a/n: some things are just for fun! without the author's notes this was 666 words. prayers, y'all.

Famous Last Words

He had no interest in it; he really hadn't thought about it. Honest-to-gods-and-jedi-and-sith-and-everything-else, he didn't give a damn about her; he wanted forty thousand credits and a goddamn day off. Other than suggesting an interest in her just to piss off the kid, he hadn't glanced twice at the short, screamy slip of a thing they'd whisked off the Death Star.

Barely even realized it was the same girl, when she gave him a medal. Kind of cute – but he didn't spend a lot of energy going after cute – and he didn't have to; there was plenty of drop-dead gorgeous gunning for Han Solo.

Yeah, he wasn't interested. Not until she said that, and then –

He'd bummed around the base after the battle, shooting the shit, offering insights on how and where they should move, without giving an inkling that he cared – and meanwhile, she'd dropped off the earth, disappeared; he figured they put her in hiding –

Then he saw her waking down one of the corridors one day – neatly dressed, hair done very simply (braids) – and she had a data pad, and a don't-look-at-me-don't-talk-to-me march to her step, and he stopped, cocking his head, because – that was the Princess alright, the same screamy one, looking like a soldier, and looking like she had things she had to say.

Warrior-like as she looked, her face was too sweet, too young, and Han stopped, leaning against a wall – all he wanted was to speak to her when she was off her pedestal and out of her cell, get a feel for her – 'cause she was kind of fascinating, when he thought about it, nineteen and a veteran and all, and the only woman to face down Darth Vader and tell the tale –

He figured he'd see what she was like, hear her voice in a civilized setting – when she was a human, and not a fighter, or focused on commanding a battle, or a pretty thing set up as a Rebel angel at a ceremony –

He lifted his chin the way Han Solo did and flashed a smirk at her, searching for one of his charming one-liners –

Before he could get it out, before he even said a damn word, she stopped cold in her steps, looked at him appraisingly, and gave a short, curt shake of her head – she looked at him like she read his soul and all his intentions and they were little stanzas of child's poetry scribbled in wax crayon.

"I am never going to fuck you," she said.

That was it – that was all she said – I am never going to fuck you – not 'I shall never surrender my virtue' or 'How dare you leer at me like a common rapscallion!' or – or – any of the well-bred, prim things he'd have expected; not even a 'Don't even try it, Solo' – which is what he usually got, at Cantinas where he was well known.

She walked right past him while he was still gaping, and he turned – nearly breaking his neck to watch her walk away, an incredulous look on his face.

She just assumed he - ! What kind of blue blood nerve -

That's the thing, he really hadn't thought about her like that, until she threw up such an obvious challenge to his manhood and his – decency – and his – self respect – and whatever else he still had rolling around in his pockets.

He blinked, shell-shocked, and had the fumbling good sense to turn on his heel and lazily call after her –

"Famous last words, Sweetheart!"

- it was an encounter he remembered vividly well, one night on the way to Bespin, when the cool air was broken and they'd run out of things to do besides each other – he thought about it while he bent Leia over the Dejarik table, and pulled her hair back from her ear to whisper –

"Famous last words, Sweetheart."

Leia groaned, ego wounded, always a sore loser in a cat-and-mouse game – she tossed her head back, gripping the edge of the table –

"Harder," she mumbled, and then cast a side look at him over her shoulder, "and you're fucking me."


story #171