Star Wars the Truce at Bakura - Kathy Tyers [18]
He only hoped Chewie had gotten it right. The big Wookiee was a master mechanic, but his aesthetic sense wasn’t, well, human.
Han Solo hadn’t exactly joined this picnic for the war effort.
Leia groped behind Threepio’s neck and switched him back on, then followed Han aft. Once the Battle of Endor wound down, they’d talked for hours. Beneath that smuggler’s cynical mask, this man hid ideals like hers. They’d simply been squashed harder. And she’d dreaded being alone ever since Luke gave her the terrible news: Darth Vader was her—
No.
Her mind dodged its own defenses and thrust again: As she’d watched Alderaan blasted from space aboard the Death Star, she’d thought she’d been watching her family die. In truth, her father had stood—
No! She would never accept him as her father. Not even if Luke did.
She ducked to miss a dangling hose. If she had to find a hiding place and pull her head in for a few hours, the time had better count for something. She’d already wasted too many days recuperating. She rubbed her right arm. Not even synthflesh completely countered the itch of a healing blaster burn. As she’d told Han, it wasn’t bad … just hard to ignore.
He stopped near the entry ramp. She leaned against a bulkhead and stared up at him. “What’s left to fix?” The Falcon was Han’s first love. The sooner she accepted that, the less often he’d get his back up. Besides, it was foolish to feel jealous of a spaceship.
Han slid his hands off his hips and let them hang along his black pants’ side stripes. “Things will probably stay quiet for a few hours. Chewie’s on watch, too.”
Abruptly Leia realized that was no combat glimmer in his eyes. “I thought something needed repairing.” She tossed down the challenge. “Come on, isn’t there some new modification that needs field testing?”
“Yeah. Back here, in the big cargo bay.” He strode along the curving corridor, slapped the locking panel, and stepped down into the Falcon’s aft hold. He palmed open a bulkhead hatch into the closed starboard compartment. “Shield generators, back here.”
The cargo bay smelled stuffy. She stepped down behind Han. “What are you smuggling this time?”
“Something I picked up on Endor.”
“We picked up on Endor,” she corrected him. Crates piled and braced with more crates walled off the back of the compartment. Han slid a crate aside and uncovered a locker she thought might be a refrigeration unit. He reached in, groped, and pulled out a glass bottle.
Straight-faced, she took it. Primitive glass sealed with a plug of tree bark, it looked less than sanitary. “What is it?”
“A present from that Ewok medicine man. You remember. The one who made us honorary members of the tribe?”
“Yes.” Leia lounged against the stack of cargo crates and handed back the bottle. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Han yanked on the plug. “Berry … wine of some … sort,” he grunted. The plug popped free. “Goldenrod about split a resistor translating, but the gist of what the fuzzy guy said was, ‘To ignite the heart that’s beginning to warm.’ ”
So that’s what he was up to. “Hey, we’re at war.”
“We’ll always be at war. When are you going to live?”
Leia felt her cheeks heat. She’d rather talk, argue, even fight with Han than hide out and sip … berry wine? … with a battle going on. As Bail Organa would’ve pointed out, this man wasn’t even appropriate company for someone of her upbringing. He wanted to solve all his problems with a blaster. She was a princess by adoption, if not by birth.
Again the black-masked shadow fell across her thoughts: Vader. She had hated him so righteously.
Cloudy purple wine sloshed into stoneware. Probably not a palace-quality vintage. “Let’s not …” she began, then she trailed off. She’d already decided she couldn’t do Luke any good hanging around the subspace radio.
“Hey.” Han handed her one cup. “What are you thinking? What are you afraid of?”
“Too much.” She touched the rim of her cup to his.