Log Date:
	9/28/98

Log Cast:
	Han Solo, Leia Organa-Solo, Tarroc D'agor, Blaze

Log Intro:
	Caspar has proven to be a dangerous place for several of the
New Republic's highest ranking representatives. Jessalyn Valios, Jedi,
has been attacked by one Dark Side Force-user -- and Princess Leia has
been attacked by another, no less than Emperor Valak himself, who has
been responsible for temporarily depriving Luke of his own Force abilities.
Not only has Leia suffered under Valak's assault and been left near-dead,
but she's also very nearly been carried off by the same Rodian bounty
hunter who attacked Han on Kichnar Station in orbit around the planet.
Only grudgingly has Leia yielded to Han and Luke's combined demands that
she retreat to the safety of Home One, and only slightly less grudgingly
has she agreed to a deal with her husband that if either of them have
to go stationside or planetside, that they will not under any circumstances
go unescorted.
	It's a tough deal to live with for both the Princess and the
General, and a couple of times, Leia has found herself making the
impulsive decision to put the agreement on the back burner when her duties
have been urgent. But she does not, unfortunately, know of the effect this
is having on her husband, who has been going out of his way to behave
for once. After her second foray sans guards down to the planet, she is
about to find out....

----------
"No! _NO!_ I _know_ there's a short circuit, go _fix_ it, don't _tell_ me 
  again!" Han Solo's voice, for all that he's hissing out the order rather 
  than bellowing it as he might normally to the hapless droid rolling along 
  the upper hull of the _Falcon_, is carrying quite well by simple virtue of 
  his being perched up there along with the droid. The droid chirps meekly and 
  goes off to do as he's demanded, leaving the Corellian to kneel over the 
  access panel he's got open, scowling vehemently. Sparks fly up from the 
  welding torch he's got in his gloved hands, reflecting off the goggles he's 
  got pulled down over his eyes.

The Republic shuttle _Hope_ enters the landing bay with the ease of a craft 
  flown by an experienced and careful pilot, settling in a berth near the 
  always-under-repair YT-1300 that Solo is fixing. After a few minutes and a 
  complete shutdown procedure, the shuttle's ramp opens and from it steps a 
  small brunette in Alderaanian blue. Her brown eyes flicker this way and 
  that, then she takes several rapid steps toward the main corridor away from 
  the landing bay.

The droid up on the _Falcon_, swiveling its optic receptors in the direction 
  of the shuttle, chirrups out a startled announcement to Han; Han, however, 
  merely looks up. Behind his goggles, his eyes spark with rather the same 
  kind of heat and sharpness that his torch is accomplishing, and his 
  expression hardens as he returns his attention to his work. A response not 
  forthcoming to its attempt to be helpful, the droid warbles woefully.

The gaze and its sender's mood halt Leia's progress and, with a sigh, she 
  slows to a stop and swivels about to regard the Corellian and his droid 
  companion. A war ensues inside Leia, one between her common sense, which 
  advocates flight from the substantial temper percolating in Han's glare, and 
  her wifely devotion, which reminds her that she dug this grave for herself 
  and consequences must at some time be faced. She lets out a long sigh, 
  frowns, and steps nearer to the _Falcon_, peering at the begoggled general.

Han doesn't look up, once. His eyes might be obscured by the goggles, but his 
  mouth is set into a grim and stony line accented by the tightening of the 
  scar across his chin. The droid attempts one more hopeful chirp, and Han's 
  only response is to lift a begloved hand and shoot a forefinger off in the 
  direction of the short circuit to which the droid had just been ordered. If 
  the droid had shoulders, it'd be slumping them; as it happens, it merely has 
  to settle for a woebegone whistle as it rolls off again.

Leia clears her throat, not to catch Han's attention but to ease the tension 
  within her trachea. "Something wrong with the _Falcon_?" she queries as a 
  conversational opener, her tone uncharacteristically tenative.

