After my car accident, I was in the hospital and the male nurse goes “any chance you’re pregnant” and my 66 year old grandmother starts laughing hysterically and goes “look at what she’s wearing, GGGGAAUUUUYY.”
idk if you're still taking writing requests, but if you are: do you have any thoughts on leia telling han she's pregnant with ben?
Leia spends precisely ten days Freaking Out About This.
To be clear, Freaking Out About Potentially Having A Baby (With Han Solo Oh Frag) gets somewhat buried below the fold, since they haven’t definitively won the war against the Empire.
(Killing Darth Vader and Darth Sidious does not equal defeating the Empire, Luke, whatever you tell handsome men in bars.)
Also Leia is coming to terms with the fact that apparently her biological father was Darth Vader? The most-feared man in the galaxy, the one who destroyed her planet and the people she considered her family, she feels a headache coming on every time she stops to think about it.
And whenever she’s in the same room(/shuttle/base/planet/system) as Han, it is so easy to just………let him distract her, he is very good at distracting her, which is how they ended up in this situation in the first place.
She’s busy, is the point.
Anyway, she takes ten days to low-key freak out about this, to turn her options over in her mind, because whatever her flaws (prone to fits of temper and a little emotionally withholding, yes, thank you Han) she’s not about to make a decision like this lightly.
Ultimately, she feels right having this child, this one—a child of Endor, the first child to be born without the shadow of the Empire hanging over him.
“With Han,” Luke says. “With Han Solo,” he repeats, when she says yes. “You’re really sure?” Luke asks, pulling a face of such brotherly disgust that Leia laughs, and throws her pillow at him.
It takes a while to wrangle it, because they all keep ending up at different ends of the galaxy—that war they’re still fighting won’t end, it’s terribly inconvenient—and she wants everyone to be there, Luke and Chewie and Han, all of them.
They’re all that’s left of her family, she wants them around her when she says, I am having a child, I think it’s a son. I want to name him Bail, after my father.
She fully expects Han to go white beneath his sunsburn, to hightail it from the base, from the system (she asks Chewie and Luke to guard the door, just in case)
But instead Han Solo smiles. His whole face transforms, opens up; he’s looking at her as he hasn’t looked at her in years, since he said, I’m a nice man, and there was enough wanting in the words to make it almost true.
“Really?” he asks, and his voice is so full of hope it cracks and spills out. “There’s—there’s a baby?”
“I don’t know how babies work,” he laughs, his hand spanning the not-even-swell of her stomach, because Han Solo doesn’t know how babies work, and hasn’t done ten days of obsessive research the way Leia has.
Prestor-Bail-Ben Organa—they never do settle on a name, right up until the moment he’s born—doesn’t kick until twenty weeks, at which point his father proclaims him a natural grav-ball player, and spends the next fourteen weeks crowing about it.
Luke claims that it’s a sign of some Jedi form that Leia doesn’t care much about, except that if they want to keep feeling her stomach with such intent and arguing about it, they ought to bring her something in exchange.
She suggests cookies, or hoth chocolate.
Honestly, the only other person in the whole endeavor who’s sensible about anything is Lando, who sends a beautiful crib carved of Endorian wood and the commlink of an excellent doctor, both with his best wishes. The note is signed: the “honorable” hold-parent. Leia is too amused to be annoyed.
Well, that’s not fair. Chewie is very sensible too, though Leia wishes he would stop referring to Prestor-Bail-Ben as a “cub” it conjures very hairy images she can’t shake.
(I hope you take after your mother, Han whispers to her swelling stomach one night, very late when he thinks Leia is asleep. Leia keeps her breathing even and slow, waiting— I’ll teach you to pick locks and pilot a freighter, Han says quietly. You can inherit my nose, if you really want. But otherwise….I hope you get everything else from her.)
It’s after the Battle of Jakku that Han finds her in the cheering crowd, his eyes wide with that immediate earnestness of the very drunk, shouting LEIA ORGANA WILL YOU MARRY ME, PRINCESS BE MINE
Luke is a few steps behind him, howling with laughter, a fair mixture of pity and amusement in his expression when he manages to straighten up.
“Ask me when you’re sober, flyboy,” Leia laughs, pulling them both into an embrace giddy with victory and peace and satisfaction. Except—
She doesn’t expect him to show up the next morning, dressed in the suit he wore on Yavin IV, a sober expression on his trickster features. “So,” he says, and fishes a small drawstring bag from his pocket. It’s not a flashy promise ring, just a simple band, songsteel etched with knot-work.
It’s so perfect that her throat closes up, she wishes she had put on something other than her nightgown and robe, even if there’s n one else around to see.
“How long have you had….?” “A kid should have a family,” Han Solo says, the fierce emotion in his voice belying his shrug. "And I love you, Princess. Whatever else, you know that’s true.”
“Commander,” she says, because she is going to proposed to with her proper title, damn it. “It’s commander.” He laughs. She offers her hand, and he slips the ring over her finger. “I love you, Commander Organa,” he breathes, and kisses her.
Princess (Commander) Leia Organa is married at seven months pregnant, Commander (Scoundrel) Han Solo looking at her as though she hung the stars in the sky and getting distracted when she smiles at him. Chewie wails, dramatically, as the vows are read.
