Log Date: 1/27/99 Log Cast: Leia, Han Log Intro: Having been the recipient of a transmission relaying a rumor that Leia had been killed on Caspar, Han has hastened to that planet to discover the truth of what has befallen his wife there as of late. Fortunately, Leia is fine, but a few of her guards are not, having been killed by an unknown assailant while escorting the Princess on the beach. Moreover, Leia's lightsaber has been stolen, hinting at Jedi involvement in the assault. Determined not to abandon her if he can help Leia somehow, Han has settled down to contribute to the effort of discovering the identity of the Princess's attacker. He's arranged with Chewbacca and his Ground Ops sentries Rhansen and Vaskez to keep watch over the _Millennium Falcon_ in the public starport... and preparing himself for a surreptitious foray out into Plaxton City to see what he can discover undercover. But before Han can suitably disguise himself, a few alterations need to be made to his appearance, at least one of which will require a few days to grow in, and never mind the commentary he's liable to get in the meantime from his wife. Beards are, after all, a small sacrifice when it comes to discovering that a woman responsible for torturing you is on the same planet you are... ---------- Guest Suite 2 A spacious room, filled with all the fineries of Caspar. Furniture made out of the best Casparian wood and topped with fresh, pleasant smelling Casparian roses. There is a navy blue carpet that covers the floor and several spacious beds. The walls are painted a beige color. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Leia -=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=- ut leads to Central Mall - People's Hall. The hour is late, the Caspar skies darkened with the moon well-hidden behind a plethora of puffy wintertime clouds. And within the chamber that has been designated as Councilor Organa Solo's base of operations, things are still. A faint glow surrounds the desk at which she has been working - the screen of her terminal is issuing that soft luminescence - but otherwise little light is in evidence. The bay windows show some lingering snowflakes falling and imply that, while it was out, the sun was supplying the room's lighting. Now, however, the snow and lack of illumination make things rather quiet. It was likely this mood that lulled the woman at the desk into an improptu slumber against her outstretched forearm, her sheen of chestnut locks draping over most of her cheek to further shelter her eyes from what light used to exist. The sight and mood are serene. The soft whish of the door is the only signal of Han Solo's weary, quiet arrival into the apartment. With two days' worth of determined stubble softening the lines of his jaw and his uniform shirt and hair thoroughly rumpled, the Corellian looks even more disreputable than usual... though his eyes lighten significantly at the sight of the drowsing Princess. Not bothering to wave the room computer into bringing up the lights, he crosses over in swift steps and then leans down to drop a feather-light kiss along the nape of Leia's delicate neck. Bestirred by the touch of lips upon her alabaster throat, Leia does not rouse lightly from her rest but instead twitches as surprise floods her awareness. The low lighting and lateness of the hour is startling - she never falls asleep over her work - and, brushing back her loose, flowing hair, she observes blandly, "Oh...I was just resting my eyes." Then, more dryly, more characteristically, she adds, "Lose your tailor on Calamari?" "I fired him," Han replies, deadpan. "He kept wanting me to iron my shirts." He straightens up a little, but only enough to let Leia do so if she chooses, while he feathers another kiss or two along the top of her hair. Leia makes a face, not in answer to Han's kisses (which delight her still after several years) but rather thanks to his appearance. Even in the greenish glow from her terminal's display she can tell he looks like a Bantha's chewtoy. "Did you see Winter, by the way?" A crooked grin flashes whitely in the midst of Han's stubble-shadowed visage. "On the way in. She made cracks about my tailor, too; have you two been rehearsing this, or what, Your Highnessness?" "We've been together a long time and we have the same sense of humor," Leia drawls as she activates her desktop lamp, spilling whitish light about the general vicinity of the desk. Cautiously she regains her feet and stretches, something in her back making a complaining crackle in retaliation. Her stomach then joins in. "Where've you