Schönes prompt-a-thon #2, Han/Leia, prompt: Are those my socks?
Daily (?) short prompt fics that take some of the thinking out of writing. These are largely un-edited and written mostly in one sitting.
If Leia had learned one lesson for all the suffering she'd endured, it was to hold onto the one thing that gave her inspiration – that reminded her, concretely, what she was fighting for.
Leia had her work, of course; she worked constantly, and when she wasn't working she was planning to work, or organizing work, or talking about work – and if she wasn't doing any of those things she was eating so she could have energy to work, or sleeping so she could be refreshed enough to work harder, or taking a walk to make her mind clearer for work. Work surrounded her, nourished her being, bound her to reality.
But lately, work wasn't enough. She, a person who prided herself on being unperturbed by the horror of war, was beginning to waver in the face of all this suffering. She could only tolerate so much of sending beings to their deaths "for the cause".
She had sacrificed everything for "the cause", and it was beginning to wear her down. The Empire was more aggressive and omnipresent than it had been in a long time, and morale amongst the troops was at an all-time low. Even being stationed on Hoth was arguably better than living for months and months on end on a ship, with twelve-hour artificial light cycles and stale-tasting water and only vast, starry nothingness to gaze out of windows at.
At least on an ice planet, there was a sun.
Trapped. The Rebellion was starting to feel trapped, trapped in its sometime-delusional belief of eventually toppling tyranny, trapped on this damn ship, trapped –
Trapped – Leia was beginning to admit, quietly, to herself, that the plan of walking directly into the lair of the galaxy's most notorious slaver and spice trafficker was probably not very bright –
Trapped – Han in his carbonate prison, did he see? Hear? Was he in pain? Was he cold? – Was he conscious – Leia hoped not, prayed not, prayed every night that for Han, this year was only a nap –
She needed a tangible thing to hold, to soothe her; to evoke the memory of happiness.
All of this was a roundabout way of saying that Leia Organa, Crown Princess of Alderaan, had sacked and looted the Millennium Falcon's crew quarters.
She had taken a comically large luggage sack onto the ship before its first departure without her, and shoved inside absolutely everything she thought she might like to have: half of Han's closet; a bottle of his good whiskey (which she drank three-quarters of on her first night alone, vomited back up, and subsequently hadn't touched since); his dumb alarm chrono that only sang Corellian power ballads; the bunk's soft sheets; three books; two data pads; a headset; and about forty trinkets that caught her attention.
And now, the man himself was laying on her little bunk, in her officer's quarters, wriggling under the sheets searching vainly for warmth and comfort that alluded him, this man who had spent the past year without any sensation at all, hearing only the echo: I love you! I know!; seeing only the afterimage of orange lights and licks of smoke.
The man himself was now blinking blurrily at the pale blob that had just emerged from the 'fresher, arms making a motion that he assumed was drying hair with a towel. That pale blob was – cloaked in orange?
"'S'at your shirt, sweetheart?" Han couldn't help but grin in spite of his blinding headache, watching the Leia-blob climb into bed next to him and wrap her limbs around him.
"Yes," she mumbled into his shoulder.
"Really," Han joked. "'Coz, sweetheart, I know this guy, owns a Coronet City Cannons shirt, same orange color – " he slipped the soft fabric between his fingers and squeezed her hip – "same texture – you sure you didn't steal it from him?"
Leia huffed and tangled her legs in his – she was wearing huge fuzzy socks to bed, and that made him smile even harder. This incredible girl, with her cold feet and brilliant rescuing and soft skin –
Han toed the duvet aside and –
"Leia, are those my socks?"
"Maybe," she mumbled. "Might have – ah – stolen a bunch of your stuff from the Falcon," she admitted with a touch of pride. "Just stuff I didn't want Lando touching." She put a hand on Han's chest.
"You're brilliant, sweetheart," he muttered into her lips.
I feel like the idea of Leia looting the Falcon's crew quarters isn't original to me, so shout-out whoever my subconscious took that from yeah idk if I like this one but let me knowwww
