Disclaimer: Not mine (and no, my mother never taught me to speak in full sentences)

Rating: Umm… PG-13, or whatever they're calling that now.

Summary: Janson wakes up with someone in his bed. And this someone is definitely not him (because he checked, and he's here, and that crosses off an out-of-body experience). Mothma/Janson, Han/Leia

Yes, I am alive. Hiya!

Life kinda, um, caught up with me there for awhile. …And TNQLL will be updated. (I should really think of a new way to say that; I Haven't Abandoned It Yet: The Remix.)

So… don't hate me. Or, you know, do. smiles nervously

Well, this story… I basically just stuck Solo, Organa, Mothma, and Janson together. They're actually somewhat adorable. Oh, and it's an absurdist piece, so, yeah, prepare yourselves for run-on sentences.

Hope you enjoy.


Janson wakes up with someone in his bed. And this someone is definitely not him (because he checked, and he's here, and that crosses off an out-of-body experience). A quick glance confirms it: he's never had that much hair. The situation is uncomfortable, and not only because of the we-drank-copious-amounts-of-alcohol-and-did-something-really-stupid factor. Mostly it is uncomfortable because Janson can feel one of the person's tiny cold feet against his leg (and it would probably be rude to wake someone who is potentially just as hung over as he is).

The mattress barely dips and Janson has the brief impression that he has fallen into bed with a rag doll (which would have been something – the least of which creepy and very hard to explain to his commanding officer). Although given a choice, it would have been the preferred situation because rag dolls can't make conversation and his hangover appreciates that.

However, on the off chance that his bed mate actually isn't a child's toy (or an inflatable doll, which he has to admit is also a possibility), Janson makes a bold attempt at conversation. Only his hello comes out like a "mph" because he forgets to open his mouth and he can't seem to quite get his facial features working in tandem.

"Hmph," agrees someone: feminine, soft, alto. Obviously not a rag doll (but possibly one with the remarkable talent of speaking through stitched lips). The foot is pressed harder against his leg and he just might be losing all circulation. He considers yelling "What exactly do you think you're doing? Look at my leg – it's done nothing to you. Were your parents perhaps killed in an accident with a frozen limb?" or maybe just "Who are you?"

This, Janson thinks, this is the reason I can't hold onto relationships. They always start out like this: on the morning after he can never open his eyes, remember their names or the night before, and it all goes downhill from there - or perhaps it simply just continues on a level surface and peters out of its own accord. And because an improvement would be a Good Thing and doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results is the definition of insanity, Janson resolves to save this relationship from hills and flat surfaces by:

a) remembering the night before

b) or, remembering the person in question's name

c) or, opening his eyes

He opens his eyes.

He can't keep them open for very long and only catches glimpses of whoever-it-is in his peripheral vision. In this aspect he supposes that the person is rather like the sun. Although hopefully not, because Janson certainly isn't interested in pursuing a relationship with something inclined to burn him to cinders on a whim, Supreme Commander Mon Mothma being the possible exception.

(And from somewhere inside his head comes the image of Mon Mothma, with her bright hair and pale eyes, smiting him as he cowers behind a solar-shield. A voice that sounds suspiciously like General Rieekan laughs in the background.

"You think about her much too often," says Rieekan. So Janson takes Mental-Rieekan, straps him to the solar-shield, and pushes him down the hill or flat surface that is destroying his current relationship.

Wes Janson is getting decidedly odder by the day.)

"Hello," says the somebody beside him with slightly stressed vowels and a distinctive accent (and Janson really really wishes that he didn't recognize that voice). He turns and is greeted by the sight of a slightly disheveled Princess/Senator Leia Organa (full titles have always seemed necessary at moments that have the potential for apocalypse-like consequences) sitting up in bed. He comes to two realizations.

One: she's dressed, which answers a few of Janson's questions, but her hair is loose. (Pilots always said it would come down with the universe and this further supports his theory that the End is near.

Perhaps he should start hording water.)

And two: Han Solo is going to kill him.


After they have discussed and patched together their memories of the night (concluding that there was at least one florescent pink bar stool and most probably a conga-line) and the Princess has plaited her hair, Janson begins to feel marginally better. Because maybe if her hair is up then the universe will smile benevolently on him and the End will stay far away. (And he should maybe stop making illogical comparisons between hairstyles and universal disasters if he wants people to talk to him in the pilot's Mess. You're shedding and I think it just might rain today, see the connection? Oh, by the way, I'm Wes Janson of the Rogue Squadron and— My God you're bald! Whatever could that mean for the cosmos?)

He's fairly sure that the Princess is not officially involved with Captain Solo, which is a Good Thing. Unfortunately, he's also pretty sure that Solo is more inclined to shoot before reviewing the actual schematics of the relationship (men).

"How exactly," says the Princess, "do you suppose that we ended up like this?"

