The Good Soldier CATEGORY: Hurt/Comfort
by KovacsSUMMARY: On the journey to Yavin, Leia tries to cope with her memories of the Death Star and realises Luke has traumas of his own.
SEQUEL/SEQUENCE INFO: Part one in the Luke/Leia trilogy The Good Soldier
RATING: R
PAIRING: Lu/Le, m/f
WARNINGS: None
AUTHOR NOTE: Thanks to Tabitha-Jane Russell for beta reading
DISCLAIMER: Star Wars and all publicly recognisable characters, names and references, etc are the property of George Lucas, Lucasfilm Ltd, Lucasarts Inc and 20th Century Fox. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
She had spent most of her adult life on spacecraft, but no ship had ever sounded quite like the Millennium Falcon. Even in the fresher units you could hear the sputtering hiss of the ventilation system, the rattle of a distant, patched-up engine. No ship had ever smelled quite like the Falcon, either, with its faintly damp air and pervasive scent of animal fur; but it had water heaters, and the pipes were working for the moment, and her skin was scalding pink but clean at last.
Leia flinched as she pulled the robe back over her head and wriggled her arms through the sleeves. The bruising on her back and shoulders had shocked her; the skin was mottled, almost black in places, with a long graze running down her spine. Not every day they had a princess in the cells: they'd wanted to degrade her, bring her down. Well, they'd lost. She was still alive, and she was still herself, clenched up and knotted like a fist but still Leia Organa.
She pulled the slide-door open, let some of the steam escape into the corridor as she turned back to the square of mirror, wiping it with her sleeve. When they got to Yavin she'd be able to let her hair out of these rolls finally and wash it through. There was no homeworld left for her, but Yavin would do. Whatever happened, she was off that tomb of a metal planet. She'd found a way out, and the Death Star would burn with every single one of those men in it, from Tarkin down to the eight troopers who took turns in her cell. Her rebels would incinerate them. Personal guarantee.
"Y'know, I used to do that," a male voice drawled behind her. She whipped round, arms folded across her chest, to find Solo leaning in the doorway. He grinned. "Talk to myself, I mean. That's why I let Chewie tag along with me. Stops me from going insane."
"I knew you were lacking in social graces, Captain Solo, but I hoped your manners extended to knocking before walking into a refresher unit."
He shrugged, smiled wryly. "Force of habit. You don't often get princesses stowing away on a Corellian ship."
"Believe me, Captain, this is a matter of necessity rather than choice."
"Han," he told her.
She drew in breath, looked him in the face. "You're in my way."
"Come on, it's not that difficult. Han. Let me hear you say it, princess."
"Leia," she said, and produced a thin smile. "You're in my way."
He held her gaze a moment and shrugged himself upright, backing out of the doorway with an exaggerated flourish. "After you."
She held herself away from him as she stepped out into the passage; kept her poise, feeling his eyes on her back as she walked away from him. Counting the steps until she reached the corner and rounded it, slumping against the corridor wall. She couldn't keep this up. She was going to break. The troopers had called her their ice princess, but she was glass. She was made of thin glass. Sooner or later one of Solo's offhand jibes would get though her defences, jab a faultline, and she'd shatter; and she didn't know how she would ever put herself back together.
Slow, even breaths. She let them flow down, deep into her lungs, and thought only of her breathing as she started walking again, steadily down the middle of the passage. Thirty-seven steps took her to her quarters but she didn't dare lie down again; the bunk reminded her of the one in her cell, and she knew that once her eyes closed she risked finding herself back inside. She checked behind herself and dropped quickly to her knees, running her fingers along the edge of the bed. It was still there, stuck to the underside; the small chunk of resin she'd found in the groove of the floor, trodden in. She pulled off a lump, rubbed it over her gums. The effects were gradual, she'd learned. It helped. It was the only thing that helped.
She stepped back out into the corridor and kept walking. The Falcon's passages were bleakly functional, but she could hear the ship's familiar rattle as she wandered down them, and almost welcomed it; the Death Star had been cold, clean echo broken only by the buzz of the cellblock doors and the distorted voice of the public address system. There was something reassuring about the Falcon's shudder, even if it sometimes knocked her off - she stumbled and put a hand out to the wall for balance. The spice was kicking in, numbing her lips. She let her fingers rise to her mouth, pinching lightly, and massaged the bridge of her nose. She could hear buzzing, like an insect. In her head, or...no, it was getting louder. Coming from the living space. She gathered her poise and stepped carefully down the four stairs.