For a significantly long moment, Han doesn't answer his wife, and it might 
  seem as if he hadn't even heard her over the splutter of his torch. But then 
  he calls down in bland tones that bear absolutely no relation to the 
  expression of set, black fury on his lean face, "Wrong with the _Falcon_? 
  Nah, nothin' at all, thank you for your concern, Your Highness." Well, okay, 
  maybe there _is_ a relation there after all, with that sardonic bite to 
  Han's words. He still doesn't look up.

"Well, is there something wrong with her pilot?" Leia squints toward Han, one 
  hand resting on her lightsaber - she's not entirely dim and going about 
  unarmed, after all - while she awaits his response. A note of dread sounds 
  in the back of her mind: this is not going to go well at all, at all.

Tarroc has arrived.
Tarroc enters Landing Bays -- Main Deck <Home One>

To that query, Han _does_ look down at his wife, but only to shoot down the 
  sort of bland smirk he frequently uses on bureaucrats who have the 
  foolishness to corner him when he doesn't want to be cornered. "Why, no, 
  Your Royal Highness, there's nothing at all wrong with the pilot of the 
  _Millenium Falcon_, and thank you very much for your kind and magnanimous 
  concern." With that, he rivets his attention back on what he's doing, the 
  torch spluttering away.

Oh, so he's in a mood. Well, Leia has posession of a fairly decent temper 
  herself, and it shows in the furrowing of her brow and the flare of heat in 
  her voice. "All right, how long am I going to have to wait before you yell 
  at me over whatever I've done to upset you?" she queries, keeping her voice 
  quiet...and ominously so. The best defense is a good offense, after all.

The General shuts off his torch, and clasps one gloved hand to his chest, his 
  expression the very picture of bland innocence as he looks down off the top 
  of the _Falcon_, dark brows raising over his goggles. "Yell? At Her Royal 
  Highness?" he drawls loudly. "Whyever would I presume to yell at her Royal 
  Highness?"

Tarroc emerges from beneath the undercarriage of his starfighter, wearing the 
  typical utility belt of a technician; he doesn't seem to care that it 
  clashes horribly with his orange flightsuit. Digging around in one of the 
  larger pockets, he retrieves a hydrospanner and fiddles with it a moment, 
  leaning up against the side of the X-wing. His gaze sweeps over the hangar 
  bay slowly.

A high color sweeps into Leia's cheeks and her lips pinch together while she 
  darts a glance about her to see who else is on the deck and within hearing 
  range. She is caught between ire to match Han's and a substantial amount of 
  hurt. Eventually she resorts to strategic withdrawal, mutters, "Fine," and 
  spins on her heel to depart.

Not a yell, not a call, not even a smart remark from the Corellian. His black 
  expression doesn't alter, and he slams his attention back to the task at 
  hand, until at last the recalcitrant cabling is re-welded. The droid who'd 
  been helping out comes creeping back towards him again, and to the droid at 
  least Han seems a bit more communicative... even if his orders to it are as 
  edged and sarcastic as his words to his wife had been.

Leia heads into the main corridor.
Leia has left.

Tarroc isn't terribly perceptive when it comes to disputes as such, but he has 
  at least a marginally good idea of what just transpired. Pushing off the 
  side of his fighter, he tightens his utility belt so it's not sliding off, 
  then makes his way toward the battered old YT-1300.

Solo keeps up his work, finally firing down the torch and slamming the access 
  panel shut. His voice carries quite well off the top of the freighter as he 
  harangues the hapless droid, "Yes, I _know_, did you fix it or didn't you? I 
  know, I know, get over there and deal with the next one!"

Tarroc overhears the General and slows a bit -- perhaps asking if he needed 
  any help would just be a way of ruining his otherwise fine day. Chewing on 
  his lower lip, he resolutely shakes his head, "Everyone needs to have their 
  heads in the right places in times like this," he rationalizes to himself. 
  Reaching the shadow of the YT-1300 created in the artificial lighting, he 
  calls up toward the General, "Need any help?" The question is a little vague 
  -- as if it could apply to problems with his ship or.. other things.

