Title: Bad Advice for Secret Affairs

Summary: ...or Love Thy Enemy. A Star Wars Alternate Universe romantic dramedy. HSLO, as if it would be anything else from me.

Disclaimer: The GFFA belongs to George, any EU characters used belong to their respective authors, and the short lyrics featured at the beginning of each chapter are the properties of the songwriters/bands, and all of the above are far, far more creative than I. Oh, but Keane Solo and Kade Preiss (and, I suppose, any other OC's I manage to think up) are mine.

A/N: I swear, there will still be updates with MOACS and NL, but this thing is fifty pages in and has been on my computer for the last month, so I can't help it anymore. Muse is working overtime on this one.

This is an AU, that begins roughly where ANH did. Basically, it's my version of what might have happened if Han remained with the Imperial Navy and the Tantive IV was never captured over Tatooine.

Also, and please forgive me, but I've played a little with the ages here in order to make commissions more plausible. Instead of being ten years apart, the age gap between Han and Leia and Luke is six years. He is 25, they are 19 at the story's opening. Take that how you wish.

I'm pretty nervous about this one, so all reviews are very much appreciated and cherished. Reviewers will receive a replica DL-44 blaster and a plate of my famous bittersweet chocolate chip cookies upon submission.

Okay, then. Onward....

--

Chapter One: In which Imperial Lieutenant Han Solo is made an offer he can't refuse...

--

"There's a light at each end of this tunnel, you shout; 'Cause you're just as far in as you'll ever be out; And these mistakes that you made; You'll just make them again; If you only try turning around..."
Anna Nalick, Breathe (2AM)

--

The Imperial Academy
Carida

--

Her face was all over the HoloNet.

If one were male, he mused, not even necessarily human, or just appreciated beauty, then one couldn't complain. She was gorgeous. Young, perhaps, but still gorgeous. She wore her long, dark hair in a pile of braids at the back of her head in a style that was somehow loose and elegant all at once. Her features were delicate, feminine; her lips, full, enticing, her eyes, large, brown, intoxicating. And she was regal, she carried herself like a princess, which was fitting because she was; the beautiful princess of Alderaan, sole heir of the influential House of Organa, and now, at nineteen, the youngest member ever to be elected to the Imperial Senate.

She had it all: power, money, beauty, brains, a dazzling smile, and incredible diplomacy, and perhaps those were the reasons why the galaxy loved her. The fashion holos and the gossip tabloids followed her everywhere. They covered what she was wearing, where she went, what she ate, and who she was rumored to be dating. If Princess Leia wore it, he was guaranteed to see it on half of the female humans he passed on his next shore leave. The holos had followed her as a princess on Alderaan, but the coverage increased tenfold when she arrived on Coruscant to be inaugurated into the Senate last year. With all that press, he thought, you'd be crazy to try anything on her.

Except somebody had been crazy enough to try. Princess Leia's face was all over the HoloNet this particular week because there had been an attempt on her life two days ago when she was on her way home from some political hullabaloo, and the whole sickening fiasco had been caught on holo. Some sentient, a Rodian, clearly not in his right mind, had tried to shoot her. Leia was fine-untouched, even, but two of her four bodyguards took eerily accurate blaster bolts to the head and another to the chest before Coruscanti authorities were able to take the Rodian down.

The whole thing didn't sit well with him. He'd seen the footage-the Rodian was an excellent shot. He wondered if anyone besides him realized that the Rodian didn't merely miss the princess. He wasn't trying to hit her at all. And, perhaps even more interesting, the little princess, raised on a planet known for its pacifist ideologies, was as calm when the shooting began as some of the Navy's most seasoned admirals. She kept her head in the fray; she barely blinked at the first blast. He couldn't help but wonder exactly what prepared a teenage princess from a peaceful world to react to blaster fire as though she had been shot at before, but he also could not help but find it a little attractive.

But then again, he was on Carida, a respected hero and instructor at the Academy, and it was not his job to wonder about botched assassination attempts and gorgeous princesses that were probably hiding more than they would ever admit. So instead, because he was a good leader and had other things to concern himself with, he chose to force those intoxicating, molten brown eyes out of his mind.

"Boy, there's a thing or two I'd like to show that little princess. Know what I mean, eh, Solo?"

The Corellian Han Solo, who at twenty-five was the Imperial Navy's youngest ever and most highly decorated lieutenant, hid his disgusted grimace by turning back to the datapad of simulation statistics he had been reading. The plush officer's lounge was one of his least favorite places at the Academy, but he had walked into his office an hour earlier to find two protocol droids cleaning the room and had immediately left before he could get roped into any kind of conversation with them. Upon entering the lounge, however, Lieutenant Solo decided he would have gladly spent an hour talking with eight thousand droids than two minutes with the man he found splayed across one of the couches watching the HoloNet.

