A/N: I don't do mush. Wow, I guess that sounds harsh. I personally think I'm better at the whole 'Look, someone's died. Let's say a sorrowful eulogy and then console each other for awhile' kind of writer.This is a personal challenge: I wanted to write mush merely to see if I could do it. Feedback would be much appreciated!

A/N2: You may have seen this on Princess and the Scoundrel (LP's new site) or the JC Boards. I suppose I'm kind of a fanfic author player, he he!

Alright. Let's get this show on the road . . .

"The Han Solo Expression Manual"

KnightedRogue

Aren't we done yet?

I'm sitting in the middle of some conference in which I should be paying attention, or at least appearing to do so. I'm leaning rather undignifiably here in my council seat with my chin in my hand and my other hand writing nonsense on my data pad, making up words like 'undignifiably' and hoping the Creavin ambassador would stop blinking so fast. I'm dropping my eyes to my datapad and halfheartedly reading my in-depth and insightful notes on the Creavin economy (". . . products shipped with a tariff fairy tale pricing, causing widespread undignifiability and horrendous raises in taxes and dinner grocery lists . . . ") when I decide to make a real attempt to listen.

"We find our greatest strength" blink "in the mass of industrial droid production plants" blink "that span the northeastern coast of our largest continent" blink-blink "and identifies us as a – "

He's blinking so damn fast, I swear the guy should be exhausted by now. It's not humanly possible to blink that much in one sentence.

Forget that he's not even human.

I've never been so bored in my life.

Okay. So I'm stuck here for another ten minutes. I glance covertly over on my right hand side at the other end of the meeting hall, and there, looking nearly as bored out of his mind as I am, sits my husband, complete with his head in his hands and breathing very deeply.

Is he asleep?

I quickly type him up a message, send it and wait. He doesn't answer, doesn't even look up at the small flashing from his datapad.

Yep. Definitely asleep.

I take this time to study him for awhile, covertly, of course. His hair is getting a bit long, I decide, hanging in his eyes. He should get it cut. I think. Maybe not. He looks more rugged and scoundreley that way. (Another new word. I must be really bored.) His hair always fascinates me. It's this wonderful dark brown color, but because his skin is tan, it looks blondish in some lights. It's thick, too, so I find it very difficult not to run my hand through it too often.

Considering I've only done it three times today already, I think I should congratulate myself.

His hair is beautiful (Is that strange? To think of a man as beautiful?), but his eyes are what amaze me the most. For a man that is so closed off to everyone, his eyes express everything he says. I could catalogue and publish a manual on reading them:

1) Wide and green means he's either impressed or nicely surprised. I've managed this one a few times myself.

2) Narrow and brown shows me that I'm in trouble. I'm going to be lectured on eating more, working less. And I've seen this look more times than I care to admit. I actually take comfort in this glance. I feel safe knowing that he cares enough to order me to eat. And I'll never tell him, but I love that he does it in front of other people. It's an unconditionally loved kind of feeling.

3) Still and brown signifies seriousness and a desire to be spared the necessity of admitting what he's feeling. This is a humbling look to me, the kind where I feel like my stomach is twisting like some inter-rim dance party. That look makes me realize how lucky I am and how lucky he feels to be there. How proud and protective he is of me. How amazed he is that we've gotten this far, and he has no idea how much that feeling is reciprocated.

None whatsoever, despite how often I try to say it.

4) That deep mixture of the two, of brown and green thrown together, and a narrowing around them, is my favorite. It's usually escorted by that absolutely adorable half-smile, the one that slips up the side of his face. It's the teasing one, the bantering look he gives me when he's kidding or being annoying. While we've always done the bantering thing, I've only really seen this look since we've been together romantically, and it's increased tenfold since we've been married.

I love those eyes, combined with that smile. It tells me that we're not just husband and wife, but that we're equals and friends. That we can be juvenile around each other without regard to our reputation or image and that we agree to act this way forever, if only to keep people on their toes. I know he enjoys it just as much as I do, that we share the same sense of humor and find that humor in each other.

Yep, it's the hair, the eyes and that damn smile that I think about constantly.

Which somehow in the last few moments of my inner "Han Solo Expression Manual" reading, wound up staring right at me.

How the hell . . . ?

He gets up, winks at me, and tilts his chin (I never even got around to that scar) towards the speaker's dais. It's empty and everyone around is packing up and getting ready to leave.

Wow. I can spend that much time cataloguing my husband's features?

Well, yes. It's pretty difficult not to daydream about him.

And then I feel a hand on my shoulder and a gentle physical incentive to turn around. And he's there, picking up my notes (I think he read my last sentence judging by the grin he tries to hide as he turns toward me), and asking me if I'm ready to go.

Well yeah. I was about fifteen minutes ago. But as soon as we leave, Han's got a strategy consultation and I need to talk to that senator that keeps bugging me.

So I wrap my arms around his waist and look up at his expression.

And . . . Expression Number One looks back at me.

"I promise I won't publish it, dear. I don't think I want anyone else to read you as well as I do."

I glance at his bewildered expression and laugh as I grab my things and leave.

After all, I have the rest of my life to complete the Manual.