Log Date:
	9/9/98, 9/10/98

Log Cast:
	Leia Organa-Solo, Han Solo, assorted NPC guards

Log Intro:
	Han's recent rendezvous with the rest of the NR personnel in the Caspar
system has caused a few modest fireworks -- mostly in the encounter he's
had with a bounty hunter out for his head as well as that of his princessly
wife. His princessly wife, on the other hand, is quite delighted that her
husband has joined her on this mission to the Caspar system, and although
they both have continued to be busy in their respective duties, Princess
Leia is determined to let Han know exactly how delighted she is with his
presence, and hopefully to make a few private fireworks to go along with the
public ones....

----------
The suite in Plaxton City's most venerable and elite hotel has been exposed to 
  the gentle zephryrs from the nearby shore due in part to the triple-paned 
  balcony doors being propped wide open to invite both the briny breeze and 
  the silvery spillage of moonbeams to enter the half-circle marble living 
  area three steps below the doorway. Nestled within the glow of starlight is 
  a small bistro table with a handcrafted linen tablecloth across its 
  rectangular length; on top of the tablecloth itself is a single candle and 
  two fluted goblets in Calamari crystal. The glasses, one imagines, are 
  companions to whatever bottle is cooling in the bucket resting beside the 
  table.
Just outside the moonlight's pool, fingers twisting within the satin 
  simplicity of her transluscent attire, Leia Organa Solo waits with a 
  nervousness unlike any she has before experienced. _He'll never believe the 
  note,_ she tells herself silently. _It was a contrived idea to begin with. 
  'Han, meet a Republican entourage for a late supper at the Gaiisa's 
  Presidential Suite. Leia.' If that doesn't sound like a setup, what does?_ 
  She swallows, trying to look and feel relaxed and knowing a blush the color 
  of Yavinese cherries is blistering her cheeks. _Married women do -not- 
  behave this way..._

Clad in what passes for him as dress wear -- which is to say, his uniform 
  tunic is not only clean but even _pressed_, his boots are shined, and he's 
  grumpily agreed to wear a jacket with rank sigils and finery on its breast 
  pockets and sleeves, though he's disdained the capes several of the NR 
  officers sport -- Han Solo tracks a dubious course through the hotel. _She 
  could have given me a little more warning,_ the Corellian thinks peevishly, 
  tracked by the pair of young GroundOps privates assigned to him tonight to 
  escort him planetside. With the two young soldiers in his wake, he reaches 
  the suite and buzzes the door, trying to fight off visions of spending the 
  next several hours being extremely bored.

The pair of well-kempt, buffed and buff Republican Navy security men flanking 
  the door exchange glances, impressively impassive, and the senior of the two 
  noncoms smartly salutes Han and states with professional candor, "Excuse me, 
  General, but the quarters are not as spacious outside as they are inside. 
  Our orders are to keep the corridors clear; your detail can patrol here with 
  us, if they'd like."

This baffles the pair of privates, not to mention the General. Solo returns 
  the salute, but demands baffledly, "What do you mean, not spacious? It's the 
  Presidential Suite, ain't it?"

"Sir, it is the presidential suite," the sergeant reports respectfully, "but 
  her Highness was explicit about needing as much free space as possible for 
  the evening. She was quite insistent, sir."

_How big are these delegates anyway?_ Solo thinks, his brow crinkled under the 
  cap he's been talked -- reluctantly -- into wearing atop his for-once neatly 
  groomed dark hair. "Alright, alright," he mutters, then turns to the two 
  young men who had accompanied him. "Dismissed, you two. Grab yourselves 
  something to eat, and then report back up here to relieve these two -- if 
  you two haven't had dinner yet?" The Corellian glances at the two Navy 
  personnel at the door.

The younger man cracks a small smile while shaking his head. "No, sir, 
  but...no sir. Thank you, sir." Whatever he wanted to say was bitten off by 
  his senior's sidelong glare, and, squaring his shoulders again, he resumes 
  his silent vigil.