Lieutenant Kade Priess was one of the most objectionable humans he had met in his entire life. Somehow, for reasons that were beyond Han, the Axxillian who had come to Carida at eighteen and spent the second half of his life in the rigidity of the Navy, was still sloppy and slovenly. He reminded Han of a severely underweight Hutt with smoother skin, and his lewd, sycophantic personality was perhaps even more off-putting.

Priess was an idiot, and that wasn't just Han's opinion, though he would never be quite sure how the other man, thirteen years his senior, had ever made it to lieutenant. Han suspected it was a mere formality. After twenty years of service, Priess was entitled to a promotion, but Han seriously doubted the other man would make it any further in rank.

"She's half your age, Priess," Han countered, hoping that would be the end of the conversation. He didn't enjoy talking to Priess in a professional situation, and the man was even worse when it came to women and sex.

"Ah, that just means there's a lot she doesn't know yet. Besides, I like 'em young. They get crazy wild once they find out what they've been missing."

This time, Han could not hide his disgust. He touched the control on his chair so the viewer switched to a Smashball game and glared at the other man.

"Enough."

"What, Solo? You can't tell me you weren't thinking it, too."

"At least I'd have a chance with her," he muttered, touching the screen of the datapad and switching to a new document, finished with this conversation. From the corner of his eye, he caught Priess sneering at him and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the ridiculous sight.

"It's easy to be an arrogant son of a bantha when you've got someone pulling the strings for you," Priess grumbled, changing the viewer back to coverage of the princess.

If he were a lesser man, Han would have been across the room and his fist would have already connected with Priess' greasy nose. Instead, the subversive retort was dancing on his tongue when he was interrupted before he could speak by the chirping of his comlink. Han settled for a trenchant grin in the other lieutenant's direction before thumbing on the device.

"Solo."

"Lieutenant, this is Ensign Pratt. Captain Ozzel has requested that you report to his office immediately."

Han suppressed a groan. He disliked the sniveling Ozzel almost as much as he disliked Priess, a situation made worse by the fact that the captain was his superior officer. Ozzel had deemed Han's commanding rise to success, golden boy status, and Corellian roguishness as arrogant and opportunistic, and took every chance to undermine the young lieutenant's authority.

Han shook his head and ran a hand across the Corellian bloodstripe that decorated the legs of his uniform. He was the youngest man ever to receive such a distinguished honor, awarded to him at age twenty after he saved an entire platoon of soldiers by safely landing a damaged and rapidly depressurizing ship over Ord Mantell. Of all of his awards, he was proudest of his bloodstripes-they reminded him of his home, and they encouraged him to push forward on his difficult days. And they helped him keep his cool around Ozzel, who, lately, had been even more brutal towards Han.

Sighing, he stood up.

"Tell him I'll be right there."

--

The datapad slid unceremoniously across the too-neat durasteel desk with a loud hiss and fell into Han's gray-uniformed lap. Casually stroking the scar on his chin, his most recent badge of honor and a souvenir from an episode involving a rather angry Wookiee and a few things he'd just as soon forget, Han picked up the datapad and scanned the open document.

"No way," he said firmly after a moment, sliding the pad back across the desk in a gesture that openly mocked and undermined his commanding officer. Grim faced, Captain Kendal Ozzel reclined further in his repulsor chair and bridged ten fingers beneath his chin in an annoyingly authoritative stance.

"You don't have a choice, Lieutenant." The tone in the captain's voice alternately infuriated Han and made him feel as though he were a child caught trying to sneak out on his swoop bike. Frustrated, Han stood from his chair and snatched the datapad off the desk again.

"This isn't my job."

"They're orders, Solo," Ozzel said dismissively, as though this were the most obvious statement in the galaxy. "They're your job."

"These were handed down from the Grand Moff," Han argued, gesturing to the datapad. "He has no control over my assignments."

At this, Ozzel offered a supercilious smirk.

"We should all be so lucky as to have the Grand Moff take a personal interest in our affairs, Lieutenant," he said, his words dripping with disdain.

The anger bubbling inside Han reached its boiling point at the captain's condescending words, but the young lieutenant wisely chose an action that would not result in his court marshaling and dishonorable discharge from the Imperial Navy. Steeling himself, Han offered a short salute before turning on one heel and stalking out of the office.

Lieutenant Solo's feet knew his destination before his head, and the angry stomp of his polished boots echoed off the wide, stark corridors of the base. Carida was the flagship of all the naval academies, and an honor just to be admitted, but it was even more of an honor to be stationed at the on-planet base and work with the institution. Valedictorian of his class, Han had been offered the commission of lieutenant and a position in the flight school after he was rewarded with the bloodstripe. The position was an honor, but Han's rapid rise to success had spawned some awful stories and earned him some unflattering nicknames from jealous subordinates and superiors alike.

