Chapter 19 · Ordinary News

Han was in the kitchen when Leia came home.

That should not have been remarkable. Husbands, in theory, could be found in kitchens. People lived in apartments, entered rooms, put food in heating units, opened cabinets, cursed at utensils, and generally behaved as though civilization had not been invented solely to generate committee briefings and security memos. There were entire worlds, Leia assumed, where a woman could come home, find her husband making dinner, and not first wonder whether he had been warned by Intelligence that she was approaching.

Still, after the week she had had, the sight of Han standing barefoot in their kitchen, sleeves rolled, hair a little mussed, staring suspiciously at a pot as though it had insulted the Millennium Falcon’s hyperdrive, felt almost indecently normal.

Leia stopped just inside the doorway.

Han looked up. “Don’t say anything.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking several things.”

“Were any of them about how I’m following instructions?”

Leia looked past him at the counter. There was sliced bread, some kind of broth, cut vegetables, two bowls, and a packet from a place downlevel that sold mild Corellian-style dumplings and had, on more than one occasion, saved Han from the consequences of believing he could cook.

“You’re reheating food.”

“That’s following instructions.”

“Whose instructions?”

“Mine. I instructed myself not to poison you.”

Leia felt the smile arrive before she could stop it. “That was thoughtful.”

“I’m a thoughtful guy.”

“You are a survival-oriented guy.”

“That too.”

She set her satchel down by the small table and leaned against the doorway for a moment longer than necessary. The apartment was not large by senatorial standards and enormous by the standards of half the refugee housing she signed off on every week, a contradiction she tried not to think about after dark because guilt, unlike policy, did not become more useful when reviewed repeatedly. It sat high enough in the Coruscant residential tiers to catch a narrow view between two towers: traffic lanes, light spill, the endless metallic depth of the city falling away beneath them in layers no one living above them liked to acknowledge too directly.

Han crossed the kitchen in three steps. He did not ask if she was all right. He kissed her forehead first.

Then he said, “You look like you fought the Senate and the Senate cheated.”

“The Senate always cheats.”

“Yeah, but usually with more speeches.”

“There were speeches.”

“Bad ones?”

“Several.”

“Any furniture thrown?”

“Not by me.”

Han paused. Leia looked at him. “By anyone?”

“No.”

“Disappointing.”

She let herself rest her forehead briefly against his shoulder. His shirt smelled faintly of engine oil, soap, and the sort of cheap kitchen heat that meant he had leaned too close to something steaming and then blamed the appliance. His hand settled at the back of her neck, warm and careful.

For several seconds, neither of them moved.

That was the luxury.

Not the apartment. Not the food. Not the view of a city pretending it had not swallowed a war and continued chewing. Just silence that did not demand anything. Then the pot hissed.

Han pulled back. “That’s probably dinner warning us.”

“Or surrendering.”

“Everybody’s surrendering this week.”

Leia groaned. “Don’t say that word.”

He grinned and returned to the stove.

She sat at the small table, removed her boots with more effort than dignity, and accepted the cup of ginger tea he placed in front of her without comment. He had learned quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. Han Solo, who had once considered caff and sarcasm a complete breakfast, now kept ginger tea in three varieties because she had made the mistake of looking nauseated near him twice.

She loved him more for it than she intended to admit aloud.

“So,” Han said, stirring the pot with aggressive uncertainty, “how’s our favorite blue houseguest?”

Leia stared at him.

He looked over his shoulder. “What?”

“Do not call him that.”

“What? favorite?”

“Houseguest.”

“Right. Sorry. Prisoner with benefits?”

“Han.”

“Government-sponsored problem tenant?”

Leia covered her face with one hand.

Han pointed the spoon at her. “I heard they’re getting him a place.”

“They are not getting him a place.”

“That’s not what Wedge said.”

Leia dropped her hand. “Wedge knows?”

Wedge knows Caro Antilles is not related to him, which means Wedge was annoyed enough by the coincidence to verify it. Once Wedge is annoyed, he knows things.”

“I am going to have words with Security.”

“Get in line.”

Leia sighed. “It is not a place. It is a secure custodial residence under special order.”