The brightness of the saber blade made her squint: turquoise flash, circling until it became a wheel of light. Luke didn't see her in the doorway. The saber hummed angrily as he held it ready, then sang with energy as he lunged, catching the remote drone and sending it veering towards the wall. He thumbed the pommel, extinguishing the blade with a swooping hiss. She watched the remote steady itself and hover warily in a corner.
"How are you feeling?" she asked. Was her voice unnaturally high-pitched? She couldn't tell.
"Good, good...how are you?" Luke clipped the saber onto his belt and lowered himself into a chair. "I think I'm getting better at this thing", he added, nodding back at the remote.
She crossed the room carefully. There was a false note in his brightness which Solo wouldn't have noticed, never having suffered, but which Leia felt almost as kinship. Luke's open-faced eagerness and clumsy heroism were his defence, just as she had her mask of regal distance and her quick tongue.
"Looks impressive," she offered lightly. Better to deflect the conversation back towards him; he wouldn't be able to deal with the truth about the cellblock, and she wasn't sure she wanted him to know. Maybe one day. "Obi-Wan would have been proud of you."
His gaze dropped immediately. Poor Luke, he'd never make a diplomat. The first thing she'd learned was how to control her emotions. "You still miss him, don't you," she said quietly.
He glanced up, admitting it with his eyes. "I just can't believe it."
"I know." She found his shoulder with her right hand and stroked it gently through the rough cloak.
"I just...all I can do is keep training. Keep trying to focus, to keep my mind off it...but I still see him, Leia." He screwed his face up, looking across the room. "I still see Vader cutting him down."
"This is what Obi-Wan would have wanted for you, Luke. He wanted you to become a Jedi Knight, like your father." Even as she spoke, part of her mind was floating, wondering at her ability to reel out comforting platitudes even as her head grew light. The jags inside her were smoothing out, her weight seeming to shift. Luke moved from under her hand, pushing up from the chair, and she almost missed her footing again as she stepped back.
"You know why I'm really doing it, Leia?" he asked with a sudden intensity. "It's not just for Ben. It's for me. I'm going to keep doing this until I know I'm good enough to stand face to face with Darth Vader and take one clean swing at his neck." Suddenly the weapon was in his hand again, and Leia cried out despite herself as the blade sizzled between them, a pure white shaft of energy buzzing next to her face.
"Turn that thing off," she yelled at him, pushing his arm away from her. "Do you want to get us both killed?"
A hiss, and it was gone, and Luke stared at her in dismay. "Leia?"
Her hand was over her face. "Just leave me alone."
"Leia, please, I'm sorry...I was a fool."
She pressed her fingers into her eye sockets, trying to push the tears back inside. "Leave me be, Luke."
"No." He stepped towards her and she felt his arms around her, surprisingly strong; and she surprised herself by letting herself crumple into them, folding herself against his chest.
"I'm sorry," she said, muffled, hearing him say it at the same time. She lifted her head and they both smiled.
"I never thought I'd see you cry." He stroked her hair slowly with one hand.
"Nor did I," she said, and swallowed. "My hair's filthy, don't. You can stroke my, my neck if you want to."
"You're beautiful," he told her. His fingertips were gentle, dancing in circles on the back of her neck.
"You must be blind," she countered feebly. She could rest here. It felt safe; it felt nice, his fingertips sending little tingles down her.
"Look at me." She felt his hand gently under her chin, tilting her face up, and knew he was going to kiss her. She gave herself to it, letting herself float free. Her body was anchored in his arms, and his mouth was as keen and as unskilled as she'd imagined it would be, but she felt cared for, and wanted, and it seemed so long since anything nice had happened to her...
She'd expected him to get hard quickly, but it still came as a faint shock to feel it pressing against her thigh, and without meaning to she giggled against his mouth. He broke away.
"What?" he protested, indignant and anxious at once.
"Nothing, nothing", she replied, realising she was running her words together. "I just, I just -" Her legs went light, knees buckling. "I'm dizzy," she announced, letting him take her weight.
"Leia? Are you sick?"
Yes, she let the thoughts swim, she was sick, she was ruined, she was the ruined princess. She only owned white dresses and didn't deserve to wear them. She had knelt on the prison floor for the troopers, and she should have died first, she should have killed herself somehow, anyhow. She was going to tell Luke. Luke would understand, now.
"Leia?" He was slapping her face lightly. "What do you want me to do?"
What did she want him to do? She wanted him to burn them all alive inside their Death Star, and she wanted him to hold his saber at Tarkin's throat until the old man got to his knees and begged her, and told her he was scum, and she wanted to be held, she wanted to be carried the way her father had carried her up to her chamber.
"Carry?" he asked suddenly. Had she said it aloud?
"Carry me", she mumbled. Yes, that was what she wanted.
He carried her.
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