His Hands -- a quick story I dashed off just 
for the fun of it.  Here, we get a look 
through Leia's eyes at the man she loves.
                                               
by Michelle Slaughter
Copyright January 29, 1998

The usual disclaimer: these characters 
belong to Lucasfilm, Ltd., and I am not 
making any money off of the story.  No 
infringement is intentional.

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His Hands


        His hands.  So strong, so capable...  
That was truly the first thing I noticed about 
him.  I'm not certain if anyone believes that.  
I'm not certain if I believed it early on.  But 
it is the truth, no matter how strange that 
may seem.  The way he handled a blaster 
rifle, cradling it like a lover, first brought 
my attention to those hands I now love so 
dearly.  I remember the first time he took 
my hand in his.  I had cut my knuckles on 
another man's teeth when I punched him.  
Han gently led me aboard the Falcon, out of 
the sight of others, to tend to my cut hand 
and bruised cheek.  So gently his fingers 
applied the necessary medicinals, 
thoroughly covering and, in time, healing 
the evidence of my unladylike squabble with 
Andros Malconis.  So tenderly did those 
hands tend to me... those hands which had, 
moments before, been clenched tightly into 
fists as Han thought to enter the fray on my 
behalf.  Of course, that was before I landed 
that punch on Andros's jaw...

        How I love those hands!  Those 
hands which soothe away the tension in 
muscles twisted tightly by the long 
responsibilities of the day; which so often 
can not resist the urge to unfasten my hair, 
freeing it from the long braids that I so 
meticulously twist and pin into place every 
morning.  Those same strong, long-fingered 
hands then can not help tangling themselves 
in the dark strands that fall down my back.  
And then, I can not resist their power.   
What he can do with those hands!

        Oh, yes, I do love them!  Those 
hands which lightly brush away the tears 
when the nightmares become too much for 
me; which caress my face and body with 
such skill, as I always assumed they would 
be able to do.  After all, I watched those 
same hands caress the controls of the Falcon 
with a talent and adeptness that was 
unequaled in any other.  That they should be 
less capable in the romantic arts seemed 
impossible to me.   And I was not wrong.  
Not at all.

        But to speak of his hands means I 
must also mention his arms... the raw 
strength and power that lies there in those 
lean, sculpted limbs.  I do not think there 
has ever been a time when they have not 
seemed strong to me.  That first day when I 
met him, I received a taste of just how 
powerful those arms could be.  There in the 
garbage compactor, when we laughed with 
relief that we were not going to be crushed 
to death, he grabbed me up into his embrace 
and hugged me tightly, as I did him.  I 
chastised myself later for finding it too 
enjoyable.  For all the good that did me.

        There were other times those sturdy 
arms wrapped around me, times without 
joy... only grief.  When Alix was murdered, 
my dear Alix--whom I had thought I would 
love all the rest of my days beyond any 
other--it was his arms, Han's, which helped 
me to regain my feet when the news finally 
brought me to the floor.  He was the one 
there, his firm, unyielding arms the ones 
which lifted me up to help me to my rooms.  
And it was his arms which wound around 
my shoulders and cradled me against his 
chest as I, with racking sobs, mourned the 
last person who had symbolized to me 
everything that Alderaan had been.  Despite 
the previous six long months of nothing but 
arguments and insults thrown at each other, 
Han was there when I most needed 
someone... letting me cry against his broad 
chest while he soothed my grief silently with 
that solid, steady embrace.  He was there to 
hold me in his arms and let me grieve, 
whispering into my hair, "Just cry, princess.  
Go ahead and cry."  He alone allowed me to 
be weak for a few moments and express 
what I felt within.  Him.  The one person 
before whom I never wished to appear in a 
weakened state...  

        How ironic to me that I felt so then.  
For, in these days of my life, he is the only 
one who sees me in such a state.  For I know 
that only his arms can hold me together, 
keep me from shattering into little pieces; 
know that only his hands can soothe away 
the grief or fear in my heart; know that only 
those lips will make me forget that anything 
else in the galaxy exists.  All these things are 
treasures to me with which I will never 
willingly part.

        The best part is that I believe he feels 
the same way about me.  Only to me does he 
divulge his innermost fears.  Only with me 
does he share his dreams and hopes.  Only 
for me, no matter how crowded the room, is 
that crooked smile that echoes itself in his 
eyes, lighting up his very soul for me to see.  

        How I do love this man!  And I know 
the sentiment is returned.  I feel it each night 
when he takes me into his arms, my head 
resting against his chest.  I listen with loving 
pride at the strong heart beating within; 
revel in the firm way he cradles me against 
him, lips brushing over my hair as he 
whispers, "I love you."

        My mother, the mother of my heart, 
told me that no politician or noble prince 
would ever be enough for me.  A man of 
action, not empty words, she had said with a 
great deal of pride.  That was the only man 
who would ever truly satisfy my demanding 
heart.

        I wonder if she knows just how right 
she was?

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