thisavrou_log | june intro log overflow

[inevitable hangovers; closed to han]

[How many bottles of champagne does it take to get a princess smashed? It turns out the answer is start with two, and maybe order a third in a tipsy haze after too much carousing with a handsome smuggler. She's certain she's fine when they finally fall asleep, but she's also certain this is more than she's ever drunk at once.

At Imperial functions, she was always careful with the wine, knowing that her ability to keep up with much bulkier politicians was minimal, and the stakes were high. At Alderaanian functions, she'd had to be even more circumspect, if only because Aunt Rouge would certainly be watching. And only an idiot would be free and easy with the X-Wing pilots' jet juice; that stuff was better suited for scouring machinery than drinking. But with Han, there's nothing to worry about and nothing to get up for in the morning--and his smile only stretches more lopsidedly with every glass they have. Who could possibly resist that?

When she wakes a few hours later, she's certain she's not fine at all. There's no time to consider the way her head's pounding or the sickly sweet taste dried on her tongue. She needs to hit the refresher, now, and lucky for her, she gets all the way there before she starts heaving.]

[This is one of those situations where Han has the advantage, maybe. He's had a lot more practice; been drunker and slept off worse headaches, not to mention there's much more of him to begin with. Probably he should have thought that through-- short, slight Leia with no tolerance to speak of probably didn't need a third bottle (was there a fourth? He can't recall,) but they were caught up in the moment. Unfortunately it means of the two of them, she'll be the one really regretting it.

He rouses when she gets out of bed, if only because he's sprawled and clinging haphazardly to her-- a hazard of letting Han share a bed with enough room to roll around on-- and after a dizzying moment he manages to find his feet and leans against the wall beside the door.]

It'll help if you drink some water. When you can.

[Her answer is a wordless groan--one that wobbles and cuts off when she feels it between her eyes. She stares in the darkness at the remains of her dinner, spreading her fingers out over the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl and trying to decide if anything else is likely to come up. Probably not, she thinks, and then adds a dark yet.

It occurs to her, belatedly, that if she'd planned on throwing up everything she swallowed in the last six hours, she wouldn't have let Han unbraid her hair. A few strands are sticking to her cheek, and she'd bet ten credits at a minimum that a few flecks of vomit ended up in the rest of it.]

I don't want to drink anything again. [She sits back a little, turning so she can lean back against the wall of the refresher tub and stare up at Han in the dark.] Ever.

[If she'd planned on throwing up she would have been clever enough to change her plans entirely. He hadn't thought it through. This isn't a terribly nice followup to their very nice night, but maybe it's inevitable.

And he likes when her hair's down. It'll wash out.

He tries not to smile at her and manages at least most of the way, filling a glass off the counter with water and slowly, unsteadily lowering himself to sit in front of her, setting it between them.]

I woke up in a bantha trough once.

[She can picture him, half-drowned and dazed with the last of the alcohol, staring into the wide, hairy mouth of one of the beasts. Maybe it butted him awake, looking for a drink of its own.

When she reaches out, it's not to take the water but to set a hand on his thigh. Even waiting for the Force to put her out of her misery, she'd rather be touching Han than not touching him. Her own lingering effects of the champagne--or perhaps it's just becoming habit.

Or because he's here in the refresher with her despite having every reason to want to be asleep right now. She loves him for it, and much as she'd like this hangover to disappear, she doesn't really want the night to end.]

And drank some water?

[He wrinkles his nose a bit.]

Not out of there.

[At least not willingly. There may have been a mouthful unintentionally aspirated in the course of flailing. He sets a hand on top of hers. Being asleep by himself doesn't hold a candle to sitting on the tile floor with her. The half-light smoothes the exhaustion from her face, hides the wild tangles of her hair, but even if it didn't--

Well, he's a sap, he thinks. That's all there is to say.]

I went out after a job once, celebrating. My partner got me drunk, took my share... Left me with the tab, too.

