Disclaimer: George's fault.

Summary: Han Solo spent most of his life sleeping with women and leaving. The love story was bound to catch up with him someday.

Well, I thought that maybe I should cure my writer's block on TNQLL by writing something Han/Leia (brilliant plan, I know).

This is in second person from Han's point of view. (Its somewhere during the voyage to Bespin).

I was wondering, what if he didn't love her from the start? And I tried to write the piece as such. (But I think that he kind of fell in love with her somewhere along the way. Oh well.)

Anyways, enjoy.

Fog Inside The Glass


"There's fog inside the glass around your summer heart."

(John Mayer)


It's a fact. It's ingrained in your brain, like hyper drive mechanics, like the basic features of the human face (eyes, nose, ears, smile). It's a rule and it goes: never, under any circumstances, bed a woman during a long voyage. Close quarters, no quick escapes, and such. Plus it seems that during the course of these voyages sentences of the "where is this going?" kind are invariably spoken. (And these sentences rarely refer to the ship's course.)

Not that you can imagine any such words coming out of the mouth of Leia Organa.

But that's really beside the point. And the point is you broke the rule, bedded the girl on the never-ending trip (to that star system that is so far away you can't possibly even think about it because some vital organ might explode) and now you are faced with a rather large problem in the form Her Highness Leia Organa, lying beside you.

Under Any Normal Circumstances you would simply drop the woman in question at a nearby port and not look back. But under Any Normal Circumstances you would have a hyper drive, which you clearly do not, and besides; this is the last princess of Alderaan, who you're pretty sure doesn't qualify as a "woman in question." She's always appeared rather sure of herself, you think.

You never thought it would happen, and you certainly didn't want it to (at least that's what you've been telling yourself). But sometimes these things happen, and you simply can't be held responsible. (Although you really should take credit for the way her clothes are spread all over the floor like that, because it couldn't have been more perfect if you had tried)

When you met Leia Organa you thought she was pretty enough - although you've seen better - but she was very young (and still is, actually, but that may be a moot point now, you think). Her youth, under Any Normal Circumstances, would have been quite fine with you, but you've already basically established that these circumstances were (are) not Normal.

Because although she is pretty, she is stuck up and up tight in all kinds of ways, barring none (not even her hair). You decided long ago that it would be entirely too much trouble (but you stuck around anyways because you thought maybe you liked trouble).

Now you're awake in your bed with her beside you, trying to remember why you hated her (you are suspiciously devoid of hate at the moment, but that sounds like something she would say so you ignore it).


You have yet to come up with a decent reason.

It's been almost a standard week enclosed in close quarters and you can't come up with a single reason to hate her. And now it's keeping you up at night, which is horrible because you've always prided yourself with not having a conscience. But now you think that you might actually own one after all, and you've lost the receipt and it's just too late to take it back.

You've been watching her every night that the conscience has kept you awake. And this habit has stretched strangely into the day and you find yourself watching her do normal things, boring things, like wash her hands after she has returned from her latest cleaning adventure into your closet. And although this is just annoying, you find yourself wishing that all of her adventures could be similar. Involving nothing more dangerous than dust.

But that's just stupid because you think you might've had a buddy once that died from dust.


Late at night, looking at her you decide that she is brave. Probably the bravest person you know (not including yourself because you're entitled to a little vanity every now and then). But bravery is also a problem because brave women tend to do assertive things in relationships (like chase after you as you flee in the Falcon).

So there. A reason to hate her (except, really, you wonder if it's actually a reason at all).


During the second week you wonder how you're supposed to tell her that you're leaving. You think that she might figure it out as the Falcon speeds away, but you're pretty sure that's not one of your better ideas (it seems to be lacking that thing she calls tact).

The real problem, because there is a problem here you remind yourself, is now you have to leave to pay off Jabba and therefore leave her.

…Which really shouldn't be a problem because you don't like her anyways. But you've already established that.


You've started listening.

You've started listening when she talks about her political views, with her eyes all shiny and you almost wonder if she'll ever look that way talking about you. But you don't. Because she won't.

There should have been a sign, you've decided. A big, red sign. Like "don't feed the sraeb."

Don't sleep with the Princess.

You were really entitled to fair warning.


Now you know why you've never broken the rule before.

Because now you can feel It. It is guilt and it is creeping into the walls and the pillows and you are quite certain it will remain long after Leia Organa is gone (or maybe you just aren't getting enough sleep).

And now, now you aren't sure that you don't deserve it. Because maybe she's a bit beautiful with her hair all loose like that.


And, you say to yourself one night, quietly, so she won't hear, on top of it all you really prefer redheads.

You really do; you like tall redheads and this Princess is clearly neither. (Although she does have the biggest eyes you've ever seen.)

But try as you might you can't seem to bring any of these redheads to mind. And you look at her lying there with her small hands and mouth and you wonder: exactly where was it that you saw better?


She smiles at you as though something good can come of it. You aren't sleeping.


She might be one of the only good people you know, you think. Which really isn't fair because if she were horrible maybe you could forget she was beautiful and make up your mind.

You sit on the edge of your bed and watch her breathe, night after night. It's so much the same that you feel like you are trapped in the chorus of a song, and it just keeps repeating and repeating and repeating. And you simply can't.

You can't make up your mind. And this is why:

There are only two choices: leave and stay. And you know it just has to be that straight and clear cut because she is good. There are no grey areas for her because good people only see things in black and white. And you already know which colour she wears.