Log Date:
	9/8/98

Log Cast:
	Leia Organa, Han Solo

Log Intro:
	(This log is assumed to take place in the Star Wars MUSH timeline
immediately following _Return of the Jedi_ -- and as such really needs no
introduction. If the reader needs one, we suggest you go watch the
end of _Return of the Jedi_ again. ;) )

----------
Nightfall has long since settled over the Ewok village, the fireworks have 
  exploded in the night sky as a joyous echo of the Death Star's earlier, more 
  brilliant demise, yet the celebration continues. Ewoks dance with Rebels, 
  food is served, music is played. To the side, in the cozy warmth of a fire 
  ring, Luke has joined longtime friend Wedge in sharing stories about the 
  battle, though young Antilles is decidedly more animated than his Jedi 
  companion. It is this scene that Leia is watching from the side, her face 
  half-hidden by night's cloak, a hand absently rubbing her left arm; 
  inscribed on her features is boundless love and indescribable relief that 
  those she loves are here and safe, that their long road is over...even if 
  another looms ahead.

It's been a long and harrowing day for everyone, and for one particular 
  Corellian smuggler... well, okay, ex-smuggler... it's been particularly long 
  and rather confusing to boot. He's been shot at, captured, shot at some 
  more, rescued, and shot at, but all of that is fairly par for the course for 
  Han Solo. So was the infinitely satisfying explosion that took out the 
  Imperial shield generator, and the even more infinitely satisfying explosion 
  that lit up the sky and signaled the destruction of the Death Star... at 
  least until it occurred to Han that his beloved ship had been up there, too. 
  He'd fought off chills of dread until Lando and his little Sullustan copilot 
  had landed the _Falcon_ safe and sound -- even if she was missing a sensor 
  dish. In the middle of the revelry that had seized everyone, Ewoks and 
  Rebels alike, Han hadn't had the heart to punch his friend for the damage.
His friend.... _Yeah_, Han muses as he steps around a merrily crackling 
  bonfire, _my friend Lando._ It sounds really good in his thoughts, though he 
  resolves firmly never to let Calrissian catch wind of it. The man might have 
  more than made up for the orderal at Bespin by risking his hide to get him 
  out of Jabba the Hutt's clutches, but this didn't mean Han had to go writing 
  him love poetry or anything. No, there's someone else the Corellian has in 
  mind for that kind of sentiment.
He comes stepping up through the firelight, appearing at Leia's side, 
  marvelling to himself at the strange catch somewhere between his chest and 
  his throat at the sight of her in her leather garb, her hair down and 
  flowing. And, trying to cover it, he directs his gaze off to follow the 
  Princess's, and finds himself an opening. "He looks okay," Han announces by 
  way of greeting, nodding his dark head over in Luke's direction.

While his arrival at her side was not anticipated, so entirely relaxed and so 
  completely content is Leia Organa that she bats not an eyelash when he 
  surprises her by appearing beside her and speaking about Luke. Her brother. 
  Her brother, Luke. How soothing are those words to her heart, her mind, her 
  soul. With the question of just -how- she loves the two men in her life 
  finally answered, she cannot restrain a smile that betrays her depth of 
  feeling for Luke while she murmurs, "He looks at peace." Then she glances 
  upward, letting the warm darkness of her gaze encompass the Corellian beside 
  her, and the timbre of her smile softens, deepens, sweetens. Without 
  speaking another word, she reclines her head on his shoulder and emits the 
  sigh of someone who thinks herself in paradise.

The sight of Leia Organa voluntarily leaning into his embrace is still a 
  strange and wonderful thing to Han, who reflexively lifts his arms to 
  encircle her, all the while aware that the little catch in his throat feels 
  as if it's getting warmer. "So do you," he murmurs impulsively.

That elicits a wider smile from her, though naturally its aspect is one of 
  serenity. Turning within the circle of his arms to angle her injury away 
  from him, she leans her right side against him and admits quietly, "I want 
  to remember tonight forever, Han. Our battle isn't over, even if the Emperor 
  is dead. But for now...nothing is wrong. Everything is just -right-. Maybe 
  for the first time in my life."

