MIXED UP ⌲ HAN AND LEIA

twelve; lipstick and kisses don't mix

"Han, I don't know about this...."

Leia stood in a subconsciously elegant manner, a long, white-as-snow dress flowing from the middle of her shoulders and sprawling out behind her. Her hair was pulled up tightly and her lips were a bright, matte red, pursed together out of anxiety but still accenting her facial features beautifully nonetheless. Han stood in front of her, leaning against the dresser near them with a nearly euphoric grin spreading from his lips to his eyes.

"Sweetheart, if anybody can do this, it's you."

Leia sighed. "But—Han—after all we've been through, how hard we've fought, I don't know if I'm ready for....this."

"The absolutely snore-worthy thing called....oh, what's the word....politics?" he asked sarcastically, his eyes squinting as if out of confusion.

This caused Leia to smile, if only for a second. "From your point of view, maybe. Though I can't say I completely disagree with you."

Han took a step closer to her. "Not disagreeing with me? What the hell—is this some sort of dream?"

The princess rolled her eyes. "Han, you're not helping."

"Oh—but I think I am, Princess," he paused and chuckled, his eyes traveling across her face as if he were reading a book. "I'm the rather helpful type, aren't I?"

"The Death Star doesn't count."

"Yes, it does!"

"No, it doesn't."

These makeshift arguments had started to become some sort of a game between them. And—one way or another—their frivolous bickering almost always ended in a kiss. Or sex. But there certainly wasn't enough time for that now.

Han crossed his arms, staring down at her playfully. "Well, what does count, then?"

Leia smiled, shaking her head with her eyes drawn to the floor. "Here's my point: it's not just the Death Star that counts," she glanced back up at him more solemnly than he expected. "Everything does."

Han felt taken aback. Throughout his entire life, compliments had been slim. Even with the women he had briskly been with before—even with the closest people to family he ever had—the only emotion he had felt was guilt, whether it be put upon by them or even himself. Maybe that's why he took on smuggling, somewhat of a living where heroism wasn't a feeling that was at all desired. He had never felt good enough.

And, yet, he had somehow gotten himself dragged into the mess of the Rebellion and the feeling of hatred for the Empire and—most importantly—love.

Love wasn't something he had known all too well. Chewie was his friend, of course, and had been for a long time—but that was different. It was more of a life debt situation, which had gradually grown into a friendship Han knew he couldn't live without nonetheless.

And then there was Luke. The totally crazy but oh-so-brilliant boy Han had met in a cantina on Tatooine when the former farmboy was just nineteen. He was different back then—antsy but enthusiastic, filled with an innocence that quickly dissolved once greatness was thrust upon him. He was strong with the Force, or whatever the hell it was called, and knew how to take care of Han better than Han knew how to take care of himself. Luke was Leia's brother, too.

Leia.

There she was, standing in front of him with beautiful brown eyes and a sweet, small smile. Han had never loved someone as much as he loved her—the young princess with a feisty and introspective personality but a heart of gold. And, hell, was she gorgeous. Han had fallen for her in a way that seemed impossible for awhile—but, once he fell, he fell hard.