Janson is almost certain that it was the usually way; Yes, I did try to bed you while you were inebriated. You will find court marshalling papers to your left, pointy, deadly implements to your right, and our complimentary candies shaped like my squished reproductive organs directly in front of you.

But Janson values life. ("Mph," he says.)

"I have a theory." The Princess tucks her pretty legs under her wrinkled party dress (and Janson wonders if Mon Mothma has lent her the keys to the smiting-machine). "A prank, perhaps?"

"Huh." And actually, now that she's mentioned it, he seems to remember pilots sitting in a corner, giggling and pointing at them. Really, he should have known, but at the time he simply thought they were amused by his hair. (An assumption that he should have known to be his downfall; after all, he has fairly normal hair.)

"So," she says carefully.

(This "so", Janson understands, really means: if you breathe a word this to anyone, anyone at all, I will rip you from limb to testicle, and then, just for good measure, castrate you with a rusty knife.

Although, the "so" could possibly also have been meant as a conjunction indicating the reason for an action or situation. But better safe than sorry.)

There is a knock at the door.

Janson's brain pulls out the emergency plan: that is, to active its self-destruct button and pretend it doesn't exist. The issue at hand being, of course, what if it's Solo? Solo, with a rusty kitchen implement and Mon Mothma's smiting machine.

And then he remembers:

Solo is on Corescent. Solo, who has a very difficult time of being both in the hallway and an Imperial stronghold at the same time, though no one could say he didn't really try, is on Corescent.

There is a second knock, louder than the first.

"Well," says the Princess with a smile (and Janson takes a moment to appreciate that she's been remarkably calm throughout this whole ordeal, because didn't somebody somewhere say that princesses protected their reputations with armed battalions? Or something very like that?) "Should I hide under the bed, then?"

There is a third knock, although it's not so much a knock now as a murder attempt. First degree, if Janson's not very much mistaken. The Princess swings her legs off of his bed and palms the door.

It opens, it seems to Janson, in slow motion. Because maybe he has been slightly hasty in dismissing Solo as an option; it is not entirely improbable that the man managed to design a teleporting device in the space of two days.

The figure of Supreme Commander Mon Mothma appears by degrees. (And it's the Chaos Theory, the goddamn Chaos Theory. The universe has nothing to do with hairstyles and some higher power is clearly playing How-many-times-can-we-screw-with-Wes-Janson's-mind-before-he-spontaneously-combusts.

Answer: approximately twenty-six.)

"Princess," Mon Mothma says slowly.

"Mon," Organa smiles innocently. "Good morning."

"Actually, it's closer to mid-noon." The Supreme Commander gestures vaguely.

"I wasn't aware there was such a term as 'mid-noon'."

"Oh. There is."




(Janson seems to remember reading somewhere that female humans were extremely chatty. He wishes he could remember the title, or at very least the author – clearly there is need for a rewrite.)

Mon Mothma turns her gaze to him. "Janson."


"You will be interested to know you were required for a mission briefing an hour ago. And also; your pants are on top of the terminal."

He forgets to wonder what she was doing showing up at his quarters in the first place.

Luke is midway through a sentence (or three-quarters of the way or six-eights of the way, depending on when he started and how long the sentence was) when Janson walks into the briefing. He stops (mid, three-quarter, or six-eights of the way through) to wait until Janson sits down.

"Where were you?" asks Hobbie. And because Janson really really doesn't feel like talking, mostly because of the hangover but also partly because of the Princess's non-verbal death-threat, he nods in what he hopes is a non-committal manner (it ends up resembling a rather large body-tick, but it's the thought that counts). Hobbie, clearly not deterred by the fact that his friend may or may not be suffering from Turrets, continues: "You better have remembered to come up with a stratagem. Because we're supposed to contribute something, keep us from falling asleep and the like. At least, that's Lukie's plan." (oh shit)

"Would this be, by any chance, the briefing in which the Brass is going to review Luke's ability to command?"

"That's the one." (shitshitshit)

And the powers-that-be have almost exceeded their daily quota for Wes screw-age (at twenty-five-and-a-half times).

By the time Luke calls on Janson for his stratagem, Janson has almost concocted it (it is going to involve pirouetting). However, Supreme Commander Mon Mothma takes that exact moment to enter through the back with the Princess in tow, and Janson forgets what he was going to say (and he really isn't sure if his short-term memory has deserted him because of the girl or the woman).

"Umm," he says, to kill time (it fights back quite valiantly). "Well, it is in my opinion that our strategy should be to… shoot. At the Imps."

Mon Mothma glares daggers, knives, and other various sharp implements at him. "One would hope so."

"Well, that isn't the entire plan, you see. We're going to shoot… at the weak spots in their armour."

"There aren't any weak spots in their armour." General Rieekan suppresses a smile.

"Oh, but there will be. We'll make them with blaster fire, and then… shoot at the weak spots that we have created."

"So basically," General Dodonna says, "you're plan is to keep shooting them in the same spot."

"Er… concentrating our fire, so to speak."

