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[imahologram]

for whatever miscellaneous bullshit your little heart can come up with.

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[straightouttacarbonite]

On paper, maybe Leia should be just as insufferable as that endless parade of Generals and Admirals and assorted squabbling bureaucrats that he left behind, but in practice she never is. He'd never say as much, but the fact that he stays is a pretty clear declaration: he respects her, largely because she's always willing to do something stupid that'll land her in the thick of it. In Han's estimation that speaks well of a leader. She's naive in her way, occasionally stuck up and frequently overzealous, but she's genuine. Too many of the Imperials were anything but-- always looking for a way to manipulate, to profit, to turn everything to their own personal advantage. It's the sort of attitude the Empire breeds, and he'd always hated it. Leia, though, somehow manages not to lord her class above the people she commands, which still manages to surprise him, somehow.

No one talks about Luke's plans to go to the Academy, no one faults any of the pilots they've had who defected; it's a victory, every time they manage to genuinely turn someone, and that's why Han has little fear of his past coming to light. It doesn't reflect badly on him that he graduated from the Academy, he thinks, or that he was well-regarded when he did; the skills prized among young officers are skills worth prizing, and his failures as an Imperial serve the Rebellion pretty damn well.

"I left," he agrees, with a trace of a smirk. "I don't know if you've noticed, I'm not always good at taking orders."

Much as Han loves to brag about his abilities, his exploits, this is an area he's disinclined to revisit, most of the time. It's easier to be the famous smuggler coming from nowhere and disappearing again. This is too important to speak of lightly, or often. He can't decide how much he wants to tell her-- hell, half of him wants to get up and walk away on that note, leave her wondering.

"I disagreed with one of my superiors."

[imahologram]

She can't help it. She laughs.

He is a questionable follower at times, though he's always a capable--if occasionally brusque--leader. And the thought of him refusing to fall in line under the Empire's watchful gaze is...well, she would have loved to see that, she thinks. Nobody can bend Han to their will, only negotiate their way into his cooperation. And that cooperation is a momentary thing, too, at least in theory. Han's his own man.

Imperial officers would have no idea what to with him. From everything Leia's heard, their idea of keeping order requires everyone to submit to blind obedience; there's nothing there for an independent thinker except spirit-breaking punishments. And even if they gave those a try, they clearly didn't work.

"About what?" she asks, because she can't not ask. She wants the full story, and she assumes it'll be one of his usual broadly told yarns, the kind that ends with him putting his hands behind her head and giving her a look she can never get out of her head. Believe me, princess?

[straightouttacarbonite]

Overall it won’t work, given what they’re discussing, but he’s grateful to have lightened the mood for a moment. It’s the truth-- one of the biggest reasons he left. Would have left no matter what, maybe. Even if things hadn’t come to a head, he’d hated the Empire’s stuffy, short-sighted views on discipline and obedience. Day to day, he’d survived-- he’d found people to work with, who’d bend on the letter of the law in the face of logic, or turn a blind eye to bad orders, willing to risk begging forgiveness from the winning side rather than waste their time arguing. There are enough people who prize results over dogma to keep the Empire dangerous. Han could easily have been one of them.

(He’s disinclined to admit that this is part of why he stays. His knowledge is largely too out-of-date to be much use, and he’d never climbed the ranks enough to know much that was sensitive-- they wouldn’t have let him live if he had-- but he knows enough. The way the whole war machine moves and wheels. The types of men who are most dangerous. For a long time it’s knowledge he used to avoid it, outrun it, but here he is taking the opportunity to chip away, throw sand in the gears, and it’s pretty damn rewarding.)

That question, though. He doesn’t have an answer-- not a good answer, because it’s not a good story-- so it’s a long moment of searching for something that might satisfy her curiosity without letting her too much further under his skin.

Finally, half-regretting it even as he says it, he blurts out the simplest thing he can think of, something that says enough to point her in the right direction and suggests why he’s not saying more.

“I spoke Shyriiwook.”

[imahologram]

Of course you speak Shyriiwook, is her first response. Your best friend is a Wookiee.

But it's not a neutral thing, to befriend a Wookiee--not in this empire. Not with the blockades, not with the slavery, not with the spice mines. Leia knows as well as most and better than many; five years in the Imperial Senate gave her ample time to condemn every form of slavery still entrenched in the galaxy. She'd earned the Little Miss Inalienable Rights sobriquet, even if she hated how condescending it was.

