The Falcon's mid-range landing sensor fail-safe started beeping, mercifully demanding Han's attention. He'd fixed the long-range one twice already, he could re-wire this one without too much hassle and reliably kill an hour. He swung his legs back onto the deckplates and stood up to slap the sensor off. The ominous, tinny sound died with it.

In the meantime, the main hold, where his tools were stored, had gone silent again; Han hoped that meant his passengers had gone to bed already. But when he walked into the ship's de facto living room, his footsteps echoing in the ring corridor, he found the intelligence team sprawled out on the accelerator couch, reviewing their notes and chewing on their rations.

Fine, Han thought, grabbing his screwdriver and pliers from under the navigator station. As long as they don't touch anything. They looked too comfortable on a smuggler's ship for a bunch of governing-class thoroughbreds, he decided. Their fashionable Coruscanti haircuts hadn't had time to grow out, and their faces hadn't yet lost the freshly scrubbed look of wealth. Against the drab metal backdrop, they almost gleamed. He'd expected them to disparage the Falcon like her Worship did, or to react the way their supreme leader had, the one time Mon Mothma had been forced to scramble aboard for an emergency evacuation – perched as far away from the scuffed backrest as possible, hands in her lap like a hostage. But then again, these ones were spies. They'd probably had classes on people like him.

Well he knew their type too, this set, even if only from a distance. Back on Corellia, on the slopes of the big city, he remembered how the girls around him had desperately observed them, never shut up about them – through speeder windows, on the holoscreen, in flashing advertisements. Those girls studied these girls, the kind that gleamed, desperate for clues. Convincing each other that if they could only get it just right – the arch of the brow, the right lip color, the drink they ordered at the bar – fate would instantly correct itself and at long last, they would be vaulted into the upper levels, never to come back. That their next trick would notice the cosmic mix-up immediately, that tonight would be their last night on the streets and they wouldn't even have to fuck, so aghast the man would be at finding them there, that he would move mountains to restore them to their rightful place on the other side of the lights. It had never worked, but they never gave up. Then Han had been the one to leave that damp city, never to come back.

Rich kids really did make life look easy, though. Han watched one of the high-class spies languidly rise from the couch to pour herself a cup of caf he hadn't offered. She looked up when he stepped into the alcove that served as the Falcon's makeshift kitchen.

"Hello," The spy said politely. "I'm Tyr."

"Han Solo."

"I know. This is very good caf."

Han nodded and pulled the pot out of her hand. She smiled at that, as if she expected a joke to follow. When it didn't, he saw her calculating spy-eyes flicker over him – tracing a path from his face down to his belt, the blaster on his leg. Then she raked her amber gaze back up. Her smile changed shape.

"So, what else is good on this ship?" She asked, her eyes still steady on his. She leaned back against the counter. A dare on her parted lips, self-possessed and sure of her offer, toying with the fastener at the top of her jumpsuit until his attention snagged on the taut fabric, the snug fit on solid bronze.

In that moment, Han wanted to take her up on it. They were already here. It would be so easy to throw her down on his bunk, lock the cabin door while the others ate, and make her whimper and clutch at him. Exult at her, lord it over her like he used to. Yeah, you like that? I know you do, and so on, wring every drop of satisfaction from the conquest, prove it to himself and hear her say it. The rush would feel good, and stars knew he was bored and tense. But even as his pulse jumped and his instincts hurried to paint the picture for him, his imagination faltered. Instead of the hot, cheap release at hand, it returned another glimpse of last night's tantalizing vision – of silky hair and dark eyes widening, widening, in a slow rhythm, in clear and honest daylight.

He bit his lip. The spy was still looking at him. "Not much," Han muttered, belatedly tearing his gaze away. He reached around her to grab his favorite cup and poured himself a boiling measure, even though he knew it would only make his irritation worse.

He was still whacking at switches, tangled in cables when Chewie returned to the cockpit for the next watch.

"I'm fixing the landing sensors," Han pre-emptively explained. "One of the fail-safes was busted. Now I'm re-wiring them all on a new frame."

But his co-pilot was not impressed.

We don't even use them, Chewie growled. This is how new problems are created.

Han's bad mood crested. He whirled around.

"I know what I'm doing! And we'd use them if they worked, so how about you – "

Chewie acted swiftly: he snatched away the screwdriver his captain pointed at him and slotted it into his own belt with calm finality.

You agreed not to open the ship mid-flight, the Wookie reminded him solemnly, drawing himself up to his full height. Han knew better than to try to grab the tool back. It's my watch. Go to sleep.

Seven hours later, Han awoke from thin, dreamless sleep feeling strangely disoriented, like some fragment of his subconscious expected his eyes to open in the Academy barracks instead of in his own cabin.

He'd been alone when he took Chewie's advice and called it a night, but now, on either side of him, two shadowy lumps occupied the recessed bunks. It must have been that crowded feeling, of a room filled with strangers' breathing, to stir up those memories. The shift timer by his pillow beeped on.

"What's that noise? Are we there?" the boy spy asked from inside the darkness.

"Halfway," Han replied, swinging his legs over the side of his bunk. "Go back to sleep." He cracked his neck.

After a spin in the sonics, he wandered back into the main hold and started a fresh pot of caf, pointedly ignoring the bronzed spy who was now practicing her decryption keys while stretched out on the couch, her wavy hair nearly grazing the floor.

It would be so easy to –

To…?

Nothing followed. The idle thought stalled, hung in the air in front of him, and Han found he couldn't even finish it.

Whatever.

He was getting old, he'd slept poorly, and she wasn't his type.

We could ask one of the passengers to take this watch, Chewie suggested when Han joined him in the cockpit.

