The Not Quite Love Letters Chapter 19: This Could've All Been Avoided, a star wars fanfic

(Yeah. It's getting kind of annoying, isn't it? I apologize.)

In which Limelight pulls up her socks and writes an actually decent chapter. Last one was mostly (crap) fluff to warm me up. This one has a PLOT. Plot, boys and girls, is a Good Thing.

(And Aladailey, honey… Bohemian Rhapsody?)

Summary: The Rogue Squadron is broken up. Pandemonium ensues. Han finally receives Luke's letter. Pandemonium also ensues.

This Could've All Been Avoided

Message sent at 0748 hours, Day 24, Month 3, Year 3044

To the Most Esteemed but also Estranged Pilot Wedge Antilles,

Keeper of my spleen, and also, possibly, left heart ventricle,

YES, I MEAN YOU

This is horrible – the Evil-Emperor-Takes-Over-The-Universe-Mass-Genocide-Of-Everything-That-EXISTS-Follows-But-OH-WAIT-That's-Already-Happened-Hasn't-It? kind of horrible. I mean, when they dissolved the Rogue Squadron and scattered us to the solar winds (which inevitably blew towards other squadrons), couldn't they just have kept us together?

I miss you.

To compensate, I must bug Hobs constantly and did, that is, until he said "please please go away and leave me to die you horrible horrible human being" and went to sleep. I am now very ALONE and bored, which, as we know, is never a good combination. BORED is to WES what DEATH AND DESPAIR is to -------------.

(The answer is, of course, THOSE LITTLE TINY RED BUGS WE DISCOVERED ON THAT ROCK THAT ONE TIME.)

But let's not talk about that anymore – let's talk about my adventures… But OH WAIT, we can't, because of the censor droids and their evil evil blackout pens of doom. I can't tell you anything. I'm not even supposed to be writing at all, actually. So, after reading, hide this under your pillow or, you know, in an Impenetrable Safe.

CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR Also, the ground here is terribly hard – harder than normal. It is Freakishly Hard Ground of Disaster, is what it is. And to top it all off, the tent is leaky in unprecedented ways. I think I can see CENSOR from here.

Too tired to even entertain you anymore. PERMEABLE is to TENTS what DERIVATIVES are to

Janson

Message sent at 1913 hours, Day 25, Month 3, Year 3044

I think that you were perhaps correct in your assumption that splitting up the Rogue Squadron would be a blow to moral – if Antilles looks at me soulfully over his terminal during briefings one more time, someone is going to lose body parts – but what I'm really regretting is sending you and Jan on the reconnaissance mission. Surely General Perkin could have handled it alone, and I really am going slightly stir-crazy here without you.

No, there is still no word of Leia, and I miss you also.

Message sent at 2301 hours, Day 25, Month 3, Year 3044

TO: Wes Janson,

Location Unknown.

Owner of the spleen, and also, possibly, left ventricle, which I seem to unknowingly keep

You do realize, of course, that estranged only applies to spouses and, considering that we had that one incident on CENSOR annulled, it is improper and degrading to refer to me as such.

While you two are off gallivanting around on censor-worthy exploits with Ground of Unusual Hardness, That is Also, More Probably, A Figment of Wes's Imagination, I remain here. I have taken over your job as typist, but I don't think that CENSOR CENSOR likes me very much (we seem to disagree on the proper use and placement of quotation marks). In other news, you were right; her stare appears to be actually physically painful. I think it should make our weapons list (which is rather short, by the by – if we're attacked by anything, let alone CENSOR, it could be The End and Rather Painfully Ever After).

Yes, being dissolved and scattered is horrifying – but really, Wes, how much good would we have done without a Commander? I can understand why they did it. When Lukie comes back from Unknown Distances we'll all be put nicely back together, with an apology and a batch of cookies.

Until then I remain,

Here with the CENSOR CENSOR, her Eyes, and Quotation Marks (which she probably also owns).

Wedge

P.S. What have you and Hobs been up to? Other than permeable tents.

P.P.S. Have you noticed that it takes decidedly longer to send these things now that we're, you know, not in the same star system? (Although, technically, I suppose we could be for I know. All I seem to hear about these days is Why I Am A Security Breach, Why You Are A Security Breach, and Why We Should All Burn Burn Burn.)

Message sent at 2139 hours, Day 25, Month 3, Year 3044

—Wedge

Hobs and I have been doing what we are doing and I wish you would stop asking me things you know I can't answer. I, unlike you, really have no desire to Burn Burn Burn. (There is a joke here to be made about sexually transmitted infections, but I shall refrain.)