The new voice calling up to him gives the Corellian a bit of a pause, but just 
  a bit. He pauses in his fiery stride across the top of his ship's hull, 
  shoots a searching glare down at the source of the call, and then says 
  curtly, "No. Thank you. I got everything under control."

Tarroc hesitates a moment, casting a glance at his booted feet a moment before 
  looking back up. "Doesn't look like it, the way your wife just stormed off," 
  he notes, folding his arms over his chest. He makes sure he's /just/ 
  close enough to the ship to seek cover should any metal implements be lobbed 
  in his direction.

Han doesn't throw any implements, metal or otherwise. But he does lift up his 
  goggles off his eyes, and he pins the younger officer with a steely hazel 
  glare and an entirely insincere, unamiable, narrow little smile. "Her Royal 
  Highness," he replies bitingly, "may go where she wishes, as she has made 
  infinitely clear to such humble personages as her brother and her bodyguards 
  and her friends. Why_ever_ should I take issue with where her Royal Highness 
  chooses to go?"

Tarroc keeps his arms folded and maintains a firm gaze stalwartly. A few 
  seconds pass before he answers with a question of his own, "If that's how 
  you really feel, then why did you just have an argument with her about it?" 
  A beat, then he addends, "No one wants to be controlled, you know." Perhaps 
  his tenure in the military has lent him a little more courage then he used 
  to possess.

"An 'argument'?" drawls Han, even more bitingly, pointing at himself with his 
  gloved forefingers, the welding torch still in his grasp. "_Me_, presume to 
  argue with Her Royal Highness? To yell? To express an opinion contrary to 
  her royal wishes? Why the _hells_ would such a thing _ever_ cross my mind?" 
  The droid creeps over again, warbles out a faint and uneasy report about the 
  second short circuit being fixed; Solo turns and bellows at the little mech, 
  "So get over there and inspect the rest of the board!" When he turns back to 
  Tarroc, however, he goes on in that same sarcastic, edged tone, "Naaah, _I_ 
  just want to keep Dark Jedi and bounty hunters from frying Her Royal 
  Highness's hide, _I_ just want her to show a little common sense..." His 
  voice progressively rises in volume, however, and when the droid risks 
  beeping at him one more time, the Corellian abruptly whirls and hurls the 
  deactivated torch at the mech, sending it scurrying off in terror. "_I_ just 
  want her to either learn how to use her gods-damned weapons and be able to 
  defend herself, or else let the people appointed to do it do their 
  gods-damned jobs! _Control her_? Farthest thing from my mind!"

Tarroc accepts the torrent stoically, though he knows it's not truly directed 
  at him. "She managed to make it through the Rebellion," he says calmly, 
  objectively. "What makes you think she can't fend for herself already?" He 
  pauses, then notes matter-of-factly, "Even if she couldn't, there's still no 
  way you could protect her. Not all the time."

Right over the top of Tarroc's attempted argument, Solo continues to rage: 
  "_I_ just want a fair shake, but noooooo, maybe it's just beyond my meager 
  non-royal understanding as to why _I_ hafta get the third, fourth, fifth, 
  and sixth degrees if I even sneeze outside visual range of any guards, and 
  _she_ can waltz all over a city without anybody to keep an eye on her! _I_ 
  just at least wanna be told when she plans to go off by herself so if she 
  _DOES_ get in trouble, those of us who care about her welfare can _DO_ 
  something about it! I just..." Throughout all this, Han stalks back and 
  forth along the _Falcon_'s hull, gesticulating furiously, hazel eyes full of 
  fire. But something of Tarroc's words must get through, for he abruptly 
  stops cold, the fire draining out of his face, his expression going bleak.

