Log Date:
	4/9/98
	[OOC Note: This log is somewhat out of RP sequence with the
rest of my logs, as it features a new Leia player, and this Leia and I
wanted to do a bit of back-dated roleplay to fill in some gaps in what
had been happening with Han and Leia as of late. Thus, this log should be
assumed to take place before Han's Tatooine mission.]

Log Cast:
	Han Solo, Leia Organa-Solo

Log Intro:
	With the Jedi Horansi Sinjon Teague as their passenger, Han Solo
and Chewbacca have returned to Calamari, intending to let Sinjon meet Luke
Skywalker. Complications have arisen, however; Han has been wounded in a
firefight with Rodian bounty hunters, and Sinjon has spent most of the
trip from Calamari conversing with a nervous Corellian about the state of
his relationship with his wife. Unwilling to admit to those closest to him
what has been troubling him lately -- Leia's near-constant absences, not
to mention his ongoing restlessness about what to do with himself, and
his general bemusement about the Force-gifts he knows Leia possesses and
can hardly understand, himself -- Han's found Sinjon a surprisingly easy
sentient to talk to. And he's let the felinoid talk him into sharing what's
been on his mind with the Princess. Han hardly needs encouragement to go
in search of his wife once they land on Calamari, but the problem is, where
to find her...? 

----------
His side still aches. He hadn't, Han tells himself peevishly as he stalks off 
  towards his suite, needed any medics to tell him that, either. Having to 
  suffer through being poked and prodded and having it determined that yes, 
  Captain Solo sir, you'd patched yourself up alright, but just to be on the 
  safe side, let us give you a bacta patch to apply to the wound, sir, what 
  good mood Han had accomplished upon landing on Calamari has been effectively 
  shot to pieces. Sinjon's words of encouragement on the _Falcon_ aren't much 
  consolation, either; nobody on the base has appeared to know where Leia is, 
  and as the Corellian reaches the suite he shares with his wife, he doesn't 
  expect her to be within. He thumbs open the door irritably, thinking, _And 
  on top of it all, I have a blaster hole in my favorite jacket._

Within the suite all is calm. The lighting is subdued, as one might expect in 
  an apartment that's left unoccupied far more frequently than it's used. In 
  the air, however, is a lingering hint of Endor lilacs, a fragrance Leia had 
  grown to enjoy for many and sundry reasons over the years. Most of all, she 
  had asserted, because it reminded her of the two men she adores so dearly 
  and so differently. Endor is where all things became clear; this subtle 
  reminder was typical of what she appreciated in life...things inexpensive 
  and yet priceless because of a value no one else appreciates. The scent 
  seems to be coming from the draped cloak lying over the back of a sofa, its 
  deeply blue color nearly black in the limited light.

The scent in the air makes the Corellian stop short, startled, one arm curling 
  for a moment around his wounded side. _Wha...?_ Suddenly feeling an 
  unaccustomed flutter of anxiety -- and grudgingly damning Sinjon for digging 
  up all the reasons he'd have to feel nervous here in the first place -- Han 
  calls out, "Leia...?"

No answer. A cool breeze floats in through an open window, billowing the gauzy 
  curtains dangling before them and erasing the scent of flowers with that of 
  Calamari's oceans. Then, as the breeze fades into oblivion, the rooms become 
  still once more. Except for the cloak and the just-visible datapad left on 
  the bedroom table, their apartment feels as devoid of life as it did when 
  last he left.

Maybe he's imagining things -- but then again, that _is_ her cloak, and her 
  scent, and who'd have opened the window? Han strides over there for a few 
  moments, pulling in a lungful of fresh air, then turning to survey the 
  apartment. Starting to shrug out of his jacket, absently and disgruntledly 
  fingering the blaster-charred scar along the side, he moves into the 
  bedroom, wondering.

On the bed, curled up within the robes she had no doubt worn to her last 
  official (and officious?) duty, is Han's wife, sound asleep beside a 
  collection of datacards and a second datapad whose glow indicates its 
  battery has just about had enough. Her arms are wrapped around the pillow 
  from his side of the bed, the overall image much like a child who has donned 
  Mommy's clothes and, playtime over, used Mommy's bed for a nap.

Abruptly oblivious to the door whishing quietly shut behind him, Han freezes 
  there, the jacket half off. Caught by the sight before him, he just stands 
  there for a few moments, feeling something catch slightly in his chest. He 
  can feel, too, what he suspects is a foolish grin blossoming across his 
  face, but all at once, he doesn't care. Finishing the job of discarding the 
  jacket, he tosses it carelessly on the floor, and is at the bed in two 
  strides, shoving datapad and discs out of his way, to give him room to lie 
  down by his wife. Propping himself on one arm, he reaches with the other to 
  tenderly cup her cheek with his palm.

Startled out of what must have been a sound slumber, Leia burbles, "'m here, 
  Mon Mothma, jus' concentrating...what was the question?" before lucidity is 
  more fully in her grasp. Brown eyes, warm as the soul behind them, crack 
  open a fraction of an inch while her lips, full and pouting, form a gentle 
  smile. "Eeek," she whispers, "there's a strange man in my apartment."

"Better call Security," Han advises straightfacedly. His gaze, though, 
  palpably warms as Leia awakens, his hand shifting slightly to brush dark 
  strands of hair back from equally dark eyes. The lines of his face suggest 
  weariness, perhaps just a touch of strain, but the Corellian goes on in a 
  soft rumble, "No tellin' what he might have in mind."

