Usual disclaimer... These characters aren't mine, they belong to George Lucas, I'm just having a bit of respectful fun.

The air was filled with the smell of institution food, mixed with wafts of humans who didn't get the chance to shower quite as often as they'd like, uniforms that only thawed out enough to remain permanently a bit damp, and a faint, lingering undertone of tauntaun. Luke stood in the lunch queue, surveying the mess hall. The queue moved at a glacial pace to match the landscape outside, giving him plenty of time to people-watch. The centre of attention, as always, was a heated discussion between Han and Leia. Fragments of their conversation drifted his way: "just what I'd expect from a mercenary"... "cold as this planet"... "all the manners of a nerfherder, but without the style". What was less typical was the behaviour of the Rogues, seated at the table just behind the couple.

In the normal run of things, the Rogues would be treating the argument as a spectator sport, lounging back in their chairs, not troubling to disguise their interest. They'd also be using it as an opportunity to adjust their odds in the ongoing betting pool regarding Han's chances with the princess. But on this occasion, each Rogue was staring intently at a sheet of paper on the table in front of him, scribbling furiously. Oh no, surely they're not? thought Luke. He'd seen them entertain themselves this way in some of General Dodonna's more epic briefings, but now? This is not going to end well.

Oblivious to the hive of activity behind her, Leia rehearsed a favourite, well-worn speech: "the rebellion needs pilots like you to commit. Isn't it time..." Her follow-up was interrupted by Wedge leaping to his feet, waving his sheet of paper. "HOUSE!" he yelled. Leia wheeled round, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene behind her. She strode over to the Rogues' table, bristling with anger. "Bingo?" she said, ice in her voice. She snatched Wedge's paper. "Bantha-brain... your Worshipfulness … Frigid..." She ripped the paper into pieces, casting them to the floor in disgust. "I think I need to let the flight commander know you have too much time on your hands". She swept out of the mess hall towards the officers' quarters, shoulders rigid, her bearing indicative of absolute fury.

Luke watched as Han stooped to pick up a fragment of the paper which had landed by his feet. He raised an eyebrow as he read it, paused for a moment in thought, then his face broke into a lopsided grin. But it wasn't the smug, slightly sneering smile he customarily used when he'd pushed the princess's buttons to his satisfaction. This was a warm smile that lit and softened his eyes. Han stuffed the paper in his pocket and headed out the opposite door back to the hangar bay. Luke realised he wasn't the only one watching Han's reaction; while most of the Rogues were whooping with laughter, Hobbie followed Han's departure with interest. Finally getting his tray, Luke slid into the seat beside him.

"So, what d'ya reckon was on that piece of paper, Hobbie?" he asked. "Well, I can't be certain, but I think it might have been one of my contributions," Hobbie replied. "Which was?"

"Sweetheart."