One of Han's GroundOps men is keeping a very carefully straight face, while 
  the younger one peers bemusedly at the Navy men, opening his mouth to ask 
  something before his companion gives him a sharp jab with his elbow. Missing 
  this while he nods curtly to the current guards, Han then turns back to his 
  own men, and concludes, "All right, in that case, just report back up here 
  in an hour for further orders."

"Yes sir!" the pair of privates choruses, tossing off matched salutes which 
  are returned by the General.

As his two men head off down the corridor, Han then turns, squares his 
  shoulders, and mutters under his breath, "Here goes..." Then, he steps 
  through the door into the suite.

What greets his eyes is darkness, initially, and substantially so when 
  juxtaposed to the amount of light and population Han likely expects to see. 
  No music is audible: the not-so-distant songs of water and cetaceans and 
  seabreeze is amply dulcet. The single candle flickers bravely to forestall 
  the shadows, its light sufficient to illuminate the ghostly white figure 
  standing near the small table, her hands clasped before her as if to still 
  their motion. Weight shifts from one foot to the other, poking out her right 
  hip just so, and she clears her throat delicately.

As the door slides shut behind him, Han pauses, stunned. His hazel gaze sweeps 
  round the dimly lit room, and when it comes to light upon the Princess, he 
  moves toward her, amazement reflected in his features. His forefinger comes 
  out unconsiously to point at her, as he begins sternly, "Your Worship, this 
  is _not_..." His stare drops to take in her attire, however, and he 
  concludes, a surprised smile starting to curl one corner of his mouth, "... 
  a dinner party. What's goin' on?"

Leia's hand untangles from its mate to brush away a fold in the fabric of her 
  white gown, its gossamer length embracing her like a ray of shimmering white 
  light. Arms bare save for the cascade of chestnut hair that, for once, is 
  allowed to flow unfettered, she flashes the pallor of her wrist to him while 
  tucking an errant lock behind one ear. The gesture, and its accompanying 
  smile, are decidedly girlish and shy. "No," she concurs, that velvety 
  contralto forcefully casual, "it isn't."

Han's smile broadens, his eyes widening slightly as he looks his wife up and 
  down, momentarily reluctant to spoil his view by stepping up to her. But he 
  does reach then to take one of her hands, as he breathes out approvingly, 
  "You look... radiant, Princess."

The disparaging comment that leaps to her lips escapes unspoken; tonight she 
  wants to be radiant, to be the most beautiful woman she can be for him. Her 
  husband, the hero, the general, the scoundrel. (And were she to be asked 
  which of those titles she prefers, a betting man would choose the third.) As 
  she returns his ardent admiration, a puff of wind ruffles her gown and hair 
  and scatters the candle's light in flickers across the room and her creamy 
  features before settling again, relieved, into a steadier glow.

Transfixed, Han holds the hand he's taken, and he murmurs warmly -- hopefully, 
  "There _is_ no delegation, is there?"

Leia, not trusting her voice, raises her chin in affirmation before sentiment 
  compels her to whisper tenatively, "Happy anniversary, Han."

_Anniversary?!_ That he forgot is obvious, from the flare of amazement and 
  then chagrin in his expression. But he immediately moves to embrace the 
  Princess, to kiss her, to whisper roughly back, "I forgot. Too busy bein' a 
  General..."

"Last year," Leia teases against the pristine crispness of his attire, "it was 
  'too busy being an envoy.' What will you be too busy as next year when you 
  forget?" Her hand curls about his face, thumb lovingly tracing the line of 
  his cheekbone, as she draws him downward for a kiss, murmuring, "I think I 
  could use a lesson in forgetting life..."

"I'll worry about next year next year," Han rumbles, willingly sliding his 
  arms around his beloved's slender form, leaning his head down to meet her 
  lips with his own.

_I love you so much,_ she proclaims silently while their mouths fuse with 
  sweet softness, then a glimmer of purpose. Jesting and joking are hallmarks 
  of their relationship, so the fervor with which she makes her silent 
  declaration is rarely expressed aloud. This kiss, therefore, must stand as 
  wordless proof of her boundless bounty of affection.