That warmth in his chest growing steadily stronger, Han sweeps up a hand, 
  cupping the Princess's chin in his palm and lifting her face to his. He 
  _intends_ to say something teasing, but Leia's brown eyes and the light 
  within them make the drawled remark die in his throat. Instead, he finds 
  himself rasping out softly, "I feel the same way, Princess."

Whatever thought was about to be voiced flies skippingly out of Leia's mind as 
  she pauses, mouth barely open, to admire the rugged perfection of Han's 
  features. A swell of emotion threatens to drown her entirely, and with her 
  now-watery gaze she begs for the kiss her innate reserve disallows her from 
  requesting vocally.

Those rugged features soften their expression, while simultaneously, the hazel 
  eyes spark with a flare of heat. Six months of blackness are still too close 
  and present in Han's consciousness to give him much control on his ability 
  to answer that mute plea directed at him even as he swiftly comprehends it. 
  His lips descend to claim hers, his arms press her close against his form, 
  and that warmth in his chest peaks sharply into a fiery blaze, turning the 
  kiss urgent, hard, and yearning.

The startling intensity of the embrace overwhelms the princess, who finds 
  herself looping arms about his neck and drawing him all the nearer, as 
  though the feel of his warmth against her is intoxicating, even addicting. 
  Inexperienced as she is, she returns the kiss with more enthusiasm and 
  affection than skill, and, moments later, gasping, she finds need to break 
  the kiss simply to recoup some of her self-possession. "H-Han..." she 
  whispers tightly, blood coursing into the most glowing of blushes.

He lets her pull back, but only a hair's breadth away, still crushing her to 
  his chest for all that he's vaguely aware he should be mindful of her 
  wounded arm. Now that inner fire has spread out to seemingly engulf him, and 
  for a moment, Han wonders dazedly what's come over him; surely, he can't 
  have had _that_ much of the fermented brew the Ewoks are joyfully sharing 
  with everybody in sight? In fact, three of the little furballs scamper right 
  past the Corellian and the Princess, but Han is oblivious to them. Somehow 
  unable to release his hold on the dainty form in his arms, unable to lift 
  his face away from her unbound hair, he retains only enough composure to 
  whisper, "Yeah, Your Highness...?"

"We...should...speak...in...private." Each word is breathless, punctuated by 
  the thrumming of a heart threatening explosion from excess of emotion, of 
  passion...of love. Somewhere inside Leia is the surety that he should be 
  able to feel each drum-like throb of that painfully - albeit exquisite pain 
  - full heart, just as the cheek pressed close to her face should be scalded 
  by the fiery flow of her blood into her complexion.

The thought of himself and Leia in private is dizzying, and it prompts Han to 
  meld his lips to hers yet again. "Private," he croaks in acknowledgement, 
  once he comes up for air. Loathe to release his hold on her, he then stoops 
  to sling an arm beneath her knees, repeating in that same husky rasp, 
  "Private. Good idea..."

_Private...oh, Maker, what a wonderful--_ "No. I...that isn't what I meant." 
  Leia blinks to herself as her words emerge slurred, nearly unrecognizable; 
  she is uncertain whether her remonstration is to him or to herself. Still, 
  as she nestles with impressive perfection in his arms, she feels compelled 
  to note, "We need to -talk-, Han." Odd how strained her voice sounds, even 
  to her own ears...dismissively she blames the restless night before the 
  battle and the strain of the battle itself.

Carrying the Princess without effort, Han stumbles half-blindly off through 
  the village, away from the lights and the music and the dancing. "Talk?" he 
  mumbles, just barely managing to avoid colliding with some joyfully 
  intoxicated and precariously swaying young pilots. Talk? What in the world 
  for?

Leia closes her eyes to concentrate on her formidable will. Which, as per the 
  norm, Han seems to overcome without a second thought. So close is she to 
  losing her final shred of resistance that babbling is the best form of 
  communication the typically eloquent stateswoman can manage. "Y-yes, 
  about..." About? About what, Leia? About how he got that adorable scar? 
  About why he.... A mental slap, then she murmurs with greater clarity, 
  "About us."