"I would, but you're lying on my comlink." Leia keeps her tone dry to match 
  the timbre of conversation, but her touch on his cheek is gentleness and 
  affection incarnate. As her fingertip traces the lines of fatigue, she gazes 
  deeply into those beloved hazel eyes and breathes, "And I can take care of 
  myself. Especially with scoundrels."

Comlink? So that's what was pressing into him. Without taking his eyes off 
  Leia, Han shifts his free hand to fish the comlink out from under his side, 
  and promptly tosses it over the side of the bed, towards his jacket. "Oops," 
  he proclaims succintly. "Your lines of communication have been cut off, 
  Princess."

A tinge of the old maidenly blush, that bashfulness that betrayed her the 
  first time he kissed her on the Falcon, flows into her pale complexion 
  thanks to the teasing nature of her next words. "I suppose I should consider 
  surrender."

"It'd make it all go easier for you," agrees the Corellian, voice low and rich 
  and rasping; the only thing that suggests he isn't entirely at ease is the 
  ever so slight look of anxious wonder, lurking somewhere in the warmth of 
  his eyes, hinted at in the faint upward curl of one end of his mouth. His 
  hand returns to Leia's face, his fingertips echoing hers as they track paths 
  around her far more delicate features.

Leia gives up. In all honesty, her surrender was a sure thing from the instant 
  she roused from her nap to discover her husband unexpectedly present. Her 
  arm slips around his neck, urging him closer, the other resting upon his 
  waist. Words, for once, fail her; she, the orator of the family, finds 
  silence at present to be more expressive than any wistful statement.

Han hadn't bothered to tuck in his shirt after leaving the Infirmary; 
  blaster-scorched and rumpled, it just barely conceals the bandages wrapped 
  round his waist. But the Corellian's deliberately forgtten about that, too. 
  Pulling Leia to him, he takes her up into both his arms and doesn't waste 
  words on telling her how much he's missed her for months now. His kiss says 
  it for him.

The first minute or two is marital bliss; Leia drowns in the embrace, giving 
  to him as much unspoken adoration and longing as he offers her in the depth 
  of his kiss. Her fingers, however, do a mite too much exploration along his 
  wiry torso and with an outcry she withdraws from the kiss to exclaim, "Han, 
  you've been hurt."

Wha... oh. "It's nothin'," Han rumbles gruffly, still breathing in the scent 
  of soft brown hair, ready to drown in the aroma of Endor flowers. Even if it 
  _does_ remind him of Ewoks, it also reminds him of Leia, and insignificant 
  little things like blaster wounds can be ignored when his wife is in his 
  arms. "I'm okay," he claims, brushing his lips along her brow.

"Let me see." So much for the mood. Leia, insistent as ever, gives her 
  husband's chest a push to urge him off of her and into a more upright 
  position from which she can fuss. "And tell me how it happened."

His expression shifting from desire to something rather more sheepish, Han 
  grudgingly -- and stiffly -- sits up, and mutters, "I, ah, kinda got shot..."

Leia's eyebrow cocks nearly to her hairline, her lips twisting in a smile that 
  says, so eloquently, "Aha, and this should surprise me?" As she probes the 
  bandaged area she mutters, "Talking back to tavern wenches again? Or is this 
  another story that'll begin with, 'It's not my fault.'?"

Han's white shirt pushed out of the way, the bandaging is revealed, clean and 
  professional as NR medical droids can make it. The Corellian doesn't hiss, 
  though he does grimace slightly even at Leia's exploration of his side, and 
  his voice gets slightly raspier as he answers, "Rodian got in a lucky shot 
  on me. Pack of bounty hunters."

Leia snorts. "Lucky shot my asteroids," she mumbles as she pulls his shirt 
  over the injury with more care than she used to push it aside. "You're about 
  as careful as a trio of drunken Gammoreans inside a pottery shop." Her hand 
  cups his chin, thumb against his cheek, as she inquires helplessly, "What 
  -am- I going to do with you, smuggler?"

"Hey, sweetheart, I was careful," Han protests, indignantly. "They just had me 
  a little outnumbered, is all--" Relieved to have the shirt once more hiding 
  evidence of his wounding -- well, most of it; the shirt's scorched side is 
  enough of a sign in and of itself -- the Corellian suggests helpfully, "You 
  could kiss me and make it better."

Leia's answer is couched tartly, her way of hiding feelings toward him 
  (counterpoint to his cockiness). "I should turn you over my knee if you 
  weren't so heavy." She puffs out a breath, scattering the fringe of hair 
  that has come loose from her braids and partially obscured her youthful 
  visage. "Knowing you, you'd go out and get shot just for a bit of sympathy 
  from me."

Han meets brown eyes with his hazel, and asks guilelessly, "Would it work?" 
  His expression actually makes him look a little boyish, despite the 
  weariness hollowing his features.

Leia touches her fingertips to her lips and, still meeting his gaze, presses 
  those fingertips ever so lightly against his injured side. Enough for him to 
  feel her touch but not enough to give him discomfort. "Maybe," she whispers, 
  eyes twinkling.

Just for an instant, that slight uncertainty lingers in Han's hazel eyes -- 
  but only for an instant, as he shoves it to the back of his mind. Habitual 
  lopsided grin crooking his mouth, he lies back slowly and carefully on the 
  bed, inwardly grateful to be lying on a real bed for once and not the 
  _Falcon_'s bunk. He moves a hand of his own to cover Leia's at his side, 
  tugging it up towards him with slow, insistent strength. "Would it help you 
  tend me in my hour of need if I told you I love you?"

Though the tone of her answer is light, the expression in her eyes shows a 
  princess melting from the inside out. "It might," she murmurs, following 
  that tug on her hand without resistance. "But showing me would go a lot 
  further."

[End log.]