Han rounded a sharp corner and slammed the controls that opened the doors to the Grand Moff's front office. The young ensign serving as the Grand Moff's secretary stood nervously in salute as Han stormed in, his blue eyes wide with awe and fear. Han favored the kid with an annoyed glance as he walked past him towards the large black doors that shielded the Grand Moff's office.

"You can't go in there," the ensign said, unsuccessfully trying to mask the quiver in his voice. Han stopped dead in his tracks and turned around slowly, a murderous expression crossing his handsome features, and the young secretary gulped audibly before he continued. "The Grand Moff isn't seeing anyone today."

"Oh, he'll see me," Han growled.

"Lieutenant Solo, I can't-"

"What's your name, Ensign?"

The tow-headed young man retreated a step before he answered Han's demand.

"Yigit, sir. Loc Yigit."

Han offered Yigit a crooked smile that was anything but friendly as he crossed his arms over his chest, the medals and decorations tinkling slightly with his movement.

"And tell me, Yigit, how long have you been stationed at Carida?"

"I just joined, sir. It's my second month at the academy."

"Second month, huh?" Han mused. "So, long enough for you to have familiarized yourself with the rules, right?"

Terrified, the ensign could only manage a nod.

"Am I right, Ensign?" The tone in Han's voice was foreboding.

"Y-Yes, sir."

"Then you've been here long enough to know that when a superior officer gives you a direct order, you follow it." It wasn't a question.

"But sir!" Yigit protested. "I am following a direct order from my superior officer. I can't let you go in there!"

Han let the dangerous smile fall from his face and narrowed his hazel eyes, and he noticed with some satisfaction that the ensign's hands were trembling out of fear of Han's reaction to his surprising outburst. Delighted, Han shifted his weight back into his heels and smirked.

"I'm not ordering you to let me in there, Yigit," he said lazily, and the ensign's blue eyes widened slightly. "But, I am ordering you to go get me a glass of water."

"Ye-You-You're what, sir?"

"Are you deaf, Ensign?" Han demanded, pointing an angry finger towards the corridor. "Water. Now!"

Startled, the ensign saluted quickly and scurried out of the office. Han let his arms fall to his sides and chuckled to himself as he palmed open the door to the Grand Moff's office.

"Damn fool kid," he muttered, stepping into the spacious but sparsely decorated chambers.

"For someone who likes orders, Han, you're not very good at following them."

Han's piercing hazel eyes flicked to the large black desk that sat before a tall transparisteel viewport at the back of the room, and found his gaze met by two equally piercing hazel eyes and a crooked smirk nearly identical to the one he wore.

"I like sensible orders, but they're pretty hard to come by in this place," Han countered.

The Grand Moff sighed, halfway annoyed by Han's jab at his academy.

"Are you just going to stand there, Lieutenant, or are you going to let me know why you've burst into my office uninvited?"

"Would you care to explain?" Han demanded, tossing the datapad given to him by Ozzel on the Grand Moff's desk before dropping akimbo into a nearby conform chair. Instead of inspecting the datapad, the Grand Moff looked as though he expected exactly this and merely tented his fingers beneath his chin as Ozzel had as he leaned back into his own chair, his lips narrowing into a thin line.

"Did you read it?" he asked passively.

Han rolled his eyes.

"Of course I read it! Why the hell do you think I'm so angry?"

"Language, son," the Grand Moff said with another sigh as he slid the datapad back towards Han, who barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes again.

"Coruscant? Security detail?" Han challenged, picking up the datapad and studying it once again. "They already have guards for this kind of thing. Are you out of your damn mind?"

"I would advise you to watch yourself, Han." The amusement suddenly vanished from the Grand Moff's demeanor. "You're on thin ice as it is."

Han slumped further into his chair. The Wookiees. Of course it was the Wookiees.

"So this is punishment?" he guessed. "Everyone else thinks I'm a hero, you know. Most people wouldn't take a blaster burn to the shoulder, a permanent scar on the chin, and a concussion if they're on the same side as the folks they're trying to keep from escaping. Haven't you heard? I've gotten a new nickname. They're callin' me 'Slick.'"

"You may think you have your friends fooled, Slick, but I know better. You'd be dead like all the other guards on duty that night if you hadn't been helping those things escape."

"Those things," Han retorted angrily, "aren't animals, Dad."

Keane Solo, the mirror image of his son, or perhaps, his son after another thirty years and a few more medals, waved a hand dismissively.

"I had to convince your direct superiors that you didn't let those Wookiees go. You're lucky you weren't court marshaled and executed for treason. I'm doing you a favor."

Han held up the datapad and raised an eyebrow.

"You call this a favor?"

"Fine, you're doing me a favor."

"Because I owe you? Forget it, Dad, I'll take the court marshal."

"It's actually a very important assignment, Han."