He's made it to a currently unoccupied walkway, and the Princess's murmur 
  makes him halt, makes him let her feet down so that she can stand again, 
  though his arms remain around her as if fused there. His features crinkle in 
  consternation, and in the dim wash of torchlight and starshine that lights 
  the walkway, the Corellian's eyes are unusually dark, his face taut with 
  need. And he entreats her hoarsely, "Don't talk, Your Worship... don't... 
  think..." Down comes his mouth again, the former smuggler only passingly 
  wondering why Leia wants to waste a perfectly good private spot by engaging 
  in _talk_.

Leia's rejoinder is devoured in this new kiss, and the unbridled side of the 
  princess battens down the will and self-restraint behind a wall of flame 
  fanned by the undeniably fiery passion she harbors for the Corellian. Some 
  part of her, and from the ferocity of her embrace it's no small part, agrees 
  with Han's advice and quells her conservative side's reproofs in order to 
  savor this moment. Against him she presses, ignoring the ache in her wounded 
  arm to appease the far-stronger yearning in her soul.

At last, he pulls away again, but only far enough to move his mouth round to 
  Leia's right ear. Her plea to talk is nagging at something in his inflamed 
  mind -- there is _one_ question here that needs asking, as far as he's 
  concerned. His voice turned to rumbling velvet thunder, softened only by the 
  barest hint of unspoken entreaty beneath the growl, he rasps, "Leia... 'bout 
  tonight. You... me... whaddya say...?"

Him? Her? How could anything so simple sound so blissful, so _perfect_? Never 
  has her control been spiralled so far out of her reach, fueled by the 
  provocative touch of his lips close to her ear. Thoughts rush tumultuously 
  through her desire-fogged mind even as she offers an expanse of throat for 
  his further perusal, and within the images is one that rarely submerges 
  below the conscious. It more than anything douses the roaring inferno and 
  inspires her to slacken her embrace. "I...can't, Han." Half-wept, her words 
  hang heavy in the air thanks to the weight of her disappointment and regret.

That bared throat unerringly draws his attentions, and Han lays down kisses 
  there with the same surety with which he'd led the assault on the shield 
  bunker... until Leia's groaned words reach his ears. With an effort, he 
  lifts his head to peer into her face, his own beginning to reflect more of 
  the longing and more of the pleading that's been beneath his ostensibly 
  confident bearing. And he swallows hard, before blurting out, "Wh... why 
  not?"

Sometimes being right and being a princess was a gigantic pain in the 
  asteroids. "Because," she answers while her hand seeks and finds the curve 
  of his jaw, "I'm still Alderaan's heir. The planet's gone, yes...but that 
  makes it even more important for me to do the right thing, to...to be what 
  my father wanted me to be." The term 'father' has an odd, hollow ring to it 
  thanks to Luke's revelations, but to her, Bail Organa can be nothing less 
  than father. "Perhaps some day Alderaanians will want to preserve our 
  culture. We can't forget it, Han. We won't."

"What's 'the right thing' supposed to mean?" Han bursts out raggedly. Unlike 
  Leia's, his embrace hasn't slacked in the slightest, but a kind of hurt 
  spikes up sharply in his hotly ardent gaze. His insides give a painful lurch 
  of memory, making him recollect the _last_ time parents stood between him 
  and a girl he loved. Bria's family had been circumvented... but parents are 
  one thing. An entire planet is something else altogether.

Han's reaction spears the princess through her very core, resolve teetering on 
  the edge of her mastery. Forgetting Alderaan and its loss, forgetting the 
  war, forgetting _herself_ in his amours is so alluring a proposition that 
  she quivers and quails from the effort of asserting her vaunted 
  self-control. "I have to save myself," she blurts out, ashamed that fatigue 
  and the moment hold sway over her use of Basic.

Still holding the Princess captive in his arms, Han stares down at her 
  piercingly now. That fire is still blazing its way up and down his body, 
  concentrated strongest at every single point of contact he has with Leia's 
  slender figure, and under its onslaught he finds himself suddenly unsure of 
  where he is, what he's doing, and indeed, the very nature of reality around 
  him. Just as strong as and intertwined with his need for the dark-haired, 
  dark-eyed woman he holds, Han is swept over by a sudden, urgent need for 
  clarification. "Save yourself for what?" he rasps, his throat feeling so dry 
  that he's amazed he produced the words.

