16A/N:
Happy Movember, everyone!
This little fic was inspired by Harrison's beard circa 1980, which somehow makes his face even MORE kissable, if that's even possible.
It is also my thank you note, apology and recompense for all the premature Christmassing to which I have subjected Erin Darroch and Justine Graham. There is no better group of people for whom to postpone my Christmassing (until appropriately allowed) than ours.
And for the be to my tas, ScruffysSweetheart and KnightedRogue, thank you for lending me your respective left and right eye. Your support, your input and your eyeballs mean more than everything to me.
The reality is, you would have recognised it anywhere.
It has been long enough that your entire body has become accustomed to its texture.
It belongs to your neck, where it has so often found purchase and to the skin of your back which has so often been kissed by its roughness.
It was meant for your fingertips, the bridge of your nose, your lips and if your calculations are correct, it exists for you and you alone.
Ottegan wool? you are wondering. Too coarse. Definitely not.
Maybe Fresian silk… No. Not coarse enough.
This is something else entirely.
It is slow mornings and late evenings.
It is the dawn of a long ago beginning and the twilight of fights long forgotten.
It is part of someone forever in your heart and therefore something entirely beloved.
"Leia?" he wonders and the spell shatters. Your body shifts, draped as it is almost entirely on his own and a little push brings you closer to his eyes.
The holofilm continues, forgotten, somewhere in the background of your living room and a quiet "hm?" is all you can afford, warm and pliant as you are in his embrace.
"You asleep?"
Your response, negative as it is, arrives a little too late and your kiss lands at the place where his jaw meets his neck.
His exhale washes over you and there you stop, suspended, so very close to the subject of your earlier thoughts, always so near to this place of your uttermost safety.
Over too soon, he leans back just enough for his eyes to find yours, and it's where his knowing smile and his familiar warmth greet you.
Destination located, target locked, transaction fulfilled.
"You are getting scruffier, Captain," you tell him as your fingertips touch his beard at last.
A slow-forming smirk and that's that. He pounces faster than you thought he would and you react slower than you hoped you might and even though you don't see it coming, it honestly doesn't surprise you.
And then he is everywhere.
His beard maps whichever parts of your shoulders are left uncovered by your robe; across your neck, over your cheekbones, past your ears, over and over again. He knows where you are most sensitive and so your laughter bubbles, unexpected and unbothered.
The reality is, he leaves you breathless in all the ways that make love vibrant.
He knows it, too. It's why he pauses to observe the result of his efforts.
He is older now. You both are. And yet… and yet with him, life feels young still.
And so you stay there, lying on your couch, with him above you and the years you've shared surrounding and shielding you both from things that are out of your control.
And you are thinking of avalanches on ice-cold planets and long flights that ended in longing and you find that it was all worth it.
Because you know now that happiness can be found in the most unusual of places and love can soften even the roughest of things.