Rogue Valentine
Sweethearts' day in the Rebel Alliance. Spoof valentines abound. But who should the last one go to?
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A/N: Owing to offensive M+ material posted as a review, I've deleted this fic as a stand-alone story and am putting it here instead. Many thanks to all genuine reviewers :)
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"...she works kriffing hard and makes our puny budget go into hyperdrive!"
"What's up?" Luke Skywalker closed the door of the store room off the main hanger which the X-wing pilots had currently appropriated as a sort of off-duty lounge. It had a few duraplast chairs scattered about it, one forlorn padded flight seat shedding foam stuffing from every seam, which had been salvaged from a crashed X-wing, and a single table stolen from the officers' mess hall. The small group of Rogues huddled around this on make-shift stools of empty power cable drums all jumped at his voice.
"Thank you for the cards, by the way," said Luke, crossing the room and drawing out a stool for himself. He grinned. "I recognised Wedge's handwriting on the third one, even though it claimed to come from Rose in the canteen."
Wedge Antilles groaned. "I knew people would! That's why we had Hobbie writing them – until we discovered he can't spell 'Rogue'!"
"Can't-"
"And she never gets any fun like the Princess does with Solo hitting on her," Hobbie interrupted with the determined tone of one going back to a previous argument rather than opening any further discussion of his spelling.
"Am I missing something?" said Luke, looking enquiringly back at Wedge.
"It's Sweethearts Day," said Wedge reluctantly, "and Tycho managed to get in a big pack of pink paper, so we were, er..."
"Flooding the place with spoof Valentines?"
"It was meant to be fun!" Wes broke in. "But this idiot wants to send the last one to Mon Mothma!"
"She works kriffing hard, she makes our puny budget stretch into hyperspace, and she doesn't get the fun the Princess has with Solo hitting on her!" Hobbie repeated hotly. "She deserves something! And it'll go to waste otherwise! We'll have lost it in a dozen evacuations before Sweethearts Day comes round next year!"
"I'm hoping the new base on Hoth will save us from a few evacuations!" Luke protested.
"We'll have frozen a dozen times instead," Hobbie muttered.
Wedge sighed. "Hobbie, you have a point – about the card, I mean, not Hoth! But you still can't go sending spoof valentines to your commanding officers – er, senior commanding officers–"
"She'd think you were being funny," Wes put in. "Funny-not-nice, not funny-ha-ha."
"And it's my sheet of paper," Tycho added.
"She works kriffing hard, she makes our puny budget stretch into hyperspace, and she doesn't get the fun the Princess has with Solo hitting on her!"
"If you say that again we'll put the flight chair down your throat!"
"She works kriff-"
"We can," said Luke suddenly.
"Put the flight chair down his throat?!" Wedge boggled, as if his commander might have finally taken leave of his senses.
"Nooooo!" Luke shook his head. "Send Mon Mothma a card."
"But–"
"A sincere card." Luke reached forwards, prised the paper from under Hobbie's startled grip, and folded it briskly in half. "Let me write it, you can draw hearts or whatever you like on the front in a minute, and we'll all sign." He scribbled rapidly under the gaze of four startled Rogues, and then slid it across to Wedge. "There – what do you think?"
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Fifteen standard minutes later, Mon Mothma stood, staring down at the contents of the envelope which had just slid under her door. One folded piece of pink paper, with a very wobbly Rebel Alliance Eagle sketched on the front, and a brief message inside:
To Mon Mothma,
With our sincere respect and admiration,
L. Skywalker, W. Antilles, D. Klivian. T. Celchu, W. Jansen
on behalf of The Rogues.
She shook her head at it. Then she went and filed it very carefully in the durasteel Number 1 Dispatch Box that got evacuated first every time the Rebel Alliance had to move base.
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