Her brother (Master Skywalker, the first of the last of the jedi) has to help her kneel, she’s too far along to move without assistance. Han touches her elbow as she shifts uncomfortably on her knees, the barest brush of fingertips, his dark eyes soft.
She thinks this is what peace is supposed to feel like, as Han kisses her—delicately, his hands spanning the absurd swell of her stomach, feeling Prestor-Bail-Ben kick at his father’s palms. She cries, and blames the hormones. He pretends not to cry. Luke blows his nose loudly.
“I thought you would run,” Leia grits out two months later, riding another wave of contractions. She feels wrung out as an old rag, can’t imagine having any energy left to bring Prestor-Bail-Ben into the world. “Yeah, nice try, your Worshipfulness,” Han says. He’s gripping her hand almost as hard as she’s gripping his. “You broke the mercenary in me—what, five years ago? Now you’ll never get rid of me. I’m not even sure I remember what money is for.” “Liar,” she wheezes as the next contraction wrings her out, and Han grins, he grins.
They put Prestor-Bail-Ben in her arms, his little face screwed up as he wails, warm as—well, as inside her, and isn’t that the strangest thought, that this person was inside her, right up until a few minutes ago?
She doesn’t know how much room there was in her chest until she holds her son, and all of it floods with love, more than she’s ever known. Enough to ignite stars. (Later, Luke will say he could feel it through the Force, all the way at the other end of the hospital—like suddenly walking into a wall of light.)
“Cradle his head,” Leia says, and Han moves a hand to almost engulf their son’s small skull. He looks abjectly terrified and yet so proud her could burst—none of the nurses have commented on it, and so Leia assumes this is normal.
“Hey, kid,” Han Solo whispers to his son, this small child tucked up against his chest and making soft shapes with his mouth as he yawns. “Hey, I’m your dad. It’s me. How are you?”
Leia falls asleep to the quiet murmur of Han’s voice and the quiet tread of his boots as he walks around the room, rocking Ben in his arms, saying wait until we get you home, you’ll love it there; your uncle and I hung a holomobile with little x-wings, it’s great. Someday—
Things are really starting to get hard. I’ve been nauseas the past three days or so (today definitely being the worst). My Dr. Is out of town until Thursday, and I’ve had a terrible experience with the on call Dr. I’ve made no progress, and I am still dilated to 1cm. I’ve tried every wives tale under the sun, and I am stuck at this stand still. I’m just ready for us to finally meet this little girl. Come on Penny Lee! Everyone’s waiting on you!
trigger warnings apply! (rape, unwanted pregnancy, abortion, the whole shebang)
“Something’s wrong with the baby. I can feel it. We need to get to a hospital right now.” “You can’t get an abortion! I forbid it!” “Do you even know who the father is? One of your hundreds of ‘clients’?!” “That baby has no future. You can’t care for yourself, let alone for someone else!” “Try to calm down, alright? I know this wasn’t planned, but that doesn’t mean it can’t work out.” “You know the only thing you’re going to see when you look at this child is the face of your rapist, right?” “You can’t just leave me with YOUR child and expect that to be acceptable!” “I already hate this child and I’ve still got six more months to go before I get to see it.” “You’ve not smiled once since the doctor gave you the news… I thought you wanted this.” “We can’t raise a child!” “Our parents were shit parents! We’re going to be shit parents!” “I don’t want it, so I either go through months of this, only to put it up for adoption, or I get rid of it now.” “We only just started trying… I didn’t think it’d happen this quickly.” “I’m not ready for this. I said I wanted it, but I’m not so sure anymore. It feels wrong, all of it does.” “No. You’re not pregnant, you’re not! You’re just a child yourself!” “How could you let this happen to yourself? I raised you to be more careful!” “If you have that baby, you’re out of the family. You know we don’t approve.” “I’m too far down the line to get an abortion now. That’s why I didn’t tell you sooner. I knew you would make me get rid of it.” “I can’t love a baby that came from so much hate.” “You can’t just back out now and leave me in the mess! I’m the one carrying YOUR child. It’s your responsibility to stay.” “If you don’t provide, you won’t get to see our baby.” “I’m bleeding… call an ambulance. I’m not supposed to be bleeding!” “There’s no money to raise this child, don’t you see that?” “So, that filthy asshole got you pregnant, did he?” “What do you mean, it isn’t mine?! You promised to be faithful to me!” “This child is an abomination, because you two are not meant to be with each other. It’s not right!” “If you tell him, he’s going to kick you out… You know that.” “Get rid of it, don’t tell him and live happily ever after.” “STOP! OW! You can’t just KILL our child like this!” “Lie down and shut up, I’m going to deal with this the old-fashioned way and get rid of it myself.” “You got her pregnant?! What were you thinking?”
For my birthday, my wonderful friends and husband surprised me; they organised for me to have my baby bump painted and a photo shoot. It was so amazing of them and I was beyond touched. I really truly have some incredible people in my life.
“Babies Ruin Bodies” An Ode to my Postpartum Body. Before I became pregnant, someone told me, “don’t have a baby, babies ruin your body.” It has been over a year since Anabel began her life. This time last year she was a microscopic speck in my stomach, and we were announcing our pregnancy. Between then and now, I have gained and lost fifty pounds. Four months after her birth, and my body still carries proof of her existence. (via we seek joy: “Babies Ruin Bodies”)