"Don't want to have to worry about her all the time," Tarroc supplies for the 
  other, glancing at the landing skid of the freighter; perhaps for 
  fortification. Looking up, he speaks with a tone that brooks no hedging, "I 
  think you're just going to have to get used to it, Han, because there's not 
  that much you can do about it."

The Corellian doesn't answer that, not immediately. Instead, he whirls about 
  and grabs for the box of tools he'd left nearby, hurling tools he'd left 
  scattered along the hull into the box with force enough to send echoes 
  clanking all over the hangar. Without looking down at the Commodore on the 
  deck, he growls out loudly, "Her Royal Highness has made it infinitely clear 
  that she doesn't give a sweet flying damn about what her brother, her 
  bodyguards, or her friends" -- _or her husband_, his hollow-eyed look might 
  imply, though he doesn't voice _that_ -- "have to say about reasonable 
  precautions to take care of her royal person, regardless of how worried they 
  might be, so far be it from _ME_ to argue it with her."

Someone tending to an A-wing stares at Han, stares at the scattered tools, 
  stares at Tarroc, then races toward the corridor outside the bay, her 
  expression worried and, yes, a trifle frightened.

"Look," the commodore cuts in shortly after the diatribe seems to come to a 
  close -- a temporary one, at least. "I'm not saying she's right for brushing 
  off your concern, nor am I saying it's wrong of you to be concerned in the 
  first place. However," he takes a deep breath, "The two of you are among the 
  most headstrong people I've ever met. That's why I don't think it'd be too 
  tough for you to imagine yourself in her situation."

"_I_," Han Solo shouts down off the top of the _Falcon_, shooting a glare and 
  a thrust-out forefinger down at Tarroc, "am capable of defending myself 
  against bounty hunters -- Chewbacca and I ate bounty hunters for breakfast 
  on Nar Shaddaa and Tatooine! _I_ have been taking guards with me down to 
  that planet and the station ever since the Rodian jumped me because _SHE_ 
  asked me to!"

The entrance to the hangar bay opens with the technician returning, Leia in 
  tow; the princess stares through the distance between the _Falcon_ and 
  herself at the raving lunatic that she thought was her husband, thanks the 
  technician (who scampers away and out of the bay, thank you), and approaches 
  the YT-1300 with deliberate caution.

Tarroc nods slowly, this latest revelation giving the commodore some pause. A 
  few seconds pass before he says, with deliberate calm, "This is true, but I 
  don't recall her asking you to stick around up here."

And Solo goes on in fury, "You wanna tell me, D'agor, why _she_ can tell her 
  guards to go space themselves and I can't, even after Valak damned near 
  _killed_ her, and even after that Rodian damned near got away with what was 
  left of her, because Luke wasn't with her, or Chewie, or her guards..." _Or 
  me,_ blazes the unspoken addendum in his countenance. Solo slams the toolbox 
  shut, seizes it, looks as if he'd like to hurl it down at D'agor's head, and 
  growls instead, "Yeah, ya know, you're absolutely right. She didn't." And 
  with that, he whirls, intending to stalk over to the droid and wave down the 
  crane that had put the mech up on top of the ship in the first place.

"Han." Leia's voice penetrates the air in the cavernous bay thanks to the fact 
  that most work has stopped so that people will watch the argument. "Han, I'm 
  sorry. Please."

"That did not go as expected," Tarroc muses to himself, though he dauntlessly 
  makes his way toward one of the flight ladders to drag over to the 
  freighter. The princess' call to Han stops him in his tracks, however, and 
  he turns to watch the two.

The droid, seeing Han turning its way, squeals out something in a tone that 
  would doubtless translate, in Basic, to "it's not my fault!" Han, however, 
  stops dead at Leia's call. His lanky figure stays standing where it is, 
  though he doesn't turn round in the direction of her voice.