Han stared.

Then he nodded gravely. “A joint.”

Leia stared back.

“No.”

“Oh, definitely.”

“It is not—”

“They’re putting Thrawn in a little bachelor apartment.”

“They are confining a high-risk detainee in a controlled residential environment because standard detention is medically unsuitable, the hospital ward is no longer appropriate, and the former Imperial residential complexes are a security and political nightmare.”

Han carried two bowls to the table.

“So, a little apartment.”

Leia took the bowl because arguing while hungry, nauseated, and married to Han Solo was a tactical error. “It is temporary.”

“That’s what everybody says when they move into a bad apartment.” He snorted.

“Han.”

“What? I know. I had several.”

“You had compartments.”

“Some of them had doors.”

“That is not the standard.”

He sat opposite her, still grinning, but his eyes had softened. He waited until she took the first cautious spoonful of broth before touching his own food.

“How’s your stomach?”

“Better than yesterday.”

“True better or politician better?”

“Han.”

“Leia.”

She looked into the bowl. “True enough.”

He did not push.

That was new too, or perhaps not new, only more visible now. Han’s concern used to arrive as deflection first and argument second, but he had been learning, with uneven grace, that hovering could be made almost tolerable if disguised as food, bad jokes, and letting silence do some of the work.

The broth was mild and warm. She managed another spoonful.

Han looked pleased enough to pretend he was not. “So,” he said, “the little apartment.”

“It has not been selected yet.”

“But it will be.”

“Probably.”

“And people are mad.”

“Everyone is mad.”

“That’s efficient.”

Leia gave him a look over the rim of the bowl.

He leaned back. “Let me guess. The civil liberty people think he needs better conditions.”

“Yes.”

“The Imperial nostalgia people think this proves the Republic needs old-fashioned discipline.”

“Yes.”

“The lawyers think every delay is a gift wrapped in incompetence.”

“Yes.”

“Kallus thinks every object Thrawn ever touched is a message.”

“Not inaccurately.”

“Mon thinks the Republic has to do the right thing even if the right thing looks terrible.”

Leia paused. “Yes.”

“And you?”

She lowered the spoon.

Han’s face did not change, but the question did. The joke stepped aside. The room became quieter.

“I think,” Leia said slowly, “that we are getting very good at explaining why every bad option is the least bad one.”

Han nodded once. “That sounds like government.”

“It sounds like losing ground.”

“Same thing?”

“Sometimes.”

He reached across the table and touched her hand. Not taking it. Just there.

“Is he winning?”

Leia hated that the question had an answer. “Not exactly.”

“That means yes in politics.”

“It means he is moving.”

Han’s mouth tightened a little. “And you don’t know towards what.”

“No. I know what he says he wants.”

“A stronger New Republic.”

“Yes.”

“And you believe him?”

Leia looked at him. The apartment hummed around them: old conduits, traffic beyond the windows, the heating unit humming softly as it adjusted to the evening chill several thousand levels above the real ground. “I believe he believes the current Republic is militarily inadequate,” she said.

Han snorted. “Generous of him.”

“And I believe he thinks that matters more than what we think of him.”

“That part I buy.”

“I don’t know if I believe the rest.”

“The big threat.”

“Yes.”

“Something from the unknown regions? Or whatever they’re calling the dark beyond the maps.”

“He has still not given us enough.”

“Maybe he’s waiting for you to put carpet in his pad.”

Despite herself, Leia laughed. It caught in her throat, half amusement, half exhaustion, and came out warmer than she expected. Han smiled, but did not make the joke bigger. That was also new. Or perhaps, again, not new.

She ate another spoonful. Then another.

After a while she said, “He’s receiving fan mail.”

Han froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. “I’m sorry?”

“Fan mail.”

“For Thrawn.”

“Yes.”

“Grand Admiral Thrawn.”

“Former Grand Admiral Thrawn, if you ask the lawyers.”

“People are sending him fan mail?”

“And hate mail. And marriage proposals. And death threats. And religious pamphlets. And at least one invitation to speak at a symposium on ethical military realism, which Vorr described as ‘proof that academia has not suffered enough.’”

