Log Date:
	6/15/98

Log Cast:
	Han Solo, Leia Organa-Solo

Log Intro:
	Five Star Destroyers and a hectic flight across the galaxy away from
Caspar later, Han and Leia have made it safely to Calamari -- only to have
Mon Mothma spring the shocking request upon the Corellian for him to take
command of the New Republic's army. Much to Han's surprise, he's agreed to
do it, though why exactly he's _still_ not entirely sure...

----------
_I knew_, Han muses as he charts a tired course through the NR base, _I just 
  -knew- there was a reason I backed outta this...._ Finally escaped from the 
  Council briefing, his head full of all of the oh-so-solemn reasons why he'd 
  been asked to take on this particular command, why _him_ and why not some 
  other eligible officer, the Corellian feels as conspicious as if he'd been 
  dropped naked into the middle of a contingent of stormtroopers. It doesn't 
  help that everyone he passes appears to have decided to practice their 
  military etiquette, either: 'General Solo!' 'General Solo, sir!' 'Glad to 
  see you back, sir!' Or their salutes. By the time the Corellian finally 
  reaches his suite, his shoulder has started to twinge a little from the 
  number of return salutes he's snapped off, and he manages only a tired 
  lopsided half-smirk for the pair of sentries ensuring the privacy of the 
  Solo apartments as he is finally admitted through the door.

The windows are open in the apartment, allowing a fresh flow of seabreeze into 
  the infrequently used home of Han and Leia Organa Solo. Though the scent of 
  salt-kissed air is hardly unusual in the room, the aroma coupled with that 
  scent has been offered all too rarely in recent months: that of a particular 
  Alderaanian dish of grilled kestrin steaks, roasted vegetables, and the 
  spices of some salad dressing. Present, too, is the distinctive smell of 
  baking bread undercut by an already prepared cake of some variety; above it 
  all is a pleasant humming to declare the baker's enjoyment of her task.

Han stops dead, unaware of the door whooshing shut behind him. Stunned by the 
  scents mingling in the air, he just stares round the front room of the 
  apartment for a few moments, before following his nose off towards the 
  kitchen. There, he actively gapes at the sight before him, hazel eyes round 
  in his lean face, and he can't stop the muttered Corellian oath as it drops 
  in astonishment from his lips.

Now and again Leia does something to assert her image as a china doll, and the 
  childlike glee she is experiencing from a few hours in her own kitchen has 
  the overall effect of youthening her. The playful expression coupled with 
  her diminutive frame evokes an image of a child playing in Mommy's kitchen. 
  "Han," she says with a delighted laugh, "I finished in my meeting and 
  decided to putter around at home."

Eyes still wide in surprise, the Corellian finally manages a lopsided smile, 
  swinging his gaze about the kitchen, staring at the evidence of his 
  beloved's industry. "Bright suns," he breathes, then takes a few more 
  strides into the room, getting some of his equilibrium back. His smile 
  broadens. "This all for me, or are you inviting half the Council over?"

"Oh, it was hardly anything, Han," Leia replies gaily, "because I don't cook 
  very well. Winter's the talented one domestically. But I can grill kestrin 
  steaks and I'd just been craving mangin cake, so..." She shrugs 
  self-consciously but offers her lips to him for a kiss. "If you don't mind 
  staying in."

Readily, Han steps over to the Princess, looping his arms around that delicate 
  waist, taking up the offer of those soft lips. When he pulls his head up 
  again, he's still smiling, but a touch more softly. "You need any help with 
  this?" he rumbles.

Leia answers with mild amusement, "With being held and kissed by my husband? 
  No, I can handle that relatively well, thank you."

That makes him grin, eyes sparking. "With _cooking_," he corrects, gently 
  chiding.

Leia's smile is broad, if accompanied by a blush. "I see. No, you timed it 
  remarkably well; almost everything is ready except the wine. I thought we 
  could eat on the patio, just the two of us...if you would like."

"Hrmm," considers Han, "dinner, wine, terrace with a view, beautiful 
  Princess." His eyes warming, he grins again, feathering a kiss across Leia's 
  white brow. "What's not to like?"