At last, Han lifts his head again, and he whispers down along Leia's white 
  brow, "The door... don't want anybody comin' in."

Leia essays a backwards step, then blindly locates the bottle of Eaystropish 
  bubbling wine while explaining thinly, "That's what the guards are for, 
  Han." She did try to think of some details in advance....

Right. Han chuckles soundlessly, glancing back over his shoulder, and then 
  turning his gaze round and down to his wife again as she shifts in his arms. 
  "All right," he whispers playfully. "What was that you were sayin' about 
  forgetting life, hmm?"

The bottle forgotten and hanging loosely against her leg, Leia loses herself 
  in the wonder of those well-loved hazel eyes, smiling like a teen with a 
  schoolgirl crush. Her free hand catches in his hair, urging his face toward 
  hers as she lifts her lips to meet him. "What's life?" she answers softly, 
  just before their mouths touch.

He'd been prepared to stoically endure political and diplomatic banter, 
  prepared simply because Leia had asked it of him, though he isn't about to 
  admit that he'd had any such sentiment. This is a most welcome alternative 
  to what he _thought_ was going to be the evening's activity, and Han quite 
  happily feasts upon the Princess's proferred lips. One arm slides down as he 
  contemplates sweeping her up into his arms, and as the bottle lightly 
  brushes his leg, he pulls his head up in query. "What've you got here, Your 
  Worship?" he inquires amusedly.

Her words are whispered, pale in tonality; Han always could rob her rapidly of 
  her breath, presence, restraint... "Bubbly wine from Eaystrope. In case you 
  didn't show yourself to be cooperative at first..."

"Now since when," drawls the Corellian, brushing his lips down along Leia's 
  once more and breathing his words in between the feather-light contacts, 
  "have I ever not cooperated with kissing you...?" He pauses, though, 
  eyebrows arching. "Where's Eaystrope?"

Leia is a married woman, a seasoned politician and stateswoman, an 
  accomplished diplomat. Blushing is the bane of far younger females, not of 
  an Alderaanian princess.
So no rational explanation can be giving for the ripe redness of her cheeks. 
  None at all.

"It's near...ahm...Ghressk," she passes off blindly, doubting Han was ignorant 
  of that planet's reputation for overt expressions of and pursuit of 
  pleasure. "I...erm...if you can open the bottle I'll get the glasses..."

It would, perhaps, seem that there is at least one planet whose location Han 
  Solo does _not_ know -- but then, well, hey, it's a big galaxy. He peers 
  down at Leia, pondering her odd behavior, and muses, _Well, if it'll help 
  her unwind..._ "Sure," he agrees magnanimously, taking the bottle out of her 
  hand and letting her get the glasses as she's suggested, though he doesn't 
  let her move without another slow and heated line of kisses along her 
  cheeks. "Anything you say, wife."

Leia trembles, either from nervousness or his nearness, and the glasses clink 
  together musically before she steels her nerves and stops her hands' 
  quivering. "Were you surprised?" she asks in a not-so-subtle attempt to pass 
  time.

Han grins gently down at the Princess, sensing the nervousness, accustomed to 
  it, and quite at ease with the notion of taking the time to help her relax 
  in the most delightful ways possible. He pops open the bottle to pour out a 
  measure of its contents into one glass, then the other, all the while 
  watching her with a smoldering sort of regard. "Completely," he informs her 
  straightfacedly.

_Brother, I stink at this_. "I...it wasn't...I figured you'd be worried about 
  spending the night with some stuffy diplomats and bureaucrats, so this would 
  startle you." _Leia, give it up. You sound as casual as Mon Mothma at a 
  state dinner._ "We, ah, have all night, you know." _And -you- know that you 
  were only a little more nervous on the wedding night, Leia._
Suddenly that drink is looking quite appealing.

Han lazily lifts up his own glass, sniffing at the contents idly, and then 
  sipping down some of the stuff. Hey, maybe Leia will get the idea, hmm? He 
  grins her a devilish crooked grin, and as he slides an arm around her once 
  more, he purrs, "I'll hafta tell my men to go away again."