"No way," Han said, falling back into his seat. He balanced his cup of hot caf on the control panel. "I'll do it."

They smelled trustworthy.

"Oh yeah? Well there's more to it than that. I don't want them in here."

Chewie contemplated his captain's profile for a moment, hesitating.

She will fly with us next time, the Wookie finally ventured.

When Han didn't respond, he doubled down.

Maybe they'll even switch transports on the way back. They do these things.

Han ground his knuckles into his eyes and groaned.

"Shut up. Stop. Let's run all the systems checks while we're stuck here."

"How did we even get this tip?" Tyr was asking the others later, ship-time evening, when Han walked back into the main hold. "No one briefed me except to give me the script. I didn't know we had any contacts in phrik mining."

"A friend of the Princess, if you know what I mean, from back on… well, you know." Nobody ever quite knew how to mention Alderaan, with or without any survivors around. There was always that flicker of hesitation, even as the other spy wet her lips, eager to share everything she knew. "He was off-planet, en route to his father's mines when it happened – emergency meeting, called just the morning of the… can you believe it? Apparently he's been desperate to reach her for months, but we had to make sure it was really him. He was a big name and the whole planet knew about them, so it could easily have been a trap."

"But it's verified?"

"Oh yeah, it's really him. We kept it top secret because he was presumed deceased and it's better if it stays that way. They put him in touch with the Princess and he told her everything he knows, he wants to enlist."

Behind them, Han focused on washing out the dregs of caf from his cup, swirling it in the sonics thoroughly and carefully hanging it back on its hook.

"He's meeting us there, and we're taking him back to base. If everything goes well."

"Big if," the boy-spy sighed.

It took all of Han's composure not to turn around and start asking questions. Like who? And What do you mean, months? He didn't trust himself to sound disinterested. Instead, he grabbed a ration pack at random, slammed some cabinets, and returned to the cockpit just in time to strap in for the shuddering, one-two punch out of hyperspeed, when the Falcon finally dropped into the trade route that would take them to Korfo II.

Han and Chewie surveyed the small docking bay through the cockpit's viewport. They had brought the Falcon down not too far from the spaceport's entrance, as per ground mission protocols, and they had a good view of the city beyond its perimeter. It rose up in the horizon, past the raucous open-air bazaar at the gates that sold snacks, ale, provisions, and spare parts to pilots and travelers. From this far away, the ancient buildings looked blue, fading into the surrounding mountains, where smoke from the mining operation drifted up into the sky. The peaks were lost in a haze.

The other pilot wasn't there yet. Beat him, Han noted automatically, but it didn't feel much like a victory. He was impatient for the second ship to arrive, for the mission to actually get underway. And, a nagging voice added, to find out what else the Princess hadn't told him. He'd been trying to suppress it for hours, but none of this sat right with him – that she would brief him on every last detail of a mission, linger with him all friendly and peaceful, and yet neglect to mention that her long-lost love might be very much alive and waiting at the rendez-vous. That she would keep such a secret for months – right here in the cockpit where she sometimes told him about Alderaan and the palace, her parents, her pet hounds. And then for her to travel in the other ship, out of sight? That wasn't friendly at all.

Han unbuckled his seat belt and stood up to finish re-connecting the sensor wires. He had a right to know, he decided, shoving a tangle of cables back into the wall panel, if he'd been drafted into this expedition on false pretenses. He would confront her.

But it was a good half hour before that blasted compact cruiser finally alighted, several berths away. A Taris-built prefab, somehow both flashy and obsolete in its design, it kicked up a cloud of fine dust as it touched down. The spies must have been watching from one of the gun turrets, because they soon came barreling into the cockpit.

"Alright, we're off," they told him briskly, clipping on their burner comms. "Thanks for the ride. Please don't wander away, we're not sure how long this will take and it's best if nobody sees who our pilots are."

Han raised an eyebrow. "Well, then make it quick. Chewie doesn't like to stay cooped up."

Chewie looked up from his holopad and roared in agreement. Their passengers scurried off.

Then he saw her. The cruiser's ramp unfolded and she emerged, a trim figure in a white flight suit, sharply outlined from neck to wrists to boots, flanked by her subordinates. Re-assembled, the six-person Intelligence team and their diminutive leader conferred for a moment in the shadow of a nearby fueling station. Her lips moved calmly, as though they were chatting idly, but Han knew she was giving them their orders – the others only nodded. Then, very casually, the group splintered away into the crowded bazaar. She didn't once look in the direction of the Falcon.

Han wasn't one for imagined slights. Before this trip, he would have known her to be singularly focused on the mission, the stakes at hand. He wouldn't have taken it personally. But now he had to wonder – if it was only phrik mining negotiations she was hurrying towards, or if something other than Revolutionary was propelling her quick steps. And was she walking a little bit faster than the necessary?

Could it be, he scowled, that all the nights he had spent picturing the things a man might do to a prim, luscious little princess if she ever found herself in bed with him, ways to make her breathlessly wrap her legs around him and confess he wasn't that bad, she had stayed up encoding messages to her back-from-the-dead son of a duke? Picturing what – holding gold-ring hands while they drafted a new Galactic Charter?

Something cold settled in his chest. As his heart beat hard against it, he suddenly found himself thinking of burning sand and violent twin suns. The desert light had a way of making everything come into focus, razor sharp. Han knew the coordinates to Tattooine by heart, he could plot a course from six sectors without looking at any charts.

"We're leaving as soon as we get back," he told Chewie, unable to take his eyes off that white jumpsuit. Her swishing steps snapped at him. "We've wasted enough time."

He watched her sail away, through the hangar and out into the distant, blue city.