The raised eyebrow arched higher and Han said nothing, though his silence demanded that Keane sweeten the pot.

"Do it and I'll promote you to commander."

That got Han thinking. He turned his attention back to the datapad, silently hoping that the screen would reveal some secret that perhaps would make this assignment more bearable. Just as he was considering the weather and women on Coruscant, his comlink began to chime, and he noted, sheepishly, that his father's eyes were demanding that he answer it. Han glanced at the device and grimaced with dismay at an all-too-familiar code staring back at him. No way he was dealing with her right now. Quickly, he shut off the comm and mulled over his new assignment out loud.

"The Imperial Senate has requested military guard for one Senator-Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan after an attempt on her life killed two and injured one of her personal guards two days ago..." Han trailed off for a moment, remembering the pretty face he'd just seen on the HoloNet. "Senator-Princess? Gods." He sighed and gave his father a pointed look. "I don't babysit."

"Actually," Keane began, "this is a prime opportunity for us. We have long suspected Alderaan and the royal family in particular as being sympathetic to the Rebellion."

Finally, it made sense.

"You want me to spy on her." It wasn't a question.

Keane shrugged and Han sighed, frustrated.

"I can't. I've got men here. New students."

"Lieutenant Priess can assume your position."

Han scowled.

"Priess is a moron. He doesn't know a power coupling from his ass and he's going to teach your recruits nothing but how to fly themselves into the hull of a Star Destroyer. You'll get great kamikaze pilots and not much else."

At this, Keane chuckled, and Han was almost startled by the sudden appearance of his father's sense of humor.

Almost.

"I'm sure we'll make do, Han."

The younger Solo leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, and buried his face in his hands. Carida, and specifically his father, had thought of everything. There was no getting out of this and he knew it. He would be on the first transport to Coruscant, unless his father was amicable enough to allow Han to take his recent purchase, a battered, ancient YT-3000 model Corellian freighter he'd dubbed the Millennium Falcon, to the Core of the galaxy instead.

He doubted very seriously that he would be so lucky, but decided to chance it anyway.

"Can I take the Falcon?" He didn't look up and his voice was muffled by his hands.

"If it will fly."

Han was quiet for another moment, head still in his hands, both startled by his father's acquiescence and seething from the jibe at his ship.

"Do you want me to kill her, too, when you have what you need?" he asked at last, finally glancing up to find Keane grinning at him in an oddly menacing way that made Han's stomach twist into nervous knots.

"Of course not, son. If she's guilty, that particular privilege gets to go to her executioner."

--

The Lars Homestead
Tatooine

--

To say that Owen Lars was unhappy to see the hooded figure approaching his home would be the understatement of the century. The weary moisture farmer knew that battered old speeder anywhere, and whenever it and it's battered old hermit of a pilot approached, it meant another vehement argument and weeks of making up excuses to his nephew. Frustrated, he threw down his fork and stormed from the supper table and outside the house before Beru and Luke had a chance to ask him any questions.

"No!" Owen shouted, angrily, before the speeder had come to a full stop. When it did, the driver of the speeder slowly pushed back the hood that shrouded his face, revealing an aging Obi-Wan Kenobi who looked as though he expected just this reaction.

"No?" He was almost amused, and it only incensed the moisture farmer further.

"Leave," Owen seethed. "Now."

"Owen," the Jedi master said calmly, "I need to speak with you. With Luke."

"Absolutely not."

Obi-Wan climbed out of the speeder and approached the other man cautiously.

"This is important."

"I don't give a damn how important it is! You have brought nothing but trouble to this family." Owen pointed an angry finger in the old Jedi's face. "Leave my nephew alone. Leave us alone, you no good-"

"Uncle Owen?"

The youthful voice that interrupted the argument was tentative and hopeful, and both men turned to its source. Luke Skywalker, nineteen, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed image of his father, was standing at the threshold of the house with one arm around the shoulders of a curious Beru Lars. Obi-Wan smiled reassuringly at the young man as Owen scowled.

"Go back inside, Luke," his uncle ordered.

"Owen," Beru urged quietly, nodding a small greeting towards their visitor. "Maybe we should let him in."

"Now isn't the time, Beru," he retorted, but Obi-Wan was already advancing towards Luke.

"What's going on here?" Luke asked, obviously confused by his uncle's anger at this new arrival. Obi-Wan placed a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder and smiled as though he were Luke's grandfather, or perhaps as though he were seeing a loved one he thought to be dead.

"It's good to see you again, Luke," he said, squeezing Luke's arm lightly. "You might not remember me, but my name is Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Owen glared at the other man, growing angrier with his intrusion by the second.

"Why are you here, Kenobi?" the moisture farmer demanded.

The Jedi studied Owen for a moment, then turned his twinkling gaze back on Luke.

"I'm here to talk to Luke about his sister."