Leia answers with a chuckle as she disengaged from his embrace, "The dishes 
  once supper's over. So," she continues while readying food for service, 
  "where've you been today?"

"Dishes are what we have _droids_ for, sweetheart," Han protests, pretending 
  to sulk. Then he props his rangy frame against the nearest counter and 
  smirks, lightly. "Spending the last seven hours having it explained to me 
  why it's for the good of the NR for me to go take over GroundOps."

Leia's brow quirks as it so often does when she, common-sense creature that 
  she is, hears something she labels as ludicrous. "Seven hours? I could have 
  done the same job in three minutes. Who battered you like that?" Her hands, 
  as she makes her query, are busy tossing the mixed Calamari greens for the 
  salad.

The Corellian half-smiles, half-smirks. "Council members. Assorted officers. 
  Four or five delegates from Sluis Van explaining the situation there. Oh, 
  and the ensign with my new insignia." He fishes a hand into a pocket of his 
  black vest, and produces a gleaming little general's insignia, clearly 
  intended for the collar, never mind that it'd look entirely incongruous on 
  Han's rumpled white shirt.

Leia, putting down the salad tools, brushes off her hands to take Han's face 
  in her grasp and kiss him tenderly. "I'm very proud of you," she murmurs, 
  meaning every syllable. "But you have to start dressing a little less 
  disreputably. I can't help wondering why they waited until I was busy with a 
  diplomatic reception to corner you, but..." Shrugging, she adds 
  philosophically, "All that matters is that you came to the right decision."

Han lets himself be kissed, though he sulks a little once more, this time more 
  in earnest. "My clothes are clean," he complains. "I even shaved." He pauses 
  a beat, then smiles faintly, trying to dismiss Leia's praise with, "Well, 
  guess they decided I'd give in if they ambushed me alone."

"I suppose," she answers dubiously. "Well, General, would you like to fill 
  your stomach with my only slightly above average cooking and tell me about 
  it?"

Deftly avoiding the question of his attire, Han flashes his wife a white grin. 
  "I think," he drawls lowly, leaning over to nuzzle at her dark hair, "I can 
  be persuaded. It was awful, sweetheart! Diplomats to the left of me, 
  officers to the right..." He plasters on a theatrically earnest expression.

Leia declares as she places salad bowls on a tray and arranges vegetables and 
  steaks on two plates, "That's a typical day for me. No wonder you felt so 
  panicked, having to deal with my daily routine..."

"Panicked?" retorts the Corellian indignantly, brows drawing together over 
  hazel eyes. "Who said anything about panicked?"

Leia gives her husband a seraphic smile and indicates the tray with the wine, 
  glasses, and salads. "Take that, I'll get the rest of the food, hmm?"

Slouching a bit, in his best 'well okay FINE' stance, Han mutters, "I wasn't 
  panicked." Strange, but that's the same tone he was using when he'd claimed 
  last night he wasn't drunk. But he takes up the tray anyway, smiles 
  crookedly at the Princess, and saunters out to the terrace, freeing a hand 
  to open up the door as he goes.

"You know something?" Leia muses as she passes through the opened door, voice 
  placid and tone offhanded. "You're good for some things around the house, 
  General Solo. I might just keep you."

"Gee," drawls Han, the outdoor breeze ruffling his dark hair, "I'm just 
  thrilled, Your Highnessness." He grins, though, softening the words, and as 
  he sets down the tray, he also moves to sweep a chair out, upon which Leia 
  might repose. "Would Her Highnessness care to dine?"

Leia answers with that perfectly formed brown brow in its most sardonic arch, 
  "Her Highnessness would care for his Generalship to refrain from calling her 
  things that invite her to spill hot sauce on his steak." Nevertheless, like 
  a princess born, she perches on the chair, hands folded in her lap with 
  considerable propriety.

Keeping a straight sabacc-face marred only by the twinkle in his gaze, Han 
  sketches an elaborate bow. Then promptly grabs his own chair and swings it 
  around so that he might sit closer to Leia... and conveniently, give himself 
  a better view of the stretch of cliffside and ocean visible from their 
  private suite. On the other hand, view or no, he seems primarily interested 
  in the delicate woman now seated at the table. "Sure," he murmurs playfully, 
  "'Leia'."