And that understanding, however partial, takes all the laughter out of her. She's intent, a little sympathetic, giving the explanation a few moments to breathe, in case he has more he wants to say. When nothing else comes, she tells herself to accept that much. All the pieces are there, after all. If he wants her to put them together herself, she'll do it.

Finally, she answers, "No wonder you didn't get along." Not so direct as a question, but there's an invitation to go on in the way she watches him.

[straightouttacarbonite]

Plenty of people live lives where they never have to think about the kind of treatment Wookiees and other races get, at the hands of the Empire. Its racist leanings are rarely mentioned aloud; it's simply the way things are, and most people-- those in the military, the wealthier residents of the Core worlds-- have forgotten they might ever have been any other way. There's just enough lip service paid to the Emperor's allies that people can cozily forget about Kashyyyk. Having grown up among the less well-to-do and frequently less human elements of the galaxy, Han is always acutely aware of it. Going in, he'd thought maybe ambition could temper his misgivings-- but in the end...

Well, people make choices, and he made his.

He almost tells her to go ask Chewbacca what happened, but if he does, then she will, and he's not sure he likes the idea. (Funny, how reluctant he is to discuss it, when it's one of the better things he's ever done. It isn't shame, exactly. But somehow the admission that he might, maybe, be a a man of principles in his way, that he might be invested in all this, that he's done things that prove he believes in what she's fighting for, even before they met--

It probably says something terrible about him that he'd rather keep up the bad reputation.)

"I probably should've been executed," he says finally, in a lazy tone that suggests it's a brag or an exaggeration-- which it isn't-- and shrugs. "They settled for kicking me out."

[imahologram]

Leia only knows the Empire's military practices from the outside, but that's knowledge enough to be sure he's right. They don't tolerate dissent, and they especially don't tolerate the kind of long-term disobedience that comes from a hotshot pilot who knows Shyriiwook and seems built to chafe at authority. If it came down to the Empire or Chewie...well, his choice is clear enough from the outside. He's lucky to be alive.

(She might, she thinks, ask Chewbacca about this later, if she can get him and Threepio alone. Her own Shyriiwook--previously non-existent--has improved slightly since the Death Star, but not enough to understand something as complex as this story. There must be more to it than what Han's saying, but somehow, she doesn't want to push Han himself into explaining. Sitting here with him is comfortable, and the conversation is interesting as it is. Demanding the specifics seems like a great way to drive him off, and for once, she doesn't want to.)

"You're in good company," she says, reaching over to pour herself another cup of caf. Knowing the Empire could have (should have, from their perspective) put a blaster bolt through their heads is certainly a distinction, one that plenty of rebels share. But especially here and now, it's something Leia hadn't realized they had in common. "So you turned to smuggling?"

[straightouttacarbonite]

Sometimes he thinks it would only have been a matter of time, no matter what-- his whole life since he was discharged has only proved how poorly he deals with being under others' authority. If it hadn't been that incident it would have been another, or maybe just the combined annoyance of a thousand little refusals to toe the line. But there's no question that he's fortunate to have gotten out as he did. He could just as easily have been aboard the Death Star, if he'd made it this long in Imperial service.

Talking about the past, at least, is a mild distraction from wondering why she wants to talk about his past. Both are uncomfortable. Stranger still is the traitorous part of him that wants to lay it all bare and see what she makes of it. At first he'd simply enjoyed the obvious shock of revelation, because puncturing Leia's careful calm is always worth a little effort-- but, well, talking like this-- it makes him feel, again, like they're genuinely close, and that's dangerous, because it never does last.

But why shouldn't they be close? After all, here they're two of a kind-- outlaws with huge prices on their heads and frozen toes sharing a pot of caf. (That's dangerous, again. He needs to stop letting himself think like that, because eventually she'll notice and pull away on principle.)

"Pretty much." Leaning back, he glances up at nothing in particular. "I got myself a ship, and then..."

Life as he knows it. Mostly.

[imahologram]

"And a Jedi and a farmboy hired you," she finishes, setting down her mug. That glosses over a lot of it, and she regrets that a little; she wouldn't mind hearing just how he and Chewie got hold of their ship, how they got tangled up with that Hutt of theirs, how everything fell into place to bring them here.