The glass touches Leia's mouth but very little of the drink is imbibed: she, 
  not Han, is cognizant of its heady aftereffects and is biding her time. The 
  trader from whom the bottle was procured had said that with a few minutes 
  and a few sips of the bubbly wine, even a Trandoshan would find the most 
  romantic side of his soul. She studies Han keenly, willing the fermented 
  beverage to do what she paid so dearly for it to do.

Already feeling amorous to begin with, the Corellian absently determines that 
  whatever this wine is that Leia has procured, it tastes rather good, and he 
  takes down another healthy swallow of the stuff before moving his hand down 
  to set the glass aside on the nearest available surface. As he turns 
  slightly away from her, though, a strange look passes over his face, and his 
  hand slows its descent to the table.

Leia sips carefully and, like Han, places her glass on the table while staring 
  unblinkingly at his profile. "Do you like it?" Her tongue seems to 
  tingle, even from the few milliliters she has enjoyed, though her 
  disposition explains more of her mood than the wine. She thinks.

Odd. Han peers down at his hand, forgetting that he'd been about to set down 
  the glass, before Leia's question distracts him and draws the hazel gaze 
  back around to the royal features. Another grin, a fraction slower and 
  softer than its predecessor, crosses his face. "Yeah," he murmurs. "It's 
  pretty good..." And he trails off, suddenly caught by the urge to just drink 
  in the details of the Princess's dark liquid eyes, the curve of her cheeks, 
  each strand of her hair.

"You seem a little flushed." Leia places her hands at the collar of his shirt 
  and silently reminds herself that it is -not- silly for a wife to undress 
  her husband; swallowing, she asks with a crooked smile remniscent of one of 
  Han's more frequent expressions, "Do you want to take off your jacket?"

"What?" Han rumbles absently, his gaze still quite comfortably resting upon 
  Leia's delicate face. The smolder is still there in his eyes, but it's 
  softened somehow, beginning to turn more towards a glow than a spark. Then 
  he blinks a few times, and seems to shake his head a little. "Right... my 
  jacket." He glances down at his uniformed frame, and murmurs ruefully, 
  "Y'know, I think this is the first time I've actually worn this thing...?"

Leia murmurs, "You look better without it," as she eases it off his 
  impressively broad shoulders. Next goes the cap, and unthinkingly she 
  tousles his hair. Neatness, she determines, does not a scoundrel make.

Han mrmrms wordlessly, and as the jacket comes off, he lifts up his glass 
  again, deciding to drain the glass so he can set it down and out of the way 
  as the Princess goes about the task of separating him from his uniform. 
  _Good wine..._ The glass makes it to the table just as Han's dark hair gets 
  tousled, and he feels honorbound to protest, "Hey, you're makin' me 
  scruffy..." And he pauses, bemused by the softened sound of his own voice. 
  _Wha...?_

It's Leia's turn to look playful, though the giggle that bubbles out of her is 
  nothing close to the seductive mood she wants to plant this evening. 
  "Scruffy nerfherder," she teases, then is sobered by the wine's seeming 
  reaction in her husband. A flash of guilt courses through her, and in answer 
  to it she grasps her glass and quaffs a third in one gulp, thinking _What's 
  good for the mynock is good for the mynkaa..._

"I feel strange," mumbles the Corellian, and he puts on what he thinks is a 
  stern frown, but which comes out as a slight drawing together of his brows. 
  Rather milder than he expects, too, is his voice as he accuses, "You slipped 
  me somethin', you sneaky..." Intending to forcefully pull Leia back to him, 
  his arms sliding around her, he finds himself staggering a little instead. 
  Han manages to catch himself, and catch the Princess in his grasp, but as he 
  does the urge to gaze dreamily down at her hits him again and stronger. He 
  doesn't finish his sentence.

Leia has nothing near Han's head for alcohol and barely feels the glass 
  departing her fingertips to land with a silvery ring on the decorative 
  carpet under the table. Her knees feel weak, and honesty demands she admit 
  that Han's nearness is far likelier the cause than any foolish wine 
  purchased from some streetsmart vender. A kiss abruptly flaunts itself as 
  the end-all, be-all of desirable things, and in reaction Leia somehow brings 
  them together for a searing embrace.

