Pairing: Leia Organa/Han Solo
Fic Title: A Thousand Pieces
Genre: Angst, drama
Why This Must Be Read: This is a beautiful fic that follows through with the original trilogy, focusing primarily on the evolution of Leia. Not only is the writing evocative and lyrical and yet still spare, but the characterizations are right on. This fic highlights Leia's strengths, her convictions, but also her flaws, her fears. Luke and Han are also brilliantly portrayed, the roles the two men play in her life, and this is the Han Solo I love, a guy who is a pirate, a mercenary, and occasionally a goofball pain in the ass, but still sharp and smart with his own view of the universe that is so different from everything Leia has known. He's the perfect foil for her evolution. Even the use of alternating second and third person POV is perfectly executed.
A thousand pieces. Like home. Her knees can't resist the opportunity to buckle and her eyes assume it's the right time for some long-overdue watering. But they're wrong; it's the wrong time, the wrong distraction. The rattling box yields to her angry, questing fingertips. A piece is found—her thumb nudges—and slides in. And another. And another. Put yourself back together again. A frame, an edge, is born.
"You found the puzzle, huh?"
Smirk-and-Swagger's standing in the entryway, one hand propped against the frame, the other on his blaster. The volume's been turned down on the smirk, she notices; the swagger's been lost in favor of one foot being cocked behind the other.
A few pieces have strayed too close to the edge of the table, and she knocks them to the floor for a discreet swipe at her eyes under the table. "I never would've pegged you as the type," she says, condescension muffled by knees and grief.
He hmpfs at her. "You pegged right; never touched it. Came with the Falcon, so who knows who left it behind? Someone with a thing for harder than hell puzzles, I guess." She hears footsteps. From her vantage point, she sees scuffed boot tips approaching. "Looks like you're the type, though."
She's not in the mood for conversation or appraisal, and her head is getting uncomfortably full, so she slaps the errant pieces onto the table and says, "Excuse me."
Then she slithers away from the table, away from the puzzle, away from him, away from her memories, away, away, away, until it's time to stand helplessly by as the moon-that-is-not-a-moon attempts to eclipse her.