But if she asks for more, they'll be here for hours--and if Han doesn't want to talk about it, she's not sure where it'll leave them. There will be other caf breaks, she tells herself. And hearing smugglers' tales isn't a bad break from the Empire. They might need his stories in the future, as the war drags on. Rations of escapism, like rations of everything else they have here.

(And what will she tell him in return? Senate meetings don't make for much excitement, and somehow the adventures of a twelve-year-old girl--the last time she'd been carefree, if she ever had been--seem like they wouldn't provide him with much interest. Her years with the rebellion before him, maybe, but that's not escaping anything. Luckily, it's nothing she has to decide now.)

Leia pauses a moment, glancing up and down him in a way she hopes looks merely appraising, not...appreciative. (Not that she's appreciative. But he certainly seems to think she is, and the worst part is, she can see why he'd think so. He's appallingly aware of how handsome he is.) "But you kept the slacks."

[straightouttacarbonite]

A Jedi and a farmboy hired him, and somehow or other, he stuck around. He spreads his hands, as if to say that's the story. Simple, though it's anything but.

He still hasn't quite worked it out-- why he's still here. If she asked and he was in a talking mood he might just say it's too late to back out, that he's got better prospects with the Rebellion now than anywhere else. It doesn't matter.

What matters is watching her watch him, trying to gauge the look in her eye. He might not take it as interested if she wasn't being so-- well, interested. He tips his head, risking a little of his usual flirtation in the grin he flashes.

"I thought they looked pretty good."

[imahologram]

Leia catches the way his smile turns into something she'd rather not see. They've become friends of a sort--odd friends, bickering friends, but she trusts Han in a fight, and that counts for a lot--and that ought to be enough. It's more than she ever expected when they first met, and it's all she wants.

But he just has to grin at her like he thinks she's admiring everything under those stupid trousers rather than noting the trousers themselves. She rolls her eyes toward the ceiling, then realizes acknowledging it at all is letting him win. Quick, say something.

"Did you get them before your Shyriiwook incident?" After seems unlikely, after all.

[straightouttacarbonite]

Her absurdly mixed signals are so familiar by now, it's hard to say what he'd do if she ever actually responded positively to his overtures. Which are genuine, but joking, too-- like this is some odd game they can't help playing. Maybe that's all it is.

The grin doesn't fade quite as quick as she might be hoping.

"Corellian decorations are the only ones I'm still entitled to," he agrees. The rest had gone with ranks and privileges and his once-promising career. He rarely misses any of it. Still, it's verging on dangerously personal territory. Maybe in another life where they both got on better with their Imperial peers, they'd have gotten along better.

(That, he sincerely doubts, though.)

"Why the sudden curiosity?"

[imahologram]

It's a very general answer, one that says to her that's all I want to say. She didn't really expect an answer anyway, and she finds she doesn't really mind. He can have a little mystery to him if he wants it--especially considering how much he already told her today.

Maybe he's realized he's told plenty of story as well, if the question is anything to go by. She shrugs in answer, wondering what his explanation for her curiosity would be. What he'd say, she can guess--something about her non-existent feelings for him--but what he'd think... He's a criminal, and every decent criminal knows how to play things close to the vest when necessary.

"Where you come from is part of who you are," Leia tells him, deciding it's about as true as anything she could say. (She's certainly not about to admit that she can't pinpoint the exact origin of her interest.) "I wondered how someone turns into Han Solo."

[straightouttacarbonite]

Leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table, he raises an eyebrow but doesn't challenge her claim aloud. Why spoil the fun? As much as he relishes the opportunity to tease her, there's something oddly genuine about the questions she's asking, the answers he finds himself giving her.

"It doesn't happen every day," he says instead, pulling back to a standard level of bravado.

[imahologram]

"I don't think the galaxy could take it if it did," she answers, glancing at the nearest chronometer. There's chatting with Han, and then there's flirting with Han, and no matter what he might think, she doesn't want to get into the latter.

Han, on the other hand, looks like he'd like nothing better.

She stands, and does her best to force down the vague sense of regret that she can't keep asking questions. "We'd better get back to work."

[straightouttacarbonite]

Okay, he's definitely overplayed his hand, there. Still, there's something about how she shies away-- predictably sudden, one fond jab too many and she snaps like a piece of rubber. All business.

But it doesn't change the fact that she's been sitting here listening, asking, trying to get to know him better. Han doesn't have to be a self-proclaimed Jedi to sense the feelings at play there.

"Sure thing, your worship."

Sorry not sorry, Leia.