Feeling very, _very_ warm, Han loses complete track of what he's doing, 
  yielding completely to the suggestion and promise in Leia's form against 
  his, her arms encircling his neck, and her lips coming up to claim his. By 
  the time he comes up for a breath, his eyes have closed, and a strange 
  pleasant veil has dropped down between him and reality. There is only Leia. 
  Lovely Leia. Beautiful Leia. Along with the giddying desire already coursing 
  through him, sentiment wells up within Han. Before he can stop himself, he's 
  murmuring in his native language, "All that man's desire ever could 
  comprise... meet within her aspect and her eyes..."

Leia's grasp of Corellian is pretty good on a sober day, but with her mind 
  hazed by the wine, she is less likely to believe her ears...and the notion 
  that her husband, who is romantic in his own way rather than the more 
  conventional manner, is spouting poetic phrases like a lovesick pup. 
  "Poetry?" she mumbles, eyes following the movement of his lips and that 
  wonderful scar.

_Poetry?_ Han wonders, startled at himself. His eyes open, and his gaze has 
  turned an odd translucent mix of hot and liquid, like a crackling fire 
  viewed through a wall of water. _I know poetry...?_ "Wanted to say it," he 
  finds himself murmuring, his head tilting down as the scent of the 
  Princess's unbound hair seizes his senses. "Tell you how beautiful you are, 
  Your Worship. Don't tell you enough..."

This new Han both unnerves and thrills Leia, who _knows_ Han loves her and 
  finds her beautiful but who, indeed, hears it infrequently. Her fingers 
  stray into the placket of buttons on his shirt as she assures him gently, 
  voice a whispered kiss against his chest, "You tell me in your own way, just 
  as...just as...I reveal my heart's desire to you with every passing glance." 
  Blink.

The feel of those fingers moving softly against his shirt front, fleeting and 
  light though the contact might be, is enough to lift Han's head up, to make 
  him catch his breath. Breathless, and amazed to find himself so, he wets his 
  lips and tries to rally his thoughts. "What was in that wine?" he whispers, 
  starting the question with the determination to find out what it is that the 
  Princess tricked him into drinking, and finishing it with a different 
  intention entirely: to simply hear the cadences of her voice. And he winds 
  up entreating, "Tell me... talk to me, talk some more..."

An orator of Leia's calibre has no trouble with words, but the soft, sweet 
  nothings of love are a far cry from the political tightropes she is 
  experienced in walking during her speeches. Her self-doubts are subordinate 
  to the doubly potent effects of the bubbly wine and the ardor in Han's 
  visage, and dimly she hears herself telling him, "I was scarcely alive 
  before you found me, nothing more than a drone in service to our cause. You 
  are the fire alight inside me, Han...you unlocked the secret and unveiled 
  the woman I never knew I could be. Only you; you were born with the key to 
  my heart, my very existence."

The words are practically inconsequential; as far as Han is concerned, the 
  mere fact that Leia is speaking, her voice caressing his ears, is the far 
  more vitally important issue. But enough of the words get through to fire 
  off a surge of heat and light and bliss throughout his frame, and he repays 
  her by cradling one arm around her back, and lifting up a hand to draw his 
  fingertips all around the edges of her face. "I could listen to you," he 
  begins, his voice turned brandy-warm and low and rich and velvet, "talk 
  forever..." But he trails off, his eyes flickering closed and then open 
  again, dizzily.

Talk? That isn't precisely what Leia has in mind, is it? She blinks and exerts 
  some effort in focussing, but Han's voice, touch, and dizzied, dizzying gaze 
  erase opportunity for intelligence. "We should lie down," she observes, 
  trying to sound practical but hearing a voice slurred and sensuous thanks to 
  that Easystropish drink.