Here are some things that I have not recently seen, and am missing the way a cardiac patient misses a heart donor:

1) a toothbrush

2) food with the moisture included, and not in a separate tube that has to be mixed in

3) my sanity

4) mysocks

5) sleep

6) YOU

I dream of desk jobs and long for the day they give up and send us back. Kiss the brass for me. Janson.

Antilles,

It is hell. Wesy is hell. Wish you were here. And for gods' sakes, stop using the names of figures of power in your letters – the droids are a little censor happy and black splotches aren't aesthetically pleasing.

Yours &c.

Hobs

Message sent at 0154 hours, Day 26, Month 3, Year 3044

(The following is a telegram, dictated not written)

MA'AM—

I think of you both daily and nightly STOP I think of you all-the-time-ly STOP What these thoughts are I shall leave to your imagination STOP But they involve whipped cream and whipping boys MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF PUNCTUATION Please please find it in your heart to pull whatever strings are within the reach of your lovely puppet-master-hands' and relocate me to somewhere with running water STOP I put that last part in mostly to confuse the censors ha ha STOP

Commander I am a dog I am your dog I am your lap dog STOP

I am your love slave I am your love I love you FULL STOP

Janson

Message sent at 0233 hours, Day 26, Month 3, Year 3044

To: Wesy, Hobs, and the censors (who apparently have no respect for literature and an intrinsic attachment to splotches)

I suppose I should be thankful that I am getting any word at all, shouldn't I? Although, with that last dig at the droids, I won't be surprised if the next letter from you is nothing more than one rather large splotch.

I really am sorry about my constant asking. I shouldn't ask. This is the real thing now, isn't it— it's Who Can Stay Un-Dead The Longest instead of Guess Which Council Chair Has The Broken Leg. Is anyone else feeling nostalgic? I'm feeling nostalgic.

Things here are normal and boring. The-woman-who-the-censors-like-to-splotch and I still do not get along, except during very early-morning meetings, when everyone gets drunk on the lack of sleep and power and I'm allowed to throw proper punctuation to the wind. Sometimes I don't even capitalize.

The heater in Sector CENSOR quit without so much as a day of notice. Needless to say it's not getting severance pay (yes, I did just write that) and it is extremely cold. In other words Ha Ha What Else Is New.

Everyone is getting married here. We've gotten to that bizarre and hopeless part of war that causes strangers to turn to each other and say "You know, I've always wanted to do something long-term and stupid, my name's ------------ and you'd really look good in a makeshift gown and wire ring." Humanity is curious, is it not?

Wedge

Excerpt from: "meeting concerning the proper duty assignments in sector 4-A"

…supreme commander mothma: pray-tell, antilles, is there a reason you have chosen to forsake the common laws of grammar? need I remind you that I have power over your leisure days and will not hesitate to remove-

antilles: would you maybe like me better if I used adjectives?

supreme commander: I am not kidding about the leisure mr. antilles do not test me here I will…

End excerpt.

Falcon Ship Log

Day 27, Month 3, Year 3044

Chewie and me are finally finished repairs ('cept the damn hyperdrive). Regained communications, which wasn't useful at all. Not like it's gonna make us fly faster. Got lots of old messages, though – apparently, the brass has been trying to contact us for a while. Probably think we're dead by now. Not that I mind.

Messages:

7 from Dodonna, ranging from polite to… not-so-much, asking where I am, what have I done with the Princess, to the Princess, at the Princess, etc.

4 from Mothma, all polite, all having to do with the Princess.

2 from Rieekan, asking after the Princess and myself (nice change, that. Might even reply to him).

1 from the kid, which is so goddamned long I have yet to actually read it.

Later:

Important bits of information in Luke's message:

1) He's on Dagobah, which is… well okay, it's really unusual and I have absolutely no idea— just, he's on Dagobah, so.

2) He doesn't want me to tell the brass, and yes, I'm not gonna do that because, well, duh.

3) He apparently thinks Her Highness is in love with me, and really, really, I just— there should be a manual, I cannot even— Sometimes, with her eyes like that I think she maybe… but damn.

4) This is the stupidest, most ridiculous way to find out anything—

I mean, I am probably, too… but we aren't even— We walk around all damn day-cycle calling each other Princess and Captain and talking about krething data sheets, only to fall into bed with each other every night, and we pretend like its not going to happen, brushing our teeth, but then it, it just does, and I… I always leave before she wakes up, and in the morning, over cafe, she talks to me about the hull's integrity like I haven't seen her without anything— like I haven't seen her naked, like I don't know where her birthmark is, how she sounds when—

Oh hell, oh hell, this is not normal.

