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“This is insanity,” Han spits out, stalking down the corridor after her. “You are the—the seven damned hells General of the Resistance, you cannot decide to go racing off on a suicide mission to the fucking—the fucking second generation of Death Star!”
“I’m the self-appointed leader of a extrajudicial military body that claims to be defending a republic recently obliterated,” Leia says, squinting into the sunlight as she emerges onto the duracrete. “I can do whatever I damn like.”
“I’m going with you, then,” he says, stubbornly planting himself between her and her ship. Because it’s Han, and he is so very dear to her—still? yes, forever—she reaches up, cups his face. Holds him there for a moment, before she shouts for Lieutenant Lriss to come and escort Captain Solo to command.
“We’re talking about this when you get back,” he grumps over the comm-link as she’s prepping for take off. She can hear the bustling of the command center “It isn’t even a little over, your worship.” (He hasn’t called her that in twenty years, and it sends her stumbling. She has to grit her teeth against maybe I won’t come back, then; flip the comm with a shaking hand. “Get off my secure channel, Han Solo.”)
Finn keeps stumbling over “ma’am” like it’s an alien word—“What did you call your female superiors in the Order?” she asks, after he’s gritted his teeth and fallen silent again. “Sir,” he admits with a rueful smile. “It was supposed to be equalizing. Neutralizing.”
“Well, there’s nothing neutralizing about me,” she says primly (she hates that tone of voice, and Han always brings it out of her, every damn time.) To her surprise, the stormtrooper boy called Finn laughs. “Yeah, ma’am, I figured.”
“We’ll use the Force!” Finn says, his eyes shining, and Leia almost wishes she had brought Han with, just so she could see his face at that pronouncement. But it’s just Leia here in the snow, a rucksack of explosives slung over her shoulder, and she is Luke Skywalker’s sister—the Force has never not answered, when they call. “Sounds good to me,” she says, hefting her blaster.
“You’re General Leia Organa,” the chrome stormtrooper says dreamily as she shuts down the shields. (Phasma—Finn had called her Phasma—has an impressively strong mind, it had taken Leia three tries to compel her through the Force.) “I thought you would be taller,” Phasma says after a moment.
Leia’s never had the pleasure of watching a stormtrooper blush. She resists the urge to laugh, because she suspects it’ll turn hysterical quickly. “Well, you’re much taller than my experience of stormtroopers, so we’ll call it even.”
She’s distracted, she knows, she can feel
[ the red flutter of a fetal heartbeat, the particular ozone-burning smell he always carried in his hair, his hair, dark, squirming on the edge of her bed as she plaited his hair, smudges like bruises beneath his eyes, too quiet then too loud, too much, and then too little, and then gone, all except that fluttering heartbeat that told her he was still alive, somewhere if not near her arms, dragging shadow and light through the Force and hers, her other poisoned gift to the galaxy ] him
“Ma’am?” Finn asks quietly. She shakes her head, swallowing. “We have to plant the explosives in the oscillator. Let’s go.”
(An unexpected aching stab at the way Finn and Rey fall into one another, and Leia is suddenly nineteen years old in the hangar on Yavin, pulling Luke—desert farmboy Luke Skywalker in a borrowed flightsuit, eyes bright with the reflected fire of the Death Star in supernova—into an embrace and feeling something spinning ropes of light between their hands like that old game of cat’s cradle, and thinking dizzily, oh, oh, maybe this is enough, maybe this will fill me)
The sight of him—
the sight of him—
(Vader, standing over her, watching with that impassive mask, rasping breath in her ears as she screamed, sobbing, not begging never begging (she is an organa, organas do not beg for their lives, organas serve, organas die) but biting her tongue bloody to stop herself and this is her son this is her son, there is still good in him. There is.
She will make it, if she has to.
It takes her two tries to call out his name, and she is suddenly ashamed of how weak her voice sounds, how it breaks—she sounds like an old woman, wailing into the air.
“No,” he says, and even through the vocorder her sounds like her bewildered child (he’s so tall, how is he so tall, she held him in her arms and now she has to crane her neck, just to look at him) “No, it was supposed to be—no. No!”