[She breathes a laugh, or the closest she can come to one right now. Any more, and she thinks she'd end up splitting her own head open.

Han's voice is pitched quiet enough that it doesn't aggravate her, though, and his stories are short enough that they don't take much concentration. She tries to think of one to give him in return, but she really doesn't have many.]

There was a senator who had too much to drink and fell off a balcony at the Imperial Palace. He was in a neck brace for the rest of the term. Aunt Rouge was so scandalized that she threatened to have me sent back to Alderaan, but I was already elected. [Which might not, she realizes, explain much on its own, so she adds--] I was fourteen. She would have gotten her way if I wasn't obliged to show up.

See? We had a much better night than that.

[Now he does smile, broad and guileless. Eventually her head will stop swimming and she'll remember how nice a night it was, probably.]

That stuff packs more of a punch then I thought.

[Leaning forward a little, he nudges the glass of water a bit closer.]

I've got some stuff in the Falcon that'd make this feel like the best day of your life, if you wanna compare.

It was a wonderful night. [Leia smiles back at him, a little lopsided but otherwise earnest enough.] We just had a little too much of it.

[But disappearing into it--into the food, the wine, into Han's callused hands--had been so tempting. After every misery they've faced, from the boredom of sublight travel to despair at the future, haven't they earned an unwise night or two?

Groaning a little (she'd roll her eyes if it didn't ache to move them that way), she reaches for the glass with her free hand. If she takes a tiny sip, it doesn't make her want to retch.]

So one glass, and I'll be on the floor? I'll pass.

You wouldn't finish a glass. [The dumb grin on his face isn't actually at her expense.] There's stuff even I won't drink.

[But, hey, maybe one of these days it'll come in handy to have a bottle of Port in a Storm on hand. Stranger things have happened.

Maybe, he thinks, this is what love really is: finding the upside to even the awful moments. Dull hours of sublight travel, massive arguments, sitting on the floor with vicious headaches after too much of everything.]

I guess you're not ready to think about breakfast?

I might. [Contrary to be contrary, the Leia-est of states of being. But after a moment, she capitulates with a half-smile, knowing he's probably got a lot better idea of just what would knock her flat.] And end up in medbay with alcohol poisoning.

[At the word breakfast, her mouth goes dry in the vomit imminent signal, and she groans again.]

No. Don't tell me you are.

[Quiet camaraderie in the face of hangovers isn't the most romantic definition of love, but it's one she can be grateful for. And it means as much or more as the words themselves: more, probably, since the action takes a lot more work.]

[He laughs, at least halfway. It's really more of a choked breath, because he's got a headache of his own, even if he's not in as bad a state.]

Sure. [When can Han not eat?] That's the second best thing for feeling like this.

[She has to laugh, too--the same sigh of pitchless air--and rest her forehead against her fist.]

The first best being water? [That hasn't exactly helped. (You have to drink it, Leia.)] Maybe we can order something up.

[Lying miserable in bed while he gets cracker crumbs all over them both doesn't sound like the worst fate in the world. She could be on her own here.]

Nah, the best thing's getting drunk again so you forget about it.

[You asked, Leia.]

Water comes in third. [Speaking of, she probably should be drinking it, just saying. He's not in too much hurry, but hopefully she'll be able to get onto her feet when he does get up.]

I'm sure they've got something good. When you're up to it.

Think we have any wine left?

[It's not a serious suggestion, even if it's tempting. You're going to be stuck like this eventually, she tells herself. It might as well be now.

Which means giving the water another try. She takes another slow sip, and then a larger one.]

How're you feeling? There might be another cup up there.

I'm pretty sure we finished it.

[Scooting a little closer on the cool tile, he shrugs.]

Ah, don't worry about me. [Stretching, he rolls his tongue experimentally over his teeth. It's an action he regrets, because the inside of his mouth tastes awful.]

Me and Lando had a drinking contest, once.

All right.