been, anyway?" "Double-checking the _Falcon_," is the Corellian's reply. He steps back to let his wife stand, but his hands linger on her shoulders, deftly kneading the muscles beneath her clothes. "Makin' sure Chewie's okay with Vaskez and Rhansen helping him out with her." Leia nods absently before she gets a better look at her husband. Beyond the wrinkled attire is the glisten of freshly grown whiskers; earlier in the day they had been nothing more than his face unshaven. She'd expected, in fact, for that to have gone away before he left. It's now more defined as a beard. "You want to tell me why you're going scruffy on me, nerf herder?" The white grin flashes again, heralding potential mischief. "Disguise," Han replies promptly. Leia repeats, one brow raised upward, "Disguise?" Hazel eyes going wide and guileless, Han loosely wraps his arms about his wife's slender waist. "Yeah, you know, 'disguise', so no one will recognize me," he teases. "I have an education, Han," Leia notes with a touch of acerbity. "I know what the word means. I'm just wondering what you're up to that requires a disguise since everyone knows the _Falcon_ came here with you." "Exactly," Han replies, undaunted, and now grinning devilishly. "And since I intend to go scoping the streets for word on what happened to you, I can't do it as me." All at once his posture shifts a little, shaving an inch or three off his height, his eyes get a little wider, and his voice climbs up out of its usual husky baritone to a tenor warble. "So, I, uh, thought I'd better send out, um, Gav Turlon, Your Highness," he concludes. Leia rolls her eyes and eases away from his encumbering embrace, letting go a sigh as she remarks, "Well, I guess I can't particularly ask you to let the NRI do their job, can I? You enjoy this sort of thing too much. Found out anything yet, 'Gav'?" "Yes, as a matter of fact." 'Gav Turlon' vanishes behind Han's eyes again, leaving the familiar Corellian, though his eyes take on an intent spark at the same time. Without preamble, he goes on, "Simone Drake's in this city." Leia's head cocks to the side as she glances around at her husband on her way toward the refresher. "Simone Drake? Here?" "Yeah." As long as the Princess isn't at her desk, Han parks himself on a corner of it, keeping within easy conversational distance of the 'fresher room. All trace of mischief has left his expression, now. "Apparently on the level -- she's running a business. Swoop selling, and racing. Using her own name, too." As the water runs in the shower, the flash of garments being removed can just be detected within the other room. Over the sound of the water Leia calls, "I heard the swoops were doing really well here...the government is pleased with the increased commerce in all. But...you have to admit this is a curious place for her to be." "Exactly," drawls Han, loudly enough to be heard over the water, "why I wanna go check her out." The sounds alter - apparently the shower's user is now within the cascade of water - before the next phrases come. "Is this a general suspicion or something in specific you want to investigate?" His next answer takes him a moment. Then, "General suspicion," comes the grudging acknowledgement. "I thought I'd just check out how 'apparently on the level' she actually is." A noncommital noise comes from Leia, then another pause as she lathers her substantially long hair and enjoys the play of hot water on her skin. "Han," she remarks, her voice carrying without problem because they often converse this way (thanks to busy lifestyles), "what precisely are you planning to do?" "Hey," the Corellian protests in mild indignation, "just a little discreet observation, is all." The snort of disdain that Leia sends Han's way is sharp enough to imply she should have inhaled a lot of water with it. "Discreet? Han Solo? Excuse me?" "I can be discreet," Han proclaims stoutly. Leia pauses long enough to poke her head out, waterlogged as it is, from the doorway. "Excuse me, but I'd bet you couldn't even spell it." The Corellian looks even more indignant, flashing a forefinger sharply in his beloved's direction, and retorting sardonically, "D-i-s-c-r-e-e-t. Discreet. Adjective. Next question?" A peal of laughter comes from the shower; apparently her jibe had the desired results. "Did you find out anything else about the Sarian woman who attacked me and got my lightsaber?" Gruffly allowing the change of subject, Han hrmphs. "Our agents haven't, yet," he answers, crossing his arms along his chest and keeping his slouch there on the desk's corner. "I wanna make my own sweep through some