Leia strides forward, hand on Tarroc's arm to stay him, as she tilts back her 
  head to regard the Corellian atop his freighter. Her eyes are bright but 
  puffy, evidencing that the argument - or nonargument - has been easy for 
  neither of them. "It was a very quick visit, the military presence has been 
  increased, there were Marines around all the time. I didn't think there was 
  much risk."

Tarroc just stands, chewing on his lower lip a little bit. Leia's visage 
  paired with the way he seems to have agitated Han make him wonder if, 
  perhaps, he should have just minded his own business.

Slowly and deliberately Han turns around. His face is still set, but his hazel 
  eyes are hot and suspiciously... liquid. Pinning his gaze on the Princess, 
  he bites out, "According to the reports I read, Your Royal Highness, the 
  presence of Marines in the square where Valak fried you didn't make a damned 
  bit of difference, as Valak cheerfully wounded three bystanders and got away 
  before anybody could lay a hand on him. And furthermore, according to 
  _other_ reports I've read, there's at least one more Dark Jedi planetside, 
  who put Jessalyn Valios into the medbay for about as long as Valak did you. 
  You wanna explain to me why you think there wasn't much risk?"

"Because I can't have Valak's nearness frightening me away from my work, Han." 
  Leia keeps her voice as gentle as it was discordant minutes earlier. "Luke 
  doesn't. He's been planetside. Mon Mothma isn't. So I can't, either. If you 
  want me to travel with a legion of Republican guards, I can...but it won't 
  matter if Valak's involved. The bounty hunter didn't seem impressed with 
  your company on Kichnar, either. So please...let's just consider things 
  calmly?"

"I'm perfectly calm," Han growls, turning away again.

Tarroc could, of course, attest to the latter of the General's statements. In 
  this this discussion, however, to say he feels out-of-place would be to put 
  it mildly. He decides now would be a good time to withdraw, but can't seem 
  to will himself to turn around and walk off.

Leia grants Tarroc the most apologetic of expressions before mounting the 
  ladder he had brought over for such a purpose. "Han," she calls while making 
  her way up the rungs, "I've seen calmer Rancors."

The Corellian very deliberately avoids looking down over the side of the ship 
  at Tarroc; he avoids, too, looking at Leia as she climbs the ladder, though 
  he is acutely conscious of her ascent, for he can hear it along with the 
  increased proximity of her voice. "I'm all right," he repeats stubbornly, 
  his voice a hoarse rasp. "Made your point. I'll cope."

Tarroc serreptitiously leans up against the flight ladder, now out of sight, 
  and contents himself with listening to his heart beat. The sound still 
  resounds in his ears, of course.

If Leia had something to throw at Han that wouldn't put him in the infirmary 
  with a concussion, she'd pick up one of those discarded tools and hurl it at 
  his back. Bruising him is not what she has in mind, however, and so she 
  settles for stomping across the dorsal side of the _Falcon_, making 
  significant noise for so little a lady, and counters, "You're not coping, 
  you...you...nerfherder. Go ahead, take a swing at me, take a swing at 
  something. Get it out of your system. Please."

"What's the point, Princess?" Solo asks, his voice abruptly changed, gone 
  duller, tired, resigned. He doesn't look at her. "I tried yelling. I tried 
  reason. You're gonna do what you want no matter what I say, so what the 
  hells am I supposed to do about it except cope?"

Leia has no particular argument for this logic: she cannot promise him to hide 
  on Home One and travel with a contingent of guards, she does not want to 
  have her schedule curtailed according to the latest threat against her life. 
  Neither, however, does she want him angry with her because, clearly, beneath 
  that anger is genuine hurt. "Han...." she murmurs weakly, "I can't change 
  who I am. What do you want me to say or do?"

