Just a little something that popped into my head. Still working on TNQLL.

Disclaimer: George owns this. Shocking, I know.


They all think I'm going to say something, but there is nothing written on the data pad I'm holding. Just the picture of them, the one I took at our last birthday, before we realized the fact that we celebrated together was more than just a strange coincidence. He's kissing her. It's the only one I have of them together; he never liked pictures.

They wanted her to say something, but she told them to go to hell. I should have.

I can't think of a single thing to say to them. I know what I want to tell them, but they don't want to hear it.

No one wants to hear that he never gave a damn about them, that he only joined up for her.

Always for her.


Ultimately, this should be looked upon as a positive occurrence. It was regretful, death always is, but now she can marry someone of her statue. After a period of mourning, naturally. And then she can represent us to her full potential.

It was sad, and there will be tears shed, perhaps an honorary service after we are finished here.

But someday she will stop crying.


I remember, once, a long time age, before we knew and certainly before they themselves knew, I saw them dancing. They were talking, a polite distance between them, and I remember thinking; they are good dancers.

Later, when we all knew, I saw them again, dancing in a bar while we were celebrating the truce. The one time they danced that night. I think they were trying to keep their relationship hidden, at least from the Council, but this time they didn't talk and the polite distance was gone.

They might as well have shouted it.

Mon Mothma

I used to say their relationship was a bad idea. I told people it was a fling, he was no good for her, she was too young, it made her work slip,he distracted her in briefings. I said she wasn't getting enough sleep with him in her bed.

I used to say their relationship was a bad idea.

I just didn't want it to end like this.


He fought good, that day. Brave. Always did things by the seat of his pants, he did. 'Cept with her. He was always real careful with her.

Once we were all talking in the lockers, and some bastard said something insulting about her. He punched that guy so hard the bleeding didn't stop for five whole time parts.

If he was being more careful that day, that blaster blot wouldn't have hit him.

He was always so careful with her.


They're all watching. They want me to give some lovely speech about how brave he was, how loyal. I want them to leave my sister alone.

I don't know what to tell them.

I'm up here, and all I can think of as I look down at their faces, the only shred of information that comes to mind is the name he called her in bed. I remember that.

What do you want to hear? Just tell me and I'll say it, if only so I can get off this podium and comfort her like I'm supposed. But I can't think of what to tell her either.

Do you want to hear that the walls of the Falcon are thin? That I used to listen to them when they talked. He called her baby, you know, and beautiful and sweetheart. I could hear them sometimes, when they fought, and I could always hear them when they made up.

He called her Leia, in bed. All the names, and he only ever called her Leia.

Wouldn't they love to hear that.

Leia and love always meant the same thing in his book.