Leia cannot hide her smile; how could she, considering the way it and the 
  emotion behind it suffuse her presence with an inner, joyous light? "You 
  make things so difficult," she counters teasingly, hand resting atop his, 
  eyes meeting his sparkling gaze.

Han starts rubbing the tip of his thumb along Leia's palm, apparently 
  oblivious to the food waiting before them both. A large lopsided smile 
  flares across his face, and he murmurs in agreement, "I do, I really do." 
  Still massaging that hand, he draws it up to his lips, and brushes a kiss 
  across dainty knuckles. And he adds blandly, "But admit it, sometimes you 
  think I'm alright."

"You _are_ a nice man," Leia says delicately and places her free hand atop 
  his. "I suppose you were right after all. And you know what?" As she leans 
  forward to touch her lips to his cheek she adds, "I really wanted to space 
  Threepio that day."

Han can't help it; he suddenly grins, hugely and giddily, like a schoolboy, at 
  _that_ remark. Then he composes himself, taming the beam down to a more 
  usual size, and he snickers. "You get the urge again, I'll help you."

Leia snorts and nudges Han's elbow toward the carafe of wine. "Let's eat 
  before this gets cold," she suggests, "and, as I said before, let's discuss 
  what you were told you'll be doing at Sluis Van with the military."

"Absolutely, Your Worship," says Han, straightfacedly. Then he winks, and 
  moves to pour up some of the bubbling stuff for Leia, then for him.

Leia studies Han's profile as he applies himself to filling two wineglasses in 
  Alderaanian blue - gifts from the Council, no doubt - and again clasps his 
  unoccupied hand with hers. Though nothing is said, volumes are sent from her 
  eyes.

He catches the glance, and seems to comprehend it, his own returning regard 
  more eloquent than the man probably would like to admit. Han smiles a 
  little, starting to slice up his steak into manageable bits, and tells the 
  Princess, 'It's like this, see... near as I can tell, sifting through seven 
  hours of bilge, is that they'd just _love_ to have me take over the job 
  full-time-like."

"I hadn't realized the military leadership had become so desperate," Leia 
  notes drolly as she attacks her salad with daintiness she would die before 
  admitting to showing. "What are your feelings about that? You have more 
  experience than three of their senior officers combined."

Han snorts. "Can you see me in a uniform for the next thirty years?"

Leia breathes out, allowing the necessity of mastication to divert her and 
  delay response. Once she's swallowed both the salad and a sip of wine she 
  says contemplatively, "I can see you giving more of yourself to the Republic 
  and being more active, yes."

"Yeah, but bein' a general, _full-time_? Like, the rest of my life?" Han peers 
  at his wife in query, dark brows crooked up.

Leia busies herself with cutting up the steak and applying some of the 
  purplish sauce she has concocted for its seasoning. Han's questions receive 
  no response.

"That," says the Corellian decisively, firing a forefinger at the Princess, 
  "sounds like a 'no' to me."

Leia's mild remonstration comes with her gaze directed at her food. "Sometimes 
  what's best for the Republic isn't our heart's desire, Han."

Han seems to have no immediate answer for this. Frowning in consternation, he 
  distracts himself for a few moments with the food, then finally the wine, 
  before he settles on a response. "When I was a kid..." He blows out a 
  breath. "When I was a kid, I didn't want anything more than I wanted to be 
  in the Imperial Navy."

Leia studies Han while chewing pensively, her dark gaze lingering on his 
  features while she gives him the brunt of her attention.

"_That_... well, let's just say I got that out of my system _real_ fast," Han 
  says, playing with his fork, looking almost earnest. Then he smirks a bit. 
  "I ain't exactly been a man for uniforms, and desks, and offices, since 
  then. I don't need to tell you that."

Nodding, the princess samples more of her wine, leans backward, and suggests, 
  "Give it a few months before making a decision? I'm certain at some point 
  your best place with the Republic will become clear."