of the local hotspots, though. See if there's any unofficial buzz on the streets, still." "I doubt it entirely." Leia is an efficient bather, even with hair that drapes past her hips, and with that mane twisted into the plush terrycloth warmth of a bathsheet, a second towel fetchingly folded about her water-sheened figure, she emerges from the refresher looking, well, refreshed. "I don't think most of this planet cares what happens to me here. I'm still betting on the Empire's involvement. Did you eat?" Handling this change of subject with slightly more aplomb, Han puts forth his crooked grin, his eyes lighting noticeably at the sight of the damp, clean Princess. "It hadn't occurred to me," he murmurs distractedly as he gazes at her. Leia turns away to hide her blush as the door to the outer room closes quietly: Winter, no doubt, giving the couple some privacy. "Well," says the princess, coughing lightly, "what has occurred to you?" Han rises from his seat on the desk, taking advantage of his height difference, and grinning a lazy grin at odds with the glitter in his eyes. "Shall I spell that out for ya, too?" he proposes, his voice sliding down into a huskier register. The color of her cheeks fires darker red; this is the one area in which she is still so youthful and almost innocent despite a few years of marriage. Han's frank admiration and desire never fail to fluster her. "I, ah, thought we were discussing that beard and its uses...." "We were," Han agrees amiably, his intent gaze not wavering from his beloved's flushed face. And he adds, "Disguise. D-i-s-g-u-i-s-e..." Leia bends forward, letting the towel relinquish its hold on her long tresses, the damp tendrils hanging forward in a sheet of near-blackness. As she begins to rake her fingers through them to make sense out of their silken jumble, she says quietly, "Be careful, all right? I'm still worried that you were lured here." The Corellian closes the gap between him and his wife, once more sliding his arms about her petite frame. His eyes turn earnest in a way he rarely shows anyone but her, and he promises softly, "I'll be careful." "You always promise me that," answers the princess with a sigh and a fretful frown, "and you never do it." Concerned by this mood of Leia's, Han lets his gaze soften a little, not hiding his ardor for her, but tempering it for now to a gentler expression. "I haven't busted any bones lately," he points out lightly. "Or anything else. I've had a clean bill of health for months now." Leia, rolling those brown eyes he so likes, counters, "Which is why I worry. You're due, aren't you?" Her tone is light, but she doesn't like him taking risks...which he does because he's who he is. It's the reckless risks that truly bother her, and those are the ones she wants to prevent. As much as she can. Han lifts a hand to his beloved's delicately planed cheek, caressing white skin with the tip of his thumb. Is rational argument called for here, or reassurance of that anxiety peeking out from behind the royal calm? Never a man to limit his options, the Corellian decides on both, pointing out softly, "I'll be okay, Princess. Got reasons not to do anything too stupid, after all." Smirking, Leia replies with a bit of habitual sarcasm, "That's never stopped you before," then turns her face to brush petal-soft lips against Han's roughened hand. "I'm not worried logically, you know. It's a silly feminine weakness." Ah yes, reassurance, then. Han's gaze strike a balance between tender and warm, and he murmurs in those gravelly tones of his, entirely straight-faced, "Before, I didn't have me a Princess to take care of." "I can take care of myself very well, thank you," she ripostes stiffly, "and as I said, it's something...something I should just get over." _Boy, do I hate this softer side of marriage and what it brings out in me..._ The Corellian remains undaunted, going on without missing a beat, "And you didn't have yourself a scoundrel to take care of, either." A smile tugs at one end of his mouth, and he moves his hand back behind the Princess, drawing her nearer. "Or worry about." His eyes twinkle, though he doesn't let the tease go any further than that. Nor does he admit that he _likes_ the idea of Leia worrying about him. Leia can't possibly be this close to Han and in this sort of mood without induldging herself in an embrace. She doesn't think about it consciously, at least, nor does she know until her arms have wound about him and her mouth has found his that she is holding and kissing him. -This- side of marriage, however, definitely has its advantages. [End log.]