Not only is she beautiful, she's smart, too. Han gazes down at his beloved, 
  and murmurs raptly, "Lovely Princess. Clever Princess." He nods for 
  emphasis, and then blinks a few more times as this makes the room swirl 
  around him. Bed. There's a bed around here somewhere, isn't there? Supposing 
  he has to locate it, but finding it exceedingly difficult to take his eyes 
  off the enchantress in white, Han slowly turns his head, and starts to sway 
  as he does.

Leia's arm encircles Han's waist to steer him in the proper direction, her 
  attention riveted on him rather than on the direction in which they are 
  walking. Has Han ever looked so handsome, so desirable, so perfect? She 
  certainly recalls no such other moment than this. Sadly, her foot catches on 
  the edge of the plush shearskin rug at the edge of the living area proper, 
  and down she tumbles, likely bearing him with her. The density of the rug 
  promises to leave no flesh bruised, but the fall is likely graceless.

_Ack. Who shut off the gravity?_ Realizing a collision with the floor is 
  imminent, the Corellian fumbles to support his wife, his only thought that 
  it is absolutely crucial that he interpose himself between her and anything 
  that would cause her even vague inconvenience, much less harm. Down Han 
  goes, his lanky frame thudding into the floor, though the impact is muted by 
  the thick softness of the rug. And he winds up flat on his back, blinking 
  dazedly as his hands fumble over the Princess's slender form, looking for 
  assurance of her condition and her presence.

It isn't the bed, but horizontal they are, and all in all Leia has few 
  complaints about it. She reclines against his chest, searching his face as 
  she stares downward at him, then does what any sensible princess would do in 
  this situation with her consort (especially after a glass of bubbly wine). 
  The kiss she bestows upon him is drunken, to be certain, but the giddiness 
  is fraught with an underscoring of legitimate sentiment. She sincerely, 
  unquestionably, loves Han, and this moment is exactly what she longed for 
  when she plotted and schemed to arrange the evening hours earlier.

Several years appear to have somehow dropped off Solo's face, making him look 
  boyish and even innocent, almost, with that wonderment playing across his 
  features. His arms slide up around the Princess, holding her firmly close. 
  Ever so slightly disoriented, he doesn't see the kiss coming, as expected as 
  it might be -- no, Han has found a fascination in simply running his hands 
  all over Leia's form, his gaze trailing over her face and hair and shoulders 
  as if he's never seen her before. Kissed, he can be felt and heard to catch 
  his breath, and it seems to take him a second or two before he catches up 
  with what Leia so clearly has in mind.

The wine and its dizzying properties have spurred Leia into a far-greater 
  level of assertiveness than she normally would show, even in the privacy and 
  safety of her husband's embrace. Her hands, which had been bracing her 
  against the substantial curve of his chest, begin fumbling with the 
  fastenings of his shirt with her intentions advertised blatently in her 
  actions and in her kiss.

"Leia," Han murmurs marvellingly, eyes a little wide and dazed, as he tries to 
  take in what she's doing even as his palms slide lightly all over her back 
  and shoulders, then lose themselves in the depths her hair. His uniform 
  tunic yields readily to her efforts, baring the scarred chest beneath, but 
  the Corellian for his part hasn't seemed to yet realize that he might be 
  delivering the same sort of attentions to Leia's filmy garb. No, the feel of 
  the gown against her frame -- and his -- has apparently captivated him, 
  along with the feel of her dark hair; his hands are still quite occupied 
  with silken white and silken brown. "Leia," he repeats dreamily.

Leia is intoxicated as much by the heady masculinity of her Corellian love and 
  his proximity as by the bubbly wine they have both imbibed. She lavishes his 
  chest with feathery touches of her lips as each inch of skin appears, dimly 
  wondering what in the name of the twin suns of Tatooine she is doing. 
  Seduction is hardly her normal fare, yet some modicum of restraint is 
  required to prevent her from losing patience and tearing that tidy uniform 
  shirt from his torso. "I'm here," she breathes against him, head spinning 
  with the implications of his caresses and whispers. "Han...."