Without turning around, the Corellian says lowly, "I want you to take at least 
  one guard down there with you who'll watch your back for you if you insist 
  on travelling light. If you don't wanna travel with a guard, I want you to 
  learn how to use that weapon you've been carryin' around and get the Kid to 
  teach you how to defend yourself against any Dark Jedi who decide to roast 
  themselves a Princess. If you won't do that, at least carry a blaster, 
  'cause I know you can shoot." He stops there, though, his shoulders and 
  spine rigid; when he continues, his voice has turned even bleaker. "You made 
  a deal with me, Princess, and you backed out on it. Twice now."

_Maker, I hate it when he's right._ Letting out a sigh, Leia studies the 
  ship's hull and nudges a jutting spur with her toe. It shifts two inches, 
  making her wince and hurriedly move her foot again. "You're right. I've been 
  putting off my Force studies, and I promised you I would have a companion 
  with me at all times. I'll speak to NRI and have one of their agents travel 
  as my aide; they've done that before. It would be less ostentatious than a 
  military escort. I made a promise to you, and I broke it." _Ugh. I -really- 
  hate when he's right._

"Yeah, sweetheart. You did." Han finally turns, then, and considers his wife. 
  His hazel eyes are still hot and bright... and wet. "You know what I really 
  want, Your Worship? I want you to stop sayin' you'll do somethin' and then 
  not do it. That ain't like you" -- _and it really hurts_.

"Other than my declining to carry armed guards with me," Leia queries, pained 
  by his tears and flagrant hurt, "and earlier argument about staying here 
  when I have work on Caspar...when have I lied to you, Han?"

"You haven't," rasps the Corellian readily enough. "'Swhy I really don't 
  wantcha makin' a habit of it." The wetness glimmers in his eyes, though 
  doesn't yet escape them; his face is dry.

Leia has a high tolerance for many, many things in life thanks to the arduous 
  problems seen in her younger days, but a very rare thing with her has been 
  such deeply felt emotion from her husband. It has, understandably, an 
  intense effect on her, cleaving her heart in twain. Breathing his name, she 
  closes the few meters between them with three hurried steps, enfolds him in 
  the fiercest of hugs.

Han's rangy frame rocks a little as it takes the impact of his wife's against 
  it; then, his arms come up, awkwardly and then with more assurance, to wrap 
  around her and hold her near.

After she has clung to him for a minute or two, the princess tilts her face 
  toward him, lips and eyes humbly requesting a kiss to cement the making up.

The Corellian looks down at his beloved; up close, she can see the dampness on 
  his dark lashes, threatening to spill down along one cheek. He studies her, 
  expression beginning to soften as he takes in the feelings radiated from the 
  dainty features before him. One corner of his mouth quirks up a bit, and he 
  lowers his head down to tenderly brush his lips with her own.

Leia sends through the Force...
Uncertainly, but with copious palpable feeling, the words whisper through, "I 
  love you, Han."
And in a vocal addendum to something unheard, Leia murmurs, "And I'll never 
  again make you doubt it," before her mouth catches his lips more firmly, 
  drawing him into a substantial embrace.

Below, watching with grins and bemused gazes, a few dozen pilots and 
  technicians break into cheers and applause and wolfwhistles. They, at least, 
  are having a good time.

Blaze enters from the corridor.
Blaze has arrived.
Blaze enters Landing Bays -- Main Deck <Home One>

Still standing up there atop the freighter with his wife in his arms, Han 
  abruptly lifts his head and peers down with wide startled eyes into Leia's 
  face, before she drags his head back down to fuse her mouth to his.

The applause of many of the commodore's people snaps him out of his reverie. 
  Turning and heading out from beneath the _Falcon_, Tarroc glances up onto 
  the hull and notes the two, then looks back to his personnel and scowls, 
  waving them away, "Hey! Can't some people get some privacy around here?" Of 
  course, the absurdity of this question doesn't occur to him quite yet, 
  considering this is an open-space hangar bay.

Blaze just stands toward the wall of the bay, watching the scene with some 
  amusement.