For what? For what? Leia is mesmerized by that hazel gaze she so adores, 
  enough that her mind briefly loses track of the conversation's thread. 
  Blinking away the hypnotic effects of his nearness, she explains quietly, if 
  with a hint of strain, "For marriage, Han."

Leia. Marriage. The dizzying prospect of being alone with the Princess tonight 
  was nothing compared to the concept of Leia Organa _married_, and Han's 
  entire being jolts violently in reaction. Images of the woman he loves -- a 
  world-shattering notion in its own right, one that Han is still finding 
  alarming -- having to pledge herself to some rich noble, someone who hadn't 
  fought at her side, someone who would simply be walking with her through the 
  hollow motions of politics and state, fire off in rapid white-fire 
  succession in his mind. Almost reeling, dimly wondering if he's just been 
  struck by blaster fire -- for this is exactly how he feels -- Han finds his 
  thoughts narrowing down to exactly one word: _No._
And two more escape his mouth before he can stop them, even before he realizes 
  they're on their way out:
"Marry _me_."

Leia pauses. For a moment, her entire universe comes to a standstill, her 
  existence hanging on the three syllables that have shushed the forest, the 
  Ewok music, the revelling rebels...everything. Her question is perhaps 
  inevitable. "W-what?"

_Suns, what've I just--_ For a fraction of an instant, Han wonders what power 
  stepped in there and took over control of his vocal cords -- but only for an 
  instant. Lost in Leia's astonished brown eyes, finding within them that 
  everything has snapped into clear, startling focus, the Corellian repeats 
  huskily, "Marry me, Princess."

A thrill of terror spins up Leia's spine as, in the darker recesses of her 
  mind, she becomes convinced Han is anything but serious. "You...don't mean 
  that," she insists feebly, taking a full step backward to stare at him with 
  mouth slightly sagged.

There had been resolve in Han's weathered face when he'd tried to tell the 
  Princess he'd step aside if it were Luke she loved... an awkward resolve, 
  but resolve nonetheless. That same certainty now radiates forth from his 
  determined expression, sharper than it had been before, re-stoking that hot 
  light in his hazel eyes. "Never meant anything more in my life," he 
  unhesitatingly declares, and as if uttering it a third time could seal the 
  charm, he adds, "Marry me!"

How could the evening be sweeter or allow her greater bliss? The fear that had 
  earlier stopped her heart dissolves in the tidal flow of ambrosia in her 
  veins, erasing doubts, erasing concerns, erasing anything save the one truth 
  that means the galaxy to her: Han's love. In an instant of cognizance she 
  realizes that this Corellian, this scoundrel, is her opposite number, the 
  other side to her coin, the balance she never knew she wanted but now cannot 
  live without. A flurry of guilt shows itself in the form of rank awareness: 
  Han is, after all, something less than what Alderaanian nobles would want 
  for their princess. But above all she senses, even hears, the approval of 
  her father, Bail... _Besides that, I never liked those stuffshirts._ A 
  goofy, wondering smile emerges as she agrees abruptly, "All right."

Arguably, the one time Leia has ever seen the Corellian before her 
  wonderstruck was a few scant hours ago, when she'd dropped the bomb upon him 
  of the true nature of her relationship to Luke. Then, his face had been full 
  of marvelling comprehension; now, however, he turns positively incandescent 
  with what can only be joy, a smile as wide as the galaxy exploding into 
  being across his visage, his eyes taking on a glow that suggests some of the 
  Ewoks must have lit off fireworks behind him. But even now, even when 
  suffused in boundless delight, he is _still_ Han Solo, cocky Corellian, 
  devilish pirate at heart even though he may no longer be pirate in deed. So 
  all he says in reply is a throatily, happily growled, "_Good_", before he 
  once more crushes his beloved to him, bent on fusing his mouth to her own 
  and setting off even _more_ fireworks into a night which, truly, has become 
  undeniably, unutterably Right.

[End log.]