Chapter Text
Han's legs began to give way the second the cabin’s hatch whisked closed behind them.
Leia braced herself as he stumbled, recovering with a bitten off curse only to almost fall again at the next step. Heaving her shoulder under his arm, she managed to get him to the edge of the bunk before his legs buckled completely and he sat heavily, lowering his head onto his hands with a groan. She saw then what she had suspected since the skiff had shot away from Jabba’s burning sail barge - that he was feeling far worse than he'd been willing to let on.
It wasn't that she was surprised. Leia was not one to go into a situation unprepared. She had spent the last six months - whenever she wasn’t helping to plan the rescue attempt - reading case studies of carbon freezing, committing to memory the symptomology of hibernation sickness, the odds of recovery and risk factors for adverse outcomes. Within twenty-four hours of being unfrozen, half the subjects (the half who weren't dead) reported a litany of unpleasant side effects of varying degrees of severity; fever, exhaustion, body aches, dizziness, and, of course, blindness.
All things considered, it was amazing Han had managed to walk as far as he had, through a sandstorm no less.
Still, when she’d seen him defiantly yelling insults at Jabba and, later, rescuing Lando from the sarlacc, a part of her had secretly hoped that maybe he would be the exception, that he would miraculously bounce back with no ill-effects. Looking at him now, it was painfully evident that he'd been running on adrenaline and bluster.
"Han," she admonished gently, running a hand through his sandy hair. "You should have said something."
Not, she admitted to herself, that he would have agreed to let Chewie carry him anyway.
Han shrugged tiredly but did not answer, tugging off his goggles and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He hissed. "Fuck, that hurts."
Leia stepped between his knees and carefully unwrapped the scarf protecting the lower half of his face, sand trickling in small piles onto the deck plates below. Her hands shook as she did so; her own adrenaline rush from the battle and their escape from Jabba’s was rapidly dropping, and Han's solid presence in front of her was short-circuiting her brain. He looked exhausted, pale and bruised and dirty, but he was alive and he was here, being his usual infuriating self.
He's ok, she told herself sternly, hold it together.
She touched his cheek with careful fingers, wincing as she felt a feverish burn beneath his skin. "Gods, Han, you're so hot."
He winked tiredly, the barest hint of a smirk. "You know it, Princess."
Leia stared at him blankly for a moment, then suddenly started to laugh, a high note of hysteria in the sound. His joke was worth an eye roll at best, but oh! How she had missed his ridiculous flirting, and the potent combination of terror and relief she was feeling made it impossible to stop. Then, like a switch had been flipped, she was crying in tight, painful gasps and clutching Han so tightly she wondered that he could breathe.
His arms went around her with equal desperation, and he pressed his face into her shoulder, mumbling, "I'm sorry, Leia, I'm so fucking sorry" over and over in a choked kind of whisper.
They stayed holding onto each other for long moments, but eventually Leia's hands found their way to his face and his wound themselves in her hair, and she knew he was feverish and probably dehydrated and they were covered in sand, carbonite and Hutt slime, but she kissed him anyway. He responded fiercely, tugging her closer, both of them trembling with exhaustion and relief. Her fingers fumbled with his shirt buttons, knowing this couldn't go anywhere, but desperate to touch his skin.
Han sucked in a breath and flinched as her hands slid over his chest. She stopped, horrified at the mottled black and purple bruises peppering his ribs, unhealed souvenirs from Cloud City. For a moment, Leia was back there, watching as Han crumpled from the scan grid, a stormtrooper aiming a sharp kick at his ribs to get him moving, and later, as Lando's guards laid into him on the floor of the holding cell. "It's OK, I'm OK," he whispered, kissing her jaw, bringing her back to the present. "Don't stop."
He took her hands and placed them back on his chest. "Please," he said softly.
She needed to get him medical attention, but his quiet plea nearly undid her. She kissed him again, her hands gentle on his battered chest, sweeping feather light over bruised ribs, smoothing over his shoulders. Han's shirt was soon cast to the cabin floor and kicked into a corner, while his hands roamed across the skin of her lower back under the black tunic she'd borrowed from Luke. His touch was warm and rough and achingly familiar, and she almost cried again at how much she'd missed him.