"We have an audience," Leia remarks to Han once their lips separate, her eyes 
  glistening but also, at last, dancing with the wry amusement that is her 
  trademark. In a lower voice she queries teasingly, "Want to go somewhere 
  where we won't have one?"

When he comes up for air, Han blinks distractedly as it finally dawns to him 
  that -- or at least so it seems -- half of the personnel in the hangar are 
  cheering him and the Princess on. He mutters sheepishly, trying to pretend 
  that that dampness in his eyes hasn't crept down to his cheekbones -- 
  crying? who's crying? -- "Where the hells'd all these people come from 
  anyway?"

Leia answers with a soft, rippling sound of laughter, "They work here. Come 
  on, scoundrel...I'm not precisely the exhibitionist type." As is witnessed, 
  one will note, by the pink stains on her cheeks.

Solo looks down at the Princess once more, another strange expression lurking 
  somewhere in his expression -- wonder. But he flashes her a big lopsided 
  smile, beginning to look more like himself, and all at once he stoops and 
  scoops her up into his arms. "That'd make two of us," he rumbles, turning to 
  carry Leia off towards the access hatch. But not before kissing her once 
  more, with vigor, much to the delight of the gathered audience and the 
  hapless droid still rolling around up on the _Falcon_'s hull. In moments, 
  the General and the Princess have vanished down into the ship.

"Leary, what are you staring at? Don't you have a hyperdrive to be 
  retooling..?"

Han_Solo enters in a code and enters STARFIGHTER: Corellian YT-1300 -- 
  Millennium Falcon
You head up onto the entry ramp.
Main Ring Corridor (Starboard)(#678RntJ)
A circular passageway that runs the circumference of the ship, this corridor 
  provides access to all the major areas of the _Millennium Falcon_. The walls 
  are lined with dirty, off-white, upholstered padding interspersed with 
  bulkheads and the occasional control panel; the illumination is faintly 
  greenish.
                 -=-=-=-=-=-=<<Real Objects>>=-=-=-=-=-=-
=> Artoo
                  -=-=-=-=-=<<Visible exits>>=-=-=-=-=-
 <A>ft leads to Bunk Room.
 <P>ort leads to Cargo Hold.
 <F>ore leads to Cockpit.
 <S>tarboard leads to Landing Bays -- Main Deck <Home One>.
Han_Solo enters Main Ring Corridor (Starboard)

Leia heads up onto the entry ramp.
Leia enters Main Ring Corridor (Starboard)
Leia looks at you for a moment.

Still connected to Han at the lips, Leia marks herself fortunate for being 
  carried because this sort of kiss from this sort of Corellian could weaken 
  the knees of the strongest-willed female around. (Leia is reasonably certain 
  she -is- the strongest-willed female around, so...QED.) His embraces always 
  make her butter-kneed, and much as she wants for him not to realize this 
  fact, she expects he has guessed at some point. Probably after that first 
  smooch in the _Falcon_ some four years back. Her hand cradles his face, 
  thumb caressing his cheekbone, as she separates and peers into those hazel 
  eyes. Also, one might note, something to leave a girl butter-kneed.

Carrying someone down the access hatch is not exactly the easiest feat in the 
  galaxy, but somehow, Han's managed it. Only when the two of them are in the 
  ring corridor at last, safe within the quiescent _Falcon_ from unwelcome 
  even if encouraging and sympathetic eyes does he let Leia look him in the 
  face. His eyes are still uncharacteristically damp, his face full of 
  hesitant, half-disbelieving wonder -- not entirely unlike the look he'd worn 
  when the Princess had gotten that aphrodiasiac wine down him, but this time, 
  there's a difference. _This_ look is cognizant, focused, clear.

"Are you all right?" asks Leia as she brushes the lingering tears from the 
  corners of his eyes, lips likewise busying themselves with removing any 
  dampness from his cheeks. His expression is enough to stop her heart, so 
  poignant it is. "Something wrong?"