Message sent at 2311 hours, Day 27, Month 3, Year 3044

Wedge,

CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR

CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR CENSOR

regards,

Janson & Hobs

Message sent at 1107 hours, Day 28, Month 3, Year 3044

(The following is a telegram, dictated not written)

Ma'am—

I have fallen for like you are gravity and I am a heavy object STOP I cry cerulean tears of pure testosterone into my pillow every night we are apart STOP They burn tiny holes in the fabric STOP Such is the power my masculinity STOP

As it stands you owe me several pillows STOP

Until we meet again my dear my dear I shall worship you from afar but soon soon soon STOP Don't cry for me Commander FULLSTOP

Janson

Journal of Princess Leia Organa

28th Day, 3rd Month, 3044th Year

The only way I would have survived this relationship would have been by not having it. Looking back, I've decided that the best course of action I could have taken would have been – the second after Han kissed me – to develop a time machine, travel back twenty years, and stab my pregnant mother in the stomach. Failing that, I should have just thrown myself out the airlock.

Clearly I have masochistic tendencies. This is just the most dysfunctional relationship I have ever- My therapist, she would just-

And today it just got stranger. He kissed me just now, even though we don't, not ever in the daytime-

Okay. Begin at the beginning.

I was standing in the galley, back to the door. He walked in the way he walks, like he owns the room and everything in it. And I didn't turn, because we're playing the denial-game during day cycles, and things like the way he walks into rooms aren't supposed to make my heart jump, dammit.

But then he came right up behind and curved his hands to my hipbones, spinning me around, making me turn.

I jumped, because he's not supposed to touch, we're not supposed to touch. That's the way denial works – like maybe if we kick it into the corner and just don't look at it it'll go away – and denial means no touching, absolutely no touching, but oh he was touching. He was definitely touching.

He just looked at me, saying Leia, Leia, like I was some kind of— like he was dying, or I was, like a ship was going down and they had just said women and children first and it was pretty clear he wasn't going to pass.

And then he kissed me.

And kissed me.

It was desperate and hard-soft, with Leia, gods, Leia against my mouth, all breath, and his hands caught on my hips like they were beached there. He tried to lift me to the galley counter, but he surprised me and I tucked my feet up so that when he set me down I was kneeling, awkwardly, knee on either side of his hips. And he never stopped, not once, hands moving, hips to shoulder blades to thighs, lips going from chin to collarbone and back.

I sat there, counter digging into my shins until it hurt, but I couldn't move and didn't want to. Instead I squeezed his hips with my knees, tugged on his belt because I needed him closer, and he made sounds like I was hurting him.

Gods, Leia, he said into my neck, only he didn't say it with words, he said it with lips and tongue and teeth. Just Leiagodsleia like it was a new language. He whispered other things too, Corellian, probably, and I couldn't understand, but I caught the tone. I knew the tone, and my stomach swooped like I was falling off the counter but I wasn't moving. I wasn't moving at all.

And then he stopped. Just pulled back, broke all contact, and it was just our breath, rattling around in the empty galley. I spoke into the silence, to fill it, break it, but all I could think of to say was 'what was that for?' Like I was some idiot, like he hadn't just kissed me as if we were both dying.

'I just," he said, wide-eyed, mouth still wet from my mouth. "I just want- Leia." He looked lost, dazed. And the way he said my name then—

But suddenly he smiled, a crooked half-grin. "You looked like you could use a good kiss," he said, throwing an old argument back at me.

And he left the room.

He left me there, staring after him, perched half-kneeling and panting. And even now, there are still two matching red marks along my shins where the counter edge bit into my skin.

His mouth left no marks at all.

(But I can still feel it.)

Message sent at 2353 hours, Day 28, Month 3, Year 3044

To M. Janson and M. Klivian,

Insensitive Sons of Bitches,

Or, Failing That,

Absolute Bastards

PLEASE PLEASE BY ALL MEANS SEND ME GAG LETTERS MORE OFTEN. IT'S NOT AS IF I'M SITTING HERE WAITING DESPERATELY FOR SOME WORD YOU'RE STILL ALIVE, YOU ASSHOLES.

(And if you're going to pretend to be censor droids, at least get the colour of ink right. Gods.)

Just so you know, there's a foreign presence in the bunkrooms these days. It is called QUIET and PEACE and TRAQUILITY. (…Alright, so that's three foreign presences. Sue me.) I actually eat entire meals all on my own. The first time I finished a tray in the mess I nearly had a fit, looking over my shoulder the entire time, waiting for the flying tackle oh-so-cleverly disguised as a grab for my salad. She Who Cannot Be Mentioned Under Pain Of Splotching gave me very strange looks (of the what-are-compulsive-eaters-doing-in-my-army variety).

They eat with us now, by the way. I think it's an attempt to raise moral, but mostly everyone's just afraid to swallow too loudly, lest it be construed as rude. 'Tis great fun.

Come back alive or I'll kill you.