"You do realize that this is an aerial attack—"

"Well, once we get out of the ships…"

"—In space." Mon Mothma raises one eyebrow. She turns to Luke, but keeps her eyes on Janson. "Commander Skywalker, do try to keep your pilots more informed in the future." 'So there' hovers in the air, unspoken. She sweeps out with the rest of the brass trailing behind, leaving the Rogue Squadron alone.

"Janson," says Luke, doing that annoying see-I-have-power-over-you-I-just-choose-to-only-invoke-it-for-leap-years-and-religious-holidays thing. "Pay more attention or you'll be doing Mess duty for a year."

And after some time (a phrase used when all parties involved cannot recall the exact amount of time but want something better than "You know, I'm not really sure, but I think it was close to two weeks") Janson is typing up a summary of a High Council meeting. And Mon Mothma's hair is the brightest thing in the room and it's only natural that it should catch his eye, and Rieekan's comment about sockets and popping was really quite uncalled for.

Janson decides to stay after the meeting has been closed. (On impulse, because he's reading this self-help book that says you should trust your gut and surely you can believe products that cost fourteen credits. Chapter Four is called The Stupid Idea and How to Distinguish it from an Impulse. He's fairly certain that this is not a Stupid Idea, because it isn't a) sexually related and he isn't b) inebriated and this isn't c) a strip club.)

When Mon Mothma is the only one left he says, without knowing he was about to say anything at all: "I didn't sleep with Leia."

(And just like that he's filled out criteria a.)

"Janson… why exactly should I care?"

"Isn't it in your best interest to know who's sleeping with whom? Just so you can deliver news of death and identify bodies quicker."

"More quickly, and no. It isn't."

"Well okay. But I didn't."


"Fine." And somehow he's moved close enough so that he can see that her eyelashes are pale and bright like her hair (and shouldn't that signify something? At the very least that she's a natural redhead?)

"Janson—" She's all pale skin and big eyes and soft mouth and he's kissing her to keep her from talking. They're backed up against someone's terminal and her breathing is stilted and he's trying to find a way to phrase the sentence "I think you can call me Wes now" to which no one could reply "What are you, a walking cliché?"

"I-" she gasps.

"You know," he breathes. "You could try not talking. Air conservation and all that."

And then he's pulling her in the vague direction of his quarters (and he really is very good at the Stupid Idea).

"This… never happened."

"Oh, well, I'll just get out my time machine then—"

"I'm serious, Janson."

"I have no doubt ma'am. Although, the affect is somewhat lessened by the fact that you're not wearing—"

"It was wrong."

"How could anything be wrong when it feels so right?"

"Oh, shut-up- you know what I mean. I'm you're superior, and you're so… so… young."

(He is forced to admit that she is somewhat older than him, and that yes, Benjamin Braddock is probably his role model, except that she doesn't have any daughters and so is probably safe. Also (more importantly) she isn't married.

So really, the comparison is rendered totally ineffectual anyways.)

"Well, if you want, I still have my fake I.D. By the birth date on it I should be, oh, about eighty now, so—"

"This. Never. Happened."

"Yes… ma'am."

And so for a while they mostly walk around and avoid each other, nodding when they cross paths in the way only two people who have had sex can. Janson stays as far away from Command as is humanly possible. (Which is quite a task when he is scheduled to have a briefing in the near vicinity. He mostly fakes sick on such occasions because he finds it easier to have 'Of Questionable Health' written on his monthly reviews than to explain a lifetime.)

Really, he supposes it isn't much of a loss, except—

One day Janson overhears the following conversation between Captain Solo and the Princess:

"You know, I never really… I never was… with Janson, no matter what you heard."

"Oh don't worry Your Highnessness, your virginal image is safe with me. I knew you never had the guts."

"Really. Then why, pray tell, were you not speaking to me or him."

"Hey, do I need a reason to be rude—"

"You certainly do not."

"…You know what, Princess, I can't believe you are vain enough to have thought that your sex life would offend me."

"Captain, if anyone here is vain…"

—And then he thinks it might be just a bit of a loss (not a we've-been-taken-over-by-Imperials loss, but more of a my-insert relative here-went-to-Corescent-and-all-I-got-was-this-stupid-shirt kind of loss. He's not melodramatic.) Because didn't they have the exact same conversation? And hadn't it ended up marginally better?

She shows up near midnight and stands in the doorway to his quarters, twisting her hands together. Her fatigues are ripped and Janson supposes that it would be better not to ask.

"My mother died."

(His head is spinning; he needs to sit down. At least until the galaxy has devolved back into large clouds of dust and there is no trace of bright hair or pale eyes left.)

"I'm… I'm sorry."

"My mother died."


"And I've changed my mind. About… us."

He thinks: "Are those two statements related? He thinks: ohgodohgodohgodcomehere. He says: "Are… are you sure?"

She raises an eyebrow. She says "Oh, don't jump for joy all at once." She says "Yes."