[A little dubiously. It's going to be viciously unfair if he feels fine, but she's not entirely convinced he's as beyond worry as he likes to claim.]

Who won? [A little pause.] If you even remember.

We both ended up owing money to someone else.

[Damnit, Sana.]

A lot of money.

[Another breathy laugh, and she scoots around so they're facing the same way, and she can lean into his side.]

Maybe we can host a new one on the Moira. I'll judge.

[There's no way she's participating, not after this. If she's learned anything tonight, it's that she wants any over-indulgences on her part to be private ones.]

Besides the wine, though. How are you?

[Public over-indulgence is fun in certain circumstances but, well, he's kind of past that point in his life, and he can't see it appealing to her. When she shifts over he puts an arm around her shoulder.]

I've got a headache.

[He shrugs. Still very much worth it.]

That's not what I mean.

[And you know it, Leia manages not to say. They haven't talked about the future since it all came clear, and when she's gone over the conversation since, she's realized he didn't do much talking at all.

That's Han for you. But if they both already feel terrible, she thinks, maybe that makes it the best time for a terrible conversation.]

Yeh, but it's an answer.

[The easy kind, just facts to be observed. Is he all right in the broader sense? He isn't sure how to gauge that. Knowing what lies ahead is brutal, an enormous weight they both have to shoulder. Talking about it doesn't come easily when he doesn't know what to think about it.

He can't figure out how things could have gone so wrong. Sighing, he rests his cheek against the top of her head.]

I'm all right. I mean it.

If you weren't, I'd understand.

[This isn't the conversation they usually have, but it's not the place they usually are, either. It's dark and quiet, and they're alone, alone enough that she can think of admitting her failures. There's not a soul in the galaxy she'd say it to besides Han; even with her brother, there are places she can't bear to go and words she can't bear to speak.]

I'm fine, and then I think of it--[of our son]--and then... [Shaking her head is the minutest of actions, but with his head against hers, she's sure he'll feel it.] But if you're all right, you're all right.

[The way they're sitting, he can't look at her-- maybe that's for the best, it would be harder to say anything about their son while meeting her eyes. He finds himself thinking of Ben as an abstract, not entirely synonymous with the young man who threw him across the room. Something they've lost without having.

And maybe he doesn't have the right to regret that. It's impossible to know, from where they stand-- or sit, as the case may be, in the dark, on the floor, locked away in a rented room on an unfamiliar world-- what it was like, that too-brief span before the future's promise became a past regret. What life might have held for them after the war was won. He never made any plans-- never had the time to, when the last thing he did before waking up here was to choose to go willingly to his death. Starting a family, that never even crossed his mind, and maybe that's how things came to this.

Maybe he left, or maybe he hated it; resented the boy, treated him badly. (It doesn't feel right, though. Maybe the explanation works but Han can't square that with his image of himself. Even now, the way he wishes he knew how to do better, doesn't that mean he'd care enough to try to do right by them?) There are too many questions, too little to do to change things.]

I can't understand-- [The dryness of his mouth now has nothing to do with all the wine. It's not an easy admission, and he can't finish because he doesn't understand any of it.] I try not to think about it.

[If it's happened, it's happened. What's the point of getting tied up in knots over it?

Everyone dies.]

[Leia reaches for his hand and twines her fingers with his. This is hard for him, and she knows it. If it didn't seem like they needed to talk about it, she wouldn't ask, and even now, she's regretting a little that she brought it up. Han's uncertainty is palpable, a weight between his shoulders that he can hide under normal circumstances. But she suspects it never stops pressing on him.]

I can't, either. It doesn't seem like either of us, to-- [When it comes down to it, it's not easy for her to talk about, either. She takes a breath, the scent of Han's skin intermingling with the refresher's soap.] I'm going to ask him about it, after he's had some time to calm down.

[What's the worst that could happen? There's cold comfort in knowing he'd rather she suffer everyone else's death before her own; it means he's less likely to try to hurt her than just about anyone else they know.]

I'm going to fix this.

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