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“This is insanity,” Han spits out, stalking down the corridor after her. “You are the—the seven damned hells General of the Resistance, you cannot decide to go racing off on a suicide mission to the fucking—the fucking second generation of Death Star!”
“I’m the self-appointed leader of a extrajudicial military body that claims to be defending a republic recently obliterated,” Leia says, squinting into the sunlight as she emerges onto the duracrete. “I can do whatever I damn like.”
“I’m going with you, then,” he says, stubbornly planting himself between her and her ship. Because it’s Han, and he is so very dear to her—still? yes, forever—she reaches up, cups his face. Holds him there for a moment, before she shouts for Lieutenant Lriss to come and escort Captain Solo to command.
“We’re talking about this when you get back,” he grumps over the comm-link as she’s prepping for take off. She can hear the bustling of the command center “It isn’t even a little over, your worship.” (He hasn’t called her that in twenty years, and it sends her stumbling. She has to grit her teeth against maybe I won’t come back, then; flip the comm with a shaking hand. “Get off my secure channel, Han Solo.”)
Finn keeps stumbling over “ma’am” like it’s an alien word—“What did you call your female superiors in the Order?” she asks, after he’s gritted his teeth and fallen silent again. “Sir,” he admits with a rueful smile. “It was supposed to be equalizing. Neutralizing.”
“Well, there’s nothing neutralizing about me,” she says primly (she hates that tone of voice, and Han always brings it out of her, every damn time.) To her surprise, the stormtrooper boy called Finn laughs. “Yeah, ma’am, I figured.”
“We’ll use the Force!” Finn says, his eyes shining, and Leia almost wishes she had brought Han with, just so she could see his face at that pronouncement. But it’s just Leia here in the snow, a rucksack of explosives slung over her shoulder, and she is Luke Skywalker’s sister—the Force has never not answered, when they call. “Sounds good to me,” she says, hefting her blaster.
“You’re General Leia Organa,” the chrome stormtrooper says dreamily as she shuts down the shields. (Phasma—Finn had called her Phasma—has an impressively strong mind, it had taken Leia three tries to compel her through the Force.) “I thought you would be taller,” Phasma says after a moment.
Leia’s never had the pleasure of watching a stormtrooper blush. She resists the urge to laugh, because she suspects it’ll turn hysterical quickly. “Well, you’re much taller than my experience of stormtroopers, so we’ll call it even.”
She’s distracted, she knows, she can feel
[ the red flutter of a fetal heartbeat, the particular ozone-burning smell he always carried in his hair, his hair, dark, squirming on the edge of her bed as she plaited his hair, smudges like bruises beneath his eyes, too quiet then too loud, too much, and then too little, and then gone, all except that fluttering heartbeat that told her he was still alive, somewhere if not near her arms, dragging shadow and light through the Force and hers, her other poisoned gift to the galaxy ] him
“Ma’am?” Finn asks quietly. She shakes her head, swallowing. “We have to plant the explosives in the oscillator. Let’s go.”
(An unexpected aching stab at the way Finn and Rey fall into one another, and Leia is suddenly nineteen years old in the hangar on Yavin, pulling Luke—desert farmboy Luke Skywalker in a borrowed flightsuit, eyes bright with the reflected fire of the Death Star in supernova—into an embrace and feeling something spinning ropes of light between their hands like that old game of cat’s cradle, and thinking dizzily, oh, oh, maybe this is enough, maybe this will fill me)
The sight of him—
the sight of him—
(Vader, standing over her, watching with that impassive mask, rasping breath in her ears as she screamed, sobbing, not begging never begging (she is an organa, organas do not beg for their lives, organas serve, organas die) but biting her tongue bloody to stop herself and this is her son this is her son, there is still good in him. There is.
She will make it, if she has to.
It takes her two tries to call out his name, and she is suddenly ashamed of how weak her voice sounds, how it breaks—she sounds like an old woman, wailing into the air.
“No,” he says, and even through the vocorder her sounds like her bewildered child (he’s so tall, how is he so tall, she held him in her arms and now she has to crane her neck, just to look at him) “No, it was supposed to be—no. No!”
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