"Well, I told 'em," Han answers, leaning back in his chair, "I'll keep the 
  troops in line for a few months, _if_ they keep the hunt up for a decent 
  officer to take over. We can't be that hurting for somebody worth promoting 
  to general." The Corellian smiles faintly, his head half-turned out to the 
  ocean view, hair ruffling again in the breeze.

Leia gives her head a dismissive shake, putting fork and knife on her plate. A 
  hand reaches up to dab her napkin to her lips, then, as she returns the 
  cloth to its former place on her lap, she comments, "You're either brash or 
  modest to a fault. Usually in the wrong times. I guess you wouldn't be Han 
  Solo without forgetting your leadership skills when they're most needed."

At that, Han actually bursts into laughter, though a fraction of an instant 
  after he eyes Leia in what might, just _might_, be a flicker of 
  embarrassment. "It's not my leadership skills I'm worried about, 
  sweetheart," he answers lightly, lifting up his wineglass. "It's how long 
  it'll take me to keep from goin' nuts with a desk and an office and a 
  uniform."

Leia does not sound or appear to be particularly amused. As she sinks backward 
  in her chair, eyes turned toward the oceanic vista below, she presses the 
  goblet to her lips and finishes her glass. "You hated inactivity, too, Han," 
  she eventually points out. "There's got to be a middle ground somewhere."

Han's merriment fades down, and he turns his glass about in his fingers for a 
  few moments, flicking a hazel regard from the wine to his wife. "Yeah," he 
  murmurs gruffly, "I know."

"Respectability becomes you, Han," Leia says, adding by way of conjecture, 
  "Perhaps the dislike of offices and responsibility and all is habit rather 
  than an ingrained truth."

To that, Han blinks. Twice. His mouth opens and closes, and then opens again, 
  as he finally manages to sputter, "You... you gotta be kidding me." 
  Respectability looks _good_? On _HAN SOLO_?

Leia asserts quietly, "You married me."

"Well..." Han gestures futilely with one hand for a moment, as if trying to 
  pull words out of the air. "That's different."

Again with the uplifted eyebrow. "Oh?" she murmurs. "In what way?"

Han leans forward, eyes intent, and starts doggedly, "I didn't exactly marry 
  you to be _responsible_..." _Oh yeah?_ pipes up the back of his mind, and 
  one can almost read the mental interruption in Han's expression.

Leia counters softly as she leans forward as well, lips a few fingerwidths 
  from his, "How did you ever make a career out of smuggling when you're such 
  a rotten liar?"

"That _is_ different," Han retorts, triumphantly. "'Sides, if people don't 
  believe you when you're smuggling, you can usually just shoot 'em." He's 
  regained his composure again, swiftly, and he grins crookedly as he meets 
  brown eyes with his own hazel.

Leia's smirk, that knowing look she uses to puncture his bravado, is directed 
  full-blast at those hazel eyes as she bites off a section of steak and 
  mmhmms at him.

"Or if you happen to have a Wookiee," Han rumbles by way of explanation, "you 
  get him to rip their arms off, see..." His bravado appears to be holding, as 
  he reaches over with his fork, spears a little cube of steak, and holds it 
  up for Leia to nibble.

"Oh, that's a deft maneuver for building a network of allies and contacts," 
  Leia intones before seizing the steak between her perfect little white teeth 
  and chewing it thoroughly.

"Well, it worked," Han murmurs-drawls, grinning now. "Except on more 
  determined Wookiees."

Leia edges her plate out of the way with an impatient elbow so that she can 
  close the distance between them with a little kiss. "I love you, Han," she 
  tells him, sincerity soundly in place, "but...I'm glad you said yes to the 
  generalship."

Kissing is something Han readily understands, and there's no trepidation in 
  the kiss he gives his Princess. If there's any lingering behind those hazel 
  eyes, he does a good job of hiding it, as he pulls back from the kiss to 
  murmur bravely, "Well, hey. Maybe I'll get to like bein' respectable...."

Leia gives him a penetrating look, lifts her wine glass and examines the dregs 
  within it, then, across the top, says, "Nah."

Han's grin flares up again -- no doubt at hearing such an indelicate word as 
  "nah" falling from his beloved's lips -- and he leans over to express his 
  approval with another kiss.

[End log.]