Han suddenly froze, and Leia realised with horror that in her desperate need to touch him she'd forgotten about the metal collar around her throat. He brought shaking hands to her neck, his fingers skimming over the smooth steel, cold to the touch now that they were out of the heat of the Tatooine suns.
"Leia," he said, in a tight, low voice. "Leia, what is this?"
Her stomach dropped. It wasn't that she'd planned on lying to him about what Jabba had subjected her to, but she'd wanted to wait until he wasn't exhausted and ill, until he could be rational about her safety and what she'd risked to get him back.
"Han, it's OK," she tried to reassure him, but he interrupted her, barely-leashed panic simmering beneath his frenzied questions.
"Leia....Did he hurt you? Jabba? I know what he does to people... to women...Did he....did anyone…..?" His voice cracked and he broke off, unable to say the words. His eyes darted frantically around the general area of her face, trying and failing to read her expression.
She grabbed his hands and pulled them away from the collar. "No," she said firmly. "He was disgusting and his goons were handsy, but nobody...assaulted me.. like that. He just wanted to humiliate me."
And he paid for it, she thought grimly to herself, her palms throbbing slightly at the memory.
Han made a strangled sound of relief, something between a growl and a sob, and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. "We have to get it off you," he snarled. He took a step but realised he had no idea where he was going. "I need bolt cutters....I need to... CHEWIE!" he bellowed.
There was a commotion somewhere outside the door and the Wookiee appeared with a concerned yowl. *Cub! Are you alright? What is wrong?* He caught sight of the bruises on Han's bare torso and snarled angrily.
"I need bolt cutters," Han demanded, flapping a hand dismissively at the Wookiee's concern for his injuries. "I need to get that fucking thing off her neck but I still can't see, I can't see Chewie!" There was a note of desperation in his voice.
Leia's chest felt tight.
Chewie rummaged around in a storage tub and located the bolt cutters. *Do you want me to do it?* he asked gently.
Han nodded, running a hand agitatedly through his hair, his expression anguished.
Leia stood very still while Chewie dispatched the offending collar, and the last of Jabba's shackles fell heavily to the deckplates.
*Are you alright, Little Princess?* Chewie said as she rubbed her neck in relief. His blue eyes were soft and concerned.
"I'm fine, Chewie. Thanks," she reassured him, saying it aloud for Han's sake, but meeting the Wookiee's gaze with a firm nod to show him that yes, she really was.
*She is alright, Cub* Chewie repeated, eyeing his friend, who had bent over to rest his hands on his knees. *But you are not. You need to rest.*
Han was taking deep breaths through his nose. "Think I'm gonna be sick," he muttered.
Heart sinking as yet another textbook hibernation sickness symptom kicked in, Leia quickly guided him to the fresher. Han slumped heavily over the sink and proceeded to be violently ill, his body spasming as it tried to purge itself of its meagre contents.
Chewie hovered anxiously outside the door while she ran the tap.
"I've got him, Chewie," Leia reassured the Wookiee. If she could just get Han cleaned up and into his bunk, she could give him an IV and start trying to get his temperature down. The carbonite toxins they would have to deal with later, when they reached the fleet and could access a proper med centre.
Chewie gave her a worried look. *If he falls, it will be hard for you to lift him,* he pointed out.
"Ain't planning on falling, Fur Face!" Han grumbled testily before she could answer, his head still in the sink. He heaved again, groaning, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the counter. Leia bit her lip, aching to see him like this.
"I'll call you if that happens," she promised the Wookiee.
Chewie nodded, reluctantly.
"Need you to watch Lando," Han added weakly. "Don't let that two-faced bastard mess with my ship."
With a sigh the Wookiee retreated and Leia turned back to Han. He was shivering now, head resting on his arms as he lent on the counter, but he seemed to be done vomiting for the moment. Stepping carefully around him, she turned on the shower to the real water cycle. "Come on, Hotshot," she said gently. "We both need a shower."