Han lowered the spoon very slowly. “Okay. I need to sit down more.”

“You are already sitting.”

“Then I need to sit better.”

He adjusted dramatically in the chair.

Leia smiled into her tea. “Kallus is going mad,” she said. “His team has been trying to intercept, scan, catalog, classify, and decide what can be destroyed, what has to be preserved as potential threat evidence, what counts as legal correspondence, what counts as public petition, and what might contain coded messages.”

“Does it?”

“Probably some of it.”

“From him?”

“To him. Or pretending to be to him. Or pretending not to be to him, which is apparently worse.”

Han pointed his spoon at her. “See, this is why I never joined Intelligence.”

“You smuggled for years.”

“Exactly. Honest work. Counter-intelligence.”

Leia gave him a look.

He shrugged. “Honest in spirit.”

“The lawyers found out.”

“Of course they did.”

“Now they are arguing that correspondence addressed to their client cannot simply vanish into an intelligence archive without process. And defending the privacy of his correspondence.”

Han blinked. “They want him to get his fan mail?”

“They want a review protocol. Security screening first, then legal determination, then delivery of approved correspondence.”

“And can he answer?”

“That is the next fight.”

Han stared at her. Then, slowly, joy began to spread across his face. “No.”

“Han.”

“No, this is beautiful.”

“It is not beautiful.”

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve heard all week. The New Republic is having a legal battle over whether Thrawn can reply to fan mail.”

“And hate mail.”

“Even better.” His grin broadened.

“There are security concerns.”

“There are always security concerns.”

“There could be coded communication.”

“Sure.”

“There could be operational signaling.”

“Absolutely.”

“There could be attempts by remnant cells to contact him.”

“Yeees.”

“And you are enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“Why?”

“Because somewhere, Kallus is reading Thrawn’s mail, and somewhere else, Thrawn’s expensive lawyers are telling him he has to hand over the love letters.”

Leia dropped her head into her hand.

Han continued, delighted. “Does Thrawn know?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, he has to know.”

“He does not have to know.”

“He’s Thrawn. He probably inferred it from the paper cuts on Kallus’s fingers.”

Leia smiled despite herself, that was Han’s gift. “That is not how intelligence works.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

Han leaned back, laughing now, and Leia found herself laughing too, softly at first and then helplessly enough that she had to set the tea down. For a few seconds, the whole thing was absurd enough to be survivable.

Then her private comm chimed.

The laughter faded, but not entirely.

Leia glanced at the display. Luke.

Han saw the name before she said anything. His expression changed, gentler now.

“You going to tell him? About his niece.” Leia looked at the comm as if it might become easier to answer if she waited.

The last few days had been full of things she had delayed because delay was necessary, strategic, unavoidable, defensible. Charges. Custody. Counsel. Access. Warnings. Threats. Every postponement had acquired a reason and a file. This one had no file.

Han reached across the table and closed his hand around hers.

“You said you wanted to do it in person.”

“I did.”

“You also said he’s impossible to pin down.”

“He is.”

“And you know if you wait for the perfect moment, the kid’ll be old enough to tell him herself.”

Leia laughed once, shaky this time. “Don’t.”

“Just saying.”

She accepted the call.

Luke’s holo appeared in the small field above the table, pale blue and flickering slightly with long-distance distortion. He looked windblown, sunburned, and too calm in the way that made Leia suspect he had spent the day somewhere dangerous and beautiful and had not yet remembered to be tired. Behind him she could see stone, sky, and something like a ruin half-swallowed by grass.

“Leia,” he said, smiling.

For one second, seeing him hurt. It still surprised her sometimes. That love could ache simply because the other person was alive and too far away. Luke was her brother, impossibly found, impossibly kept, and somehow always moving toward horizons that made sense only to him.

“Luke,” she said.

His smile faltered immediately. “What happened?”

Han leaned back in his chair. “Hello to you too, kid.”

Luke blinked, then smiled again, smaller. “Hi, Han.”

“Nice place. Ancient rocks? Mysterious vibes? Questionable footing?”

