from the lengthy reconnaissance mission on Sardis, she had long since passed seething, and her vision was red with rage. She didn't question; she knew the information was true. It explained so much, and more than that, it felt right. He'd been a Captain. A Captain! An officer of the Empire. He hadn't, in all the times they'd been together, in all the moments and looks and words they'd shared, thought to tell her. Hadn't cared about what it might mean to her, although he knew well enough why. Had it not been for the stray scrap from Intelligence, she might never have known. She felt young, and foolish, and most of all betrayed. She didn't want to think about why as she entered his quarters without knocking or breaking stride. He looked up as he saw her enter; looked away again. "I know," was all he said. "I want an explanation." Her voice was shrill with fury. Some small part of her mind must have noted how tired he looked, seen the weariness in every line of his body, but she wasn't consciously aware of it. She marched up, pushing him physically back, demanding with everything in her that he look at her. Taken unawares, he took an inadvertent step back before catching her hand to stop her. His expression as he looked down at her was hard. "I don't have one, Princess. I never promised you anything." His voice was as hard as the lines of his face, but her anger carried her past that. She wanted to tell him he had. She wanted to tell him ... but she couldn't, because he was right. She was suddenly exhausted, bone-tired and alone. He let go of her hand, and she took a step back, standing uncertainly in the middle of his quarters. Silence fell between them. "There's blood on your collar," she said, and took another step back. He pulled off his shirt, lifted a hand to trace the brick-red stain before dropping the shirt on his bunk. The silence stretched. The lights abruptly flickered and dimmed. Standing still, they both listened intently to the whirr of the emergency power generators coming to life as if their own depended on it. His voice was unnaturally loud over the hum of the generators, as the lights flickered again and the air chilled. "Do you want me to leave?" There was a long pause before she answered. Her voice was a thin sound. "The Alliance is short of pilots. We can't afford to lose any." She hated the words even as she said them and looked away, blinking back sudden tears. "I don't care what they're asking me, Leia," he interrupted brusquely. "I never did." It occurred to her then that they'd already talked to him. Before they'd told her, they'd already talked to him, and the decision—like so many others lately--had already been made. Without her. She looked up. In the flickering light, his face was a chiaroscuro of dark planes and bright angles, melding into beauty. She looked at him, and her breath caught, and she forgot what she had been about to say. He moved toward her, and leaned down slowly, and she didn't stop him. And then he kissed her, but it was rough, demanding and hungry. She pushed him away, blindly, not able to give him what he wanted, and not sure she wanted to try … and then it changed, into something else. Something sweet, and giving, and generous, and seductive. A gift, for her, only her, from him, and in it, he was giving her everything he had, everything he was. It was Han, and she was learning she loved him. Her hands snaked around his neck, and she forgot what it was they had been arguing about, she forgot all the reasons why she shouldn’t, forgot everything. He was kissing her shoulder, her collarbone, pulling at the neckline of her blouse to get at more skin. He'd been gone a long time, and there was an urgency to his movements that she'd never experienced before. Conscious thought was replaced by touch and taste and instinct, and she helped him undo buttons, undo laces, and his arms were around her, his lips were everywhere, and … “What’s this?” “Hmm?” “What’s this?” The tone of his voice, harsh and angry, penetrated her fog. “Oh.” She tugged at his arm, suddenly feeling vulnerable and exposed, but he didn’t release his grip; he was touching her back, tracing the lines, and his touch was light; light, but he hadn’t asked and she shivered against his hand, not pleasantly, tugged away again. It occurred to her suddenly that she wasn’t strong enough to fight him, not at this angle, not without leverage. She started to panic, and struggled openly against the binding arms. “Let go, Han. Let …” He let go suddenly, no longer looking at her. He looked vacant, distant; revulsion and cold hard rage in his eyes, and she … She didn’t know what she had been thinking. She’d forgotten. Her back. Not smooth skin, not like the girls, the women, how many?—the others he’d been with. They were probably all lovely, smooth-skinned, flawless. Not like her. Not covered in scars: ugly, hideous scars not even bacta could heal. She gathered up her shirt, struggling to place buttons in holes suddenly too small, to tie laces suddenly too slippery for mere fingers. Everything was blurry, but she was not crying, she told herself. She just had to leave. What had she been thinking? “Sweetheart.” Han was in front of her, suddenly, and while she couldn’t see him clearly, she could smell him, could feel his warmth through the cold air of the cabin. She backed up a step, and another, and who knew that cabin walls could be so close? She couldn’t breathe. Then his fingers were on hers, helping her to do up the buttons, do up the laces. “I’m sorry.” His voice was quiet, composed. “No”, she began to say, but the word wouldn’t form, it wouldn’t even qualify as a whisper, as anything, really. She closed her mouth, not willing to try the word again—it didn’t matter—she wouldn’t scream—just wanting to get away. “Those are from the Death Star, aren’t they?” His voice was still controlled, but she could hear the underlying horror, the rage. The guilt. The pity. She didn’t say anything. Her shirt was fine, and if he’d move, she could leave. She closed her eyes, and wished, prayed for him to move. Then his lips were on hers, softly, gently; but this time, she didn’t move, wouldn’t give in. She stared at the wall, at a point just past his head. “They used me,” she said tonelessly, when she hadn’t meant to say anything, hadn’t even known she was speaking. “There’s nothing left undamaged.” “Come here.” His arms slipped around her, tugged her until she was leaning against the hard strength of his body, and only then did she realize she’d been shaking, only as his hands stroked her back in long, soothing motions. She could hear the steady beat of his heart underneath her ear. She found her voice. “I’m sorry,” she said; swallowed and tried again, “I’m sorry. I should have ….” She wasn't really sure what she should have done. She shouldn’t have put herself in this position. Shouldn’t have put him in this position. Anything to have avoided the horror of this moment. She had to get away. He hadn't been part of it, but knowing what she knew now ... It was getting so hard to separate everything in her own mind, and lines that hadn't been blurred before seemed to be drawn in shifting sand. And he was still stroking her back, holding her without binding, and she felt warm, and safe, and … But why would he want her, now? She moved back, decisively this time, and he let her go. “Does it bother you?” she demanded, and she made certain her tone was not gentle, not wistful, not … “Of course it bothers me, Leia!” He exploded, and she flinched, and saw the regret in his eyes immediately after. “Sweetheart …” He reached out a hand. She didn’t take it. His voice was conciliatory, coaxing, begging. “Sweetheart, I don’t … it’s just …” He stammered; trying, bravely, as she watched him. A muscle jumped in his cheek. He was unsure of how to answer her, unsure of this version of her. But she was far from here; any answer he gave couldn’t hurt her, not now. She wanted to reassure him, say something kind, something merciful. *It’s okay, Han, this isn’t your fault*. But the words wouldn’t form; were impossible to speak aloud. “It bothers me too," she said. And although she tried to be firm and clear, to forgive him, to forgive someone, her voice sounded low, and full of shame; more Leia than Princess of Alderaan. She could hear their breathing over the droning hum of the base. “Princess,” he said gently, almost respectfully, “*you* have nothing to be ashamed of. I was startled. I’d forgotten.” She was already at the door, clothing and hair properly adjusted now; his voice stayed her movement. She blinked away sudden tears. But the light was dim, and she found gratefully that her voice, at least, was steady. “I know,” she said, not looking at him. “I’d forgotten too.” **************
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