"Wait- you wanna bet against me?" A pair of incredulous dark green eyes met the lighter, sparkling hazel pair that looked up to him with their own particular brand of mischief, and one grease streaked hand gestured vaguely at the form of a sandy haired Jedi who was too busy packing up his X-Wing to take notice of the wager that was being negotiated at his expense. "Over him?"
"Yep!" The 'p' popped cheerfully as the fairer haired blonde grinned and rocked back on the balls of her feet. She was the perfect picture of confidence, utterly firm in her decision.
"You do realize we're talking about Luke here, right?" Han raised one thick brow down at the not-quite-Jedi-in-training who should have been well aware of Luke's track record when it came to these kinds of things, generously giving her one last chance to rethink taking such a risk. He didn't have to, but hey, what if she'd hit her heard during a training session? No one could ever say that Han took advantage of his friends when gambling, no matter what Lando might try to claim. "He didn't pull some kind of Jedi mind trick on you, did he?"
"Oh please," Buffy answered with a roll of her eyes, "don't insult me." Then she was grinning again, her gaze flashing with a wicked challenge that promised to make the game interesting. Well, as interesting as it could be when he was pretty much guaranteed to win. "But if you're so sure of yourself, let's up the stakes. Where's the fun in just betting rations, huh?"
"Yeah?" The former smuggler gave her a suspicious look. "What've you got in mind?"
"If you win, I'll run interference between you and Threepio. Keep him away from you and the Falcon for a month straight, no matter what. You won't even hear the tiniest peep of the odds from him the entire time, I promise."
"And if you win?" There was something too sly about the quirk of her lips, the look in her eyes, and it made him even more suspicious. She definitely had something in mind, now just to find out what-
"I get to fly the Falcon. By myself," she announced triumphantly.
Han choked, dropping the welder he'd been using to seal up an errant hatch, and cursing when it landed on his foot. Buffy wanted to fly his ship? Buffy, who had been all but banned from flying anything but her personal X-wing, who not even Luke would let fly their tandem? Who made even Artoo squeal when she ended up in a pilot's seat? His Falcon?
"I mean, if you're afraid of losing," she soldiered on, as if Han wasn't trying to swallow his lungs back down at the very thought, "that's okay, I understand. We can try tamer stakes."
And now she was calling him a coward. Like hell. Shoving away all generous thoughts of letting her reconsider, Han kicked the welder to one side, raised his faceplate, grabbed a nearby rag to wipe off his hands, and smirked down at the kid.
"Your funeral, sweetheart." The rag was stuffed in his back pocket, and he tugged the faceplate from his head to give her the full effect of his smug grin. She wasn't gonna get anywhere near the Falcon's pilot seat. "You're on."
Her smile was a little too gleeful for his comfort- or it would have been, if he weren't brimming with confidence in the fact that she obviously didn't know what she was getting into.
"Just remember," the blonde reminded him with a cocksure cheer, "that you have to uphold your end of the bargain. If you and Chewie get in more trouble than Luke and me on our next mission..."
"Yeah, yeah, I got it. You better go enjoy what little Goldenrod free time you've got left, huh?"
"Better get that seat ready for me, Han!" Then, with a grin and a mock salute, Buffy was off to help Luke pack up the rest of the supplies for their mission. As Han finished up with the hatch and got ready for he and Chewie's next mission brief, he reflected that the next month was going to be the most peaceful month he'd had in a long time.
Ten firefights, five days, three chases, and a bacta tank later, Han swore he was never betting against Buffy before seeing the mission outline first again. The only thing left to do now, as the kid settled into his seat in the Falcon's cockpit with a triumphant bounce, was to consider who should write the eulogy for his ship, and when.