Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to George Lucas, and sadly not to me.

It's midnight on the ice planet and she can't sleep, and she rolls over restlessly and pulls the top quilt tighter around her shoulders, because quiet honestly, it's bloody freezing in her bedroom.

It's one hour in the morning and she hasn't shut her eyes, and her stomach rumbles crossly because she forgot to go to Evening Mess. Again.

It's two hours in the morning and she remembers her therapist telling her to read if she was having trouble sleeping, because that's what she "always used to do" – what she "normally does" – and how a "return to the norm" would be "good for her." She remembers telling her therapist quite calmly that when one has lost their family, their planet, their entire race, words like "always" and "normally" cease to apply.

It's three hours in the morning and she has admitted defeat. She will fall asleep in the Highly-Important-And-Very-Top-Secret early morning meeting tomorrow and be glared at by Mon Mothma. And then she will go to Morning Mess and opt for a single cup of kaffe and hope that Han doesn't find out, because if he does he will bother her about her eating habits. Or lack thereof.

It's four hours in the morning, and as she lays there on her back, hands behind her head, shivering slightly beneath the three quilts, two blankets and a sheet, she thinks about him. And she thinks about what he said to her in the hanger that afternoon, as they passed each other on their hurried ways to their opposite destinations.

"Hey, Beautiful," he had said, and she had stopped dead and stared at him as he had spun around to walk backwards, babbling more inane words that went completely over her head. And even now, twelve galactic standard hours later, in the cold darkness of her room in Barracks-1, her face colours slightly at the memory, and the growling in her stomach is replaced by a warm tingly feeling that she has come to associate with him.

She finds she can't recall the rest of the short conversation, which really should not merit the title of conversation at all, but simply a handful of words exchanged between hurried friends. It is a blur, those words; all except the first two, which are as crystal clear as the icicles that accumulate over doorways in this frozen base.

Hey, Beautiful.

She remembers her mouth being slightly agape as she stared at him, and squeezes her eyes shut against her pillow because she's sure she must have looked like an idiot. But he hadn't seemed to have noticed at all, and had smiled that cocky smile of his and sauntered away, apparently pleased with himself for saying whatever it was he had just said to her. And she had been left staring after him, pretending not to notice, even in her half-dazed state, the way his hips swung suggestively as he walked.

"Beautiful," that was a new one; he had never called her that before. She had given her head a little shake and quickly resumed her path to her destination with her firm, purposeful walk that had "Speak To Me and I Will Promptly Chomp Your Head Off," written all over it. But she hadn't stopped thinking about it. Him.

Beautiful.

"Beautiful," she had mused through her meeting.

She rubs a hand wearily across her face and fidgets slightly beneath the piles of blankets, and decides that there are too many meetings in this place.

"Beautiful," her mind had repeated while she poked half-heartedly at her food in Afternoon Mess – which she had actually remembered to go to – alone. Because ironically enough Han had forgotten to come, which was something he did sometimes, and Luke had already eaten and left by the time she had gotten there.

"Beautiful," the word had swirled around in her brain as she had worked her way through stacks of paperwork later that night. And when she'd finally looked at the clock, realized she'd missed Evening Mess, and decided to call it a night, her office door had closed behind her with a hiss and she'd thought, "Beautiful."

She lies in bed and examines the ceiling – which she has become quite familiar with over these past several months – and thinks about her boyfriend back on Alderaan, and how he'd called her that. Once.

They had been on their way to a function, a fancy one, and she had walked into the drawing room to receive him and he had raised a plucked blonde eyebrow and said, "Leia, you look – beautiful." Surprised. And she had smiled politely and took his proffered arm and they had set out.

And the difference in wording is not lost to her as she lies awake in the wee hours of the morning and compares Han Solo to her ex-boyfriend. Unconsciously, mind you.

She twirls a strand of hair around her fingers and remembers surfing the holonet one night at her computer terminal, in her bedroom, on her planet, wearing nothing but a wispy nightgown that ruffled in the breeze from her open window. It was a particularly warm and muggy night, that night back on Alderaan. And she remembers sitting in her chair and tucking a strand of hair – perhaps the same strand she is now absent-mindedly curling – behind her small ear as she browsed the celebrity gossip site. It was a highly illegal action that had to be conducted in the dead of night, because if her father had caught her he would tell her sternly that she did not have time for such mindless frivolity. And as she lies in her cold bed she purses her lips, and she thinks that she could not have been more than seventeen years old at the time.

Her brown eyes had scanned a picture of a tall, fair-haired holovid actress who was her age, beneath which the caption had read "looking beautiful, as always, at the 309th annual GE Awards." She had bobbed her head in silent agreement and scrolled to the next page, but her small toes had curled around the crossbar of her chair, and the back of her mind had whispered that it wished someone would write that about her. Just once. The front of her mind had swiftly argued that she didn't need beauty, that she was much happier being known as Alderaan's strong, intelligent, respectable princess. And beauty was only skin deep, after all.

But that hadn't stopped the wishing.

She considers all of this as she lies, desperate to fall asleep, in her bedroom in the frigid Echo Base, and she considers Han, and she considers Han's words.

The front of her mind writes it off as another pet name, concocted with the straightforward intent of annoying her. Ever sensible, that front mind of hers. But somewhere, deep, deep in the back of her brain, behind hand combat techniques, childhood memories, and spice garden recipes, she knows he means it, can just tell. And the very back mind ignores the front mind that wants to tarnish this knowledge with scoldings of vanity, and musings developed over years of well-practiced self-hate.

The very back mind of her mind decides to retaliate with facts, pointing out that he called her Beautiful in the same way he calls her Your Most Loud and Obnoxious Royal Highness, and if nothing else she knows he's sincere about that. And for some inexplicable reason the thought of this biting insult brings a smile to her face.

So she silences her front mind and rolls over. And as she drifts off to sleep she thinks of Han, and she no longer feels the cold.

Well? Loved it? Hated it? Wouldn't touch it with a 10ft pole? Those who caught the SpongeBob reference get a cookie or a smooch from Han, whichever they prefer.