Here is good. Here is _very_, _very_ good, indescribably good. Somewhere in 
  the back of his mind, Han retains a measure of awareness that he is _not_ 
  himself, even as the fathomless -- well -- _goodness_ of his current 
  situation sends a wave of fervent pleasure through him. "What've you done to 
  me, vixen?" he rumbles, trying to rise, an idea of rolling Leia over into 
  the crook of his arm coalescing in his thoughts.

Vixen? That doesn't sound right. At this juncture, however, Han could refer to 
  Leia as anything and, to her ears, it would be received like the highest of 
  compliments, the sweetest of terms. As he rises, she anticipates the coming 
  movement and rolls rightward, urging him to follow the shift by leaving her 
  fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt and answering his question with a 
  positively un-Leiaish, "Not as much as I want to..."

"Vixen," Han murmurs again, wonderingly, as he finds himself abruptly looking 
  down at the Princess cradled in his arm. His free hand comes up to stroke 
  her face, his motions simultaneously tender and heated, his eyes growing 
  brighter. "Angel... siren..." And he murmurs several more words, changing 
  languages unconsciously as endearments occur to him, rather more than one 
  might think he'd know.

Her heart overflowing from adoration and the effusive emotions buoying her, 
  Leia smothers him with kisses while desire fights a pitched battle with 
  decency within her. So much does she want him, in a piercingly, unmaidenly, 
  wanton way, but so much does she wish to savor this moment, that needs are 
  warring with each other and leaving her unbalanced within and without. To 
  mask this indecision, she kisses his shoulder, face averted.

Han doesn't seem to be in a hurry; indeed, he seems quite content to immerse 
  himself in trying to fuse himself and his wife into one being, if his 
  answering kisses are any indication. He keeps murmuring out husky 
  endearments, some in decidedly unromantic-sounding languages, but eventually 
  he makes his way back to Corellian, and there he stays as he whispers in low 
  and rich and hopeful tones, "My love, my Princess, heart's flame, Your 
  Worshipfulness, Your Radiance..."

What Leia answers, eyes shimmeringly bright, is also in Corellian, her accent 
  flawless, her meaning explicit...as is her suggestion about what he ought to 
  do with his mouth instead of speaking.

Han's face lights up with startled delight, and although the back of his mind 
  is wondering exactly what has come over the woman he loves -- the woman he 
  loves! If he didn't know any better, he'd swear his heart was thudding like 
  a kid's at the mere thought -- the rest of his thoughts swoop gleefully down 
  on the suggesetion. And the rest of him enacts it, with ardor, until his 
  head starts spinning again. He wobbles, tilting sideways onto his elbow, 
  trying to catch himself while not breaking contact with his beloved.

_Maybe he had too much??_ Leia considers fleetingly, followed by her own 
  numbing thought. _Maybe -I- had too much??_ Like him, her consciousness is 
  neatly divided between the foreground thoughts of ardor and sheer, 
  unadulterated passion and the background reminders that things are not 
  normal here...and the foreground is much, much more successful. After her 
  arms rope supportively about his torso, balancing him and keeping him near, 
  her fingers claw the shirt upward and off of his back as her thirst for his 
  unclothed skin borders on the acute.

The shirt's departure is not even noticed. Han rolls back onto his back again, 
  clinging to Leia now, conscious of nothing else save her; only an 
  instinctual awareness that now is _not_ the time for him to be falling over 
  makes him change his position, all the better to press Leia down to him, to 
  get lost in discovering what manner of Princess is lurking beneath 
  diaphonous white and unbound dark tresses. And for a time, everything blurs 
  together in a sweet hot haze, Leia at its center and driving what remains of 
  rational thought straight out of his brain....

Time kicks in again... when? Han doesn't know, jolting awake all at once, with 
  the kind of displacement he's used to getting only on the sixth day of a 
  five-day leave. _Wha.... where?_ He lifts his head off the pillow he 
  realizes is beneath it, and blinks about in bemusement to discover himself 
  in the middle of a sizeable bed and a small sea of tangled blankets and 
  sheets. There's a lingering fog on his immediate short-term memory, and it 
  takes him a few moments before a thought he finds himself blurting, "Leia!"

