Chapter Text
For the record, Han Solo didn't even know Wedge Antilles had a brother.
It was a month into their stay at Hoth when Lieutenant Ward Antilles arrived with reinforcements, and, most importantly, engineers. Han anticipated and dreaded the arrival in the week leading up to the arrival; it would be nice to have some more bodies around the base, sure, but if those goddamn mechanics thought they were laying a finger on his Falcon, there'd be hell to pay.
Once the troops arrived, though, there was no ignoring them. Wedge skirted his responsibilities to the crew in an effort to make his brother as comfortable as possible, and, with Luke following Antilles around like a pathetic puppy dog, Han was forced to pick up some of the slack. As if he actually cared about their goddamn revolution. As if he cared at all.
(He stayed anyway, for longer than anyone thought he would; Han Solo had something to prove to himself about just what exactly he was capable of, and somehow the urge to aid the rebellion had made it onto that list. Chewbacca, for his credit, was unamused.)
(Leia had made herself busy too, since the arrival, and Han had done his best not to let his eyes follow her out of every room; he was too obvious, too brash, and he needed to tone things down unless he wanted to get on her bad side. She had too much power to anger; she could probably sic the troops on him, if she felt like it.)
In any event, Han Solo hadn't even known Wedge Antilles had a brother, which was probably why he was so surprised when he and Luke were approached by Lieutenant Antilles, three tables in at their icy makeshift cantina.
"That princess of yours sure knows how to use her hands," he began. Han furiously tried to cover up the fact that he had choked on his Correllian Whiskey, and ended up coughing his lungs out.
"She fixed the power converters for half my ships," Ward finished.
Han let a sigh of relief reap havoc on his fractured lungs. "She learned it from me," he muttered, his coarse words scratching his throat on the way out.
He gave Han a curious glance. "You alright there? Need a drink of water?"
Han Solo held up his flask in response, indicating that it was all he needed.
"I wanted to thank you," Ward said to Luke, sitting down without an invitation. "My brother wouldn't be here without you -- hell, I wouldn't either."
Han gave a dismissive smile and looked away. He was used to this. Luke grinned, shaking the Lieutenant's hand with a strong grip and thanking him for his service.
"You too, Han Solo. I hear you're quite the, uh --"
Ward paused, tilting his head awkwardly to the side. Han saw the conflict in his eyes. Pilot? He probably wondered. No; too formal. Ally? Too hopeful. Captain? Ha. In his dreams.
"Smuggler," Han finished for him, breaking the silence. "S'all I want to be, alright?"
Han got up, slapping his friend once on the back and taking a long swig of whiskey and making a bee line for the door.
"Sorry about him." Han heard Luke's apology over his shoulder. "He's -- well ..."
Han chugged, letting the whiskey drown out their words.