It seems that Han's not entirely certain himself. Looking almost... shy, he 
  murmurs huskily, "I... felt you... I heard... er." He pauses a moment, 
  wrestling for words and not quite sure he wants to put what he thinks he 
  just experienced into words at all. But a tender little smile flickers 
  across his mouth.

Pleasure flows into Leia's veins, pleasure and the warm glow of success, and 
  resulting from this sensation is the goofiest of smiles that lights her 
  visage. "I wasn't certain you heard...I've never tried that before, not 
  really."

"I, uh, heard ya," Han whispers in soft and reverent tones. Still deeply moved 
  by what he heard, the Corellian pulls his wife to him again, feathering 
  sweet tender kisses all over her features, and at last breathing into her 
  hair, "I'm... sorry I blew up atcha, sweetheart..." A pause. And he whispers 
  then, in sheepish admission, feeling honorbound to repay what she's just 
  bestowed upon him with as much openness as he himself can display, "... 
  worried sick..."

With their tempers tucked away in their respective cages, Leia is apt to be 
  charitable, even honest, letting Han see the side of her than is his alone 
  to view. "It was wrong of me to promise to do something, even if I disagreed 
  with it, then break my promise. You had every right to be angry with me, 
  Han." Enough of talk. Those small kisses are enough to make the rest of the 
  galaxy go away, and for now, for the moment, Leia wants nothing more than to 
  indulge herself in enjoying them.

Han stoops again, slipping an arm down to pull the Princess up into his arms, 
  and with that slight burden cradled against his chest, he slips off aftward.

You head aft around the ring into the bunk room.
Bunk Room(#5165Rnt)
A cramped little nook sandwiched in among the engine room, maintenance areas, 
  and other sections of the aft half of the _Falcon_, this room sports enough 
  bunks to accommodate a small number of passengers. Along the back wall are a 
  bank of tiny lockers to stow personal gear, a catering facility, and a door 
  leading off into a refresher.
                  -=-=-=-=-=<<Visible exits>>=-=-=-=-=-
 <F>ore leads to Main Ring Corridor (Starboard).

Leia steps in from the corridor.
Leia has arrived.

"We really," Leia mentions between breathless kisses, "should make more 
  comfortable quarters on this ship..."

"Mrmm," is Han's only reply. He carries his wife straight to what's become 
  their personal bunk, lays her gently down while still cradling her in his 
  arms, and proceeds to demonstrate with further kisses his general disregard 
  for the topic of the condition of the _Falcon_'s sleeping quarters.

As the kiss deepens and matters grow more intense and indisputably more 
  heated, the comfort of their location - and in fact their location itself - 
  becomes a matter outside Leia's realm of awareness. If Han knew, if he 
  -only- knew, that his embrace was the only thing that can transform her from 
  a stiff-backed, aggressive politician into a sensitive, passionate 
  woman...well, there'd be no living with him.

Whether or not he's aware of the uniqueness of his skill, the Corellian seems 
  quite bent on effecting that very transformation. With particularly 
  exquisite care this time around, he ministers to his beloved's lips, her 
  cheeks, her hair, her throat, and more.

Leia would be mortified if anyone but Han realized how deftly he could expose 
  that molten core of her ardor with a touch here and a kiss there, but 
  fortunately her secrets are jealously guarded by her husband, and as such 
  she can give into her wants and needs and return his passion in kind. _So 
  much_, she muses, _for the rest of the evening..._

No, Han isn't about to tell anybody anything Leia might reveal to him, with 
  her kisses, with her eyes... or with her mind. Confident of their shared 
  privacy, he sets intently to the task of wooing her senses with every bit of 
  the considerable skill at his command -- only this time he takes even 
  greater care, alternating increasingly heated passion with infinite 
  tenderness, until at last the two of them are thoroughly entwined in one 
  another's arms....
So much, indeed, for the evening.

[End log.]