Slumbering - if such a deep, involved sleep can be so lightly termed - against 
  Han's side, face pressed to his ribs, is the tousled and mostly-revealed 
  figure of his wife Leia...or what should be Leia beneath the masking sheen 
  of her dark, well-mussed hair. Han's outcry startles her from her drowse, 
  but her reaction is numbed and negligible. "Mpfh," she answers with lips 
  mashed into one rib, and nothing more.

_There_ she is. Han turns his head, realizing that not only is he entangled 
  with the blankets, he's rather tangled up limb to limb with the Princess, 
  too. Bits of memory begin trickling back into his thoughts, and he stares 
  wide-eyed and grinning lightly down at his wife. _Did she really... did I 
  really... did we....? Umm. Er..._ Lowering his mouth down towards her ear, 
  he whispers experimentally, "Princess?"

As consciousness creeps unwelcome into her thoughts, Leia becomes aware of the 
  brisk wafting of sea air from the bedroom's balcony doors (thrown open from 
  Maker-knows-WHAT they did out there hours earlier) and shivers reactively, 
  then presses against her husband and his blissfully, blessedly warm frame. 
  "G'baggasleep," she insists without further stirring. "'s too early."

Too early? Han has no idea what time it is, but that's definitely sunlight out 
  there, and it occurs to the Corellian that he's lost track of quite a bit 
  more time than he'd expected to spend on the planet. He peers down at Leia, 
  still rather thunderstruck; had she planned this? For that matter, had she 
  planned -- where _is_ that bottle, anyway? Pressing a gentle kiss to the 
  royal brow to soothe her back down into slumber, Han casts a surreptitious 
  glance around what he can see of the room.

The room, to put it politely, is a disaster. A trail of clothing leads from 
  the living area into the bedroom; the diaphanous gown Leia had worn appears 
  to lie in three separate pieces between the bed and the doorway, and her 
  underthings - insubstantial fripperies that they were - are nowhere to be 
  seen. Han's attire is likewise strewn hither and yon. The aforementioned 
  bottle is lying empty on the bedside table, only one glass in sight, and the 
  bedclothes are disreputably dishevelled. Leia, all too delighted to remain 
  precisely as she is, snuggles contentedly and flings a bare arm across his 
  stomach, hugging him all the nearer.

_Weeeeeeeeeell._ With visual evidence at hand, Han's memory begins creeping 
  back. For a few moments he stares over at the empty bottle, feeling shock 
  and chagrin at what the stuff had done to him -- _Chewie_, he tells himself 
  firmly, _is -never- going to hear about this, the furball would never let me 
  live it down!_ Immediately on the heels of that thought, however, comes a 
  stab of disappointment that the bottle is in fact empty. Resolving that he 
  is going to -have- to find out exactly where Leia acquired that concoction 
  -- _later_ -- the Corellian settles for now on getting a slow and sweet 
  revenge. Returning his mouth to her brow, he kisses it again, and rumbles 
  very softly, "Leia...."

_Leia. Leia? Oh. That's me._ The princess raises her head without much 
  enthusiasm, dark brown eyes peering dimly through darker brown hair. Fingers 
  rake through the tousled locks to facilitate her narrow, bleary stare at 
  Han's chin above her. "Hmmm?" _Uaghhh....what did we drink? What did we DO?_

"Good morning, Your Worship," Han murmurs, his voice the lightest of whispers. 
  He reaches a hand up, ever so delicately stroking through Leia's dark hair 
  to deal with the pounding he strongly suspects is going on in her skull. His 
  other hand, though, begins a slow course down her spine, fingers kneading 
  out muscles his returning memory tells him are going to need the massage.

Leia's eyes turn into even narrower slits while she studies Han from this odd 
  angle, expression quizzical. The massage is heavenly and altogether too 
  necessary, yet even minor jostling is undesirable at present. "Han...just 
  let me sleep," she pleads thinly, plunking herself back onto his chest with 
  full expectation of obediance.

Oh, he fully intends to let her sleep...
Eventually.

[End log.]