“Pretty much.”

“Great. Don’t fall off anything.”

“I’ll try.”

Leia took a breath. Luke’s eyes moved back to her. The Force, she thought with exasperated affection, made him terribly unfair in conversations he had not even begun. “It’s not bad news,” she said.

His face shifted. “Oh.”

Just that. Oh. As if some part of him had heard the shape of joy before she could form it.

Leia’s throat tightened. Han’s thumb moved once over her knuckles. “I’m pregnant,” she said.

The words were small. They filled the room anyway.

Luke went utterly still. The ruined landscape behind him flickered. Then his face opened with such unguarded happiness that Leia had to look down for a moment. “Oh, Leia!”

Han cleared his throat. “That’s the general idea, yeah.”

Luke laughed, and the sound came through distorted but bright.

Leia looked back up. “We haven’t told anyone publicly,” she said quickly. “Mon knows. Obviously Han. You. And Chewie. That’s it.”

Luke nodded, still smiling like the galaxy had remembered how to be kind. “I won’t say anything.”

“I know.”

“How far?”

“Early. Very early. I had the first appointment with the midwife last week.”

Luke’s expression softened further. “You’re all right?”

“I’m tired and nauseated and apparently married to a man who believes dumplings are prenatal care.”

“They’re mild,” Han said. “That’s basically medicine.”

Luke smiled at him. “Congratulations to you too, Han.” Then his gaze returned to Leia, and something in it changed. Not shadow. Depth. “Leia,” he said quietly, “I’m so happy for you.”

She swallowed. “I know.”

“For both of you.”

Han’s hand tightened around hers. “Thanks, Luke.”

Luke looked between them, and for a moment Leia could almost feel the distance fold—not the way hyperspace folded, not the way politics collapsed every room into a battlefield, but like family did, badly and beautifully, across whatever space it could reach.

Then Luke tilted his head slightly. “Do you have a feeling?”

Leia blinked. “A feeling?”

“About the baby.”

Han pointed at the holo. “Careful.”

Luke looked startled. “What?”

“That’s Jedi voice.”

“I don’t have a Jedi voice.”

“You absolutely have a Jedi voice.”

Leia laughed despite herself.

Luke looked mildly offended, which made him look about fourteen. “I only meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Leia said. Then she hesitated. The name sat under her tongue, warm and frightening. “It’s a girl,” she said, “we’re thinking Padmé.”

Luke’s face changed again. This time the happiness remained, but grief moved through it like light through water.

“Padmé,” he said.

Leia nodded. “Too much?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Luke’s voice was soft. “I think… I think she would have liked that.”

Leia looked down at the table. Han’s hand stayed around hers.

For a moment, none of them spoke.

Then Han, because he was Han, said, “Had it been a boy I would have campaigned for Chewbacca Junior. Despite Leia insisting on Ben.”

Leia closed her eyes. Luke burst out laughing.

“That is not happening,” Leia said.

“Not with that attitude.”

“Not with any attitude.” She rebuked.

“Chewie would cry.”

“Chewie would understand.”

“Chewie would not understand.”

Luke was still laughing. “Please don’t name the baby Chewbacca Junior.”

“See?” Leia said.

Han pointed at Luke. “You stay out of this, ancient-rocks man.”

The laughter settled slowly, leaving something gentler behind.

Luke’s smile softened. “I wish I were there.”

“Me too,” Leia said before she could make it lighter.

He heard that too. Of course he did.

“I can come back.”

“No,” Leia said, though part of her wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. “Finish whatever you’re doing.”

“It can wait.”

“Can it?” Luke hesitated. There it was. Leia smiled faintly. “Exactly.”

“I’ll come soon,” he said.

“Soon,” she agreed.

Then his expression shifted again, more serious. “And Thrawn?”

The ordinary room seemed, at once, less ordinary. Han leaned back. Leia exhaled.

“I was wondering how long we’d manage.”

Luke looked apologetic. “The whole galaxy is talking about it.”

“Yes. It is.”

“Is it really him?”

“Yes.”

“And he surrendered?”

“Yes.”

Luke absorbed that, gaze lowering briefly. “I need to come back.”