Wedge

Message sent at 0601 hours, Day 29, Month 3, Year 3044

Leia is alive and well, thank the gods. I just spoke to her over a newly-repaired radio connection to the Falcon. (Solo. Damn him.) Their hyperdrive has apparently surrendered itself over to the Great Beyond, which is to say the ship is practically incapacitated. They're headed towards a mining colony for repairs. She sounds fine, Carlist, but I just don't know... I can never tell, with her, that's always been your area, and—

And when, exactly, did I stop acting like her commanding officer and start acting like her mother?

I'm exhausted. I just want her back here where I can keep a better eye, where she can lead the troops, but… Some days I also want to let Solo take her someplace far, far away and hide her where no one will ever look.

Skywalker is still AWOL, Janson is sending me dirty limericks, and I miss you more than is appropriate.

yours,

Excerpt from: "meeting altering the status of the millennium falcon from MIA to incapacitated with limited mobility"

…antilles: so that's all you need me to write? the status change? couldn't this have been done over comm. link?

supreme commander mothma: excuse me, antilles, but do you have any experience with running a military operation?

antilles: are you normally like this or do I just bring it out in...

End excerpt.

Message sent at 1619 hours, Day 30, Month 3, Year 3044

To: His Esteemed Majesty, Wedge Antilles

Location: Oh Get Down Off That Soapbox

It's not like you're completely blameless here, you know. You COULD have informed us that you-know-who and that-other-guy-no-not-him-him have finally been located. But oh no, we had to hear it along with the rest of the riff-raff like common soldiers. You're our contact to the inside, you idiot, so start acting like it. I mean it. YOU BETTER BE LEAKING SECRETS SOON BUDDY OR IT'S CURTAINS FOR THIS RELATIONSHIP. DO NOT TEST ME.

It's nice to know they're alive, though, isn't it? Gives me the warm and fuzzies.

And do not be silly, Wedgie, what is all this talk about QUIET? QUIET is boring. QUIET is what drives people to insanity.

If you keep eating entire lunches you shall gain immense amounts of weight, and when we return, decorated with so many medals that we are simply clanging, we shall not recognize you. We will say to each other (in rather loud voices to be heard over the clanging): 'that large blob over there holds a superficial resemblance to our dear old Wedgicals.' But we shall shake our heads – the resulting noise will deafen several bystanders – and conclude that no, it couldn't possibly be. Meanwhile, you will be unable to speak, seeing as you will be so fat you'll have even gained weight on your TONGUE, of all places. You will merely squeak – rather pathetically – after us as we walk (clanging) into the sunset.

This message would have self-destructed, but seeing as we don't have the budget, you will have to settle for it fizzing rather pathetically.

Janson

Antilles –

Refer to me by last name again and I will have your tongue bronzed and presented to a sith lord.

Hobs

(The following is a written record of a ship-to-ship comm. call.)

Come in, Empress One. This is Leia Organa and the Millennium Falcon. Do you read me? Over.

Organa, reading you loud and clear. This is the Bridge. Over.

Bridge, requesting connection to Supreme Commander Mothma. Clearance code is 64A 2H1. Over.

Patching you through. Over.

(Dead air)

Um, hello? Can anybody— er, can anybody hear me?

Who is this? Over.

This is- well crap, this is Wedge Antilles. Who's this please?

Antilles, this is Leia Organa. What, exactly, are you doing answering Mon Mothma's personal calls? Over.

I'm- well, I'm in here cleaning her plants, you see, and this thing just started buzzing…

You're cleaning her pla— Just, can you get me Mon Mothma, Antilles? (There is background static.) No, Han. No, I'm not going to— okay, fine. Can you get me Mothma please? Over.

Um, no go, Princess. She's not exactly… I'm actually not sure where she is, you see.

Okay. Fine. (Static) -stop it, Han.Do you know when she'll be back? Over.

Well, no, to be honest. …Over.

That's just— Well, I'll wait.

You'll wait? Over.

Yes, Antilles, I'll wait. Over.

(Dead air)

…So, Princess, how's the war at your end?

It's— Han, stop. It's about the same, I would imagine, Antilles. Over.

Yeah. That's… that's what I figured. We're, um, all fine here too. Over.

That's— That's wonderful. (Static) -not now, Han. Just… wonderful, Antilles. O-Over.

Um… are you all right, Your Highness? Over.

I'm fine, Antilles. Just, um- (Static)

Well, if you're sure…

I'm— I'm sure. Han, you're— (Static) (Dead air) …You know what Antilles, this is— oh, a pointless waste of resources and I'll just- I'll call back later. (Static) -Han, Han, you really need to sto— D-do you copy, Antilles? Over.

Oh, I copy, Your Highness. Over.

Great. F-fantastic. Organaoverandout.

(Connection is severed)

Well?