RPlog:The Proposal

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 marveling 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.