Leia’s hand tightened around Han’s. “No.”

Luke looked up. “Leia—”

“Not for him.”

“I didn’t say for him.”

“You were about to.”

“I was about to say you may need help.”

“With Thrawn?”

“With what he brought.”

Leia went still. Han looked between them.

“Luke,” Leia said carefully, “do you know something?”

“No. Not directly.”

“That is not reassuring.”

“I’ve felt…” He stopped, searching for a word he did not trust. “Disturbance is too dramatic. It isn’t like before. Not like the Emperor. Not like Vader. It’s farther away. Old fear, maybe. Or many fears moving in the same direction.”

Leia closed her eyes.

“Jedi voice,” Han muttered.

“Han,” Luke said.

“No, kid, I love you, but that was definitely Jedi voice.”

Leia opened her eyes.

“Luke. Please do not turn Thrawn’s warning into destiny.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.”

“But if he says there is something beyond the war we know, I think we should listen enough to find out whether he is lying.”

Leia stared at him. The apartment no longer felt warm. “That is what he wants.”

“Maybe.”

“You understand that.”

“Yes.”

“You understand that every step toward listening makes him more useful. And every useful thing about him makes it harder to remember what he did.”

Luke’s face grew still. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

Leia looked away first. Han’s thumb moved over her hand again, a small warning, a small comfort.

Luke’s voice softened. “Leia, believing a warning is not the same as forgiving the person who gives it.”

“I know.”

But the words came out too sharp. Luke heard that too. For a moment, the joy from earlier stood beside something more fragile.

Then Leia took a breath. “I don’t want to fight about Thrawn tonight.”

Luke nodded at once. “Neither do I.”

“I wanted to tell you about the baby.”

“I’m glad you did.”

Her throat tightened again. “Me too.”

Han leaned into the holo’s range. “And remember: Chewbacca Junior is still on the table.”

“It is not,” Leia said.

Luke smiled. “I’ll help her stop you. Or I may use a Jedi trick…”

“Traitor.”

“Always.”

The call ended a few minutes later, after promises to speak soon, after Luke said congratulations twice more, after Han made one final terrible naming suggestion involving Lando, and after Leia managed not to cry until the holo faded.

Then the apartment was quiet again.

Han did not say anything at first. He simply stood, came around the table, and pulled her gently against him. Leia went. No argument. No posture. No senator, no general, no princess with a dead planet behind her name.

Just Leia, tired and nauseated and happy and afraid.

After a while Han said, very quietly, “That went pretty good.”

She laughed into his shirt. “You think?”

“Baby part, yes. Thrawn part, less cozy.”

She closed her eyes. “He’s going to believe him.”

“Luke believes everybody eventually.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Okay. He believes the part of everybody that makes the rest of us nervous.”

Leia pulled back enough to look at him. “That is unfortunately accurate.”

Han brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You okay?”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

“I am happy.”

“I know.”

“And terrified.”

“I know.”

“And furious that even telling my brother about our child somehow ended with Thrawn in the room.”

Han looked toward the table, where the bowls had cooled and the comm sat dark. “Technically, he wasn’t in the room.”

“Han.”

“Right. Not helpful.”

She leaned into him again.

He held her.

Outside the window, Coruscant moved without pause: lanes of light, towers, sirens somewhere too far below to matter until they did. Somewhere in the city, Thrawn waited in a modified cell while the Republic searched for a discreet apartment, lawyers sharpened correspondence protocols, Kallus read fan mail with increasing despair, and Luke Skywalker stood under an alien sky thinking about warnings from the edge of the map.

Inside, Han’s hand rested over hers, warm and solid. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I like Padmé.”

Leia closed her eyes. “So do I.”

“And if it’s a boy—”

“Babies don’t change. It’s a girl, the midwife told us. 90% sure.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“Because I know you.”

“There is still a 10% of Ben, right?”

She went still. Han felt it. He did not take the word back.

Leia drew a slow breath. “Maybe,” she said.

Han kissed her hair. “Maybe is good.”

The city kept moving.

The food went cold.

For once, Leia let it.