Luke takes Leia shopping once she becomes a bigshot senator in the New Republic because "your tendency to just steal Han's clothes when you run out of clean ones is adorable but not #fashion"
She’s never done this before.
In her old life, she had a personal tailor–the decisions she made were along the lines of color and fabric, not cut and style, and even those were political decisions. White was the color of the royal family. Silver highlighted her planet’s wealth, to those who needed reminding. In her life after that one, she wore cast-offs, collected a wardrobe out of whatever the quartermaster handed out.
Luke, who grew up in a glorified village on the Outer Rim, can’t believe she lived in Coruscant for actual years and never once went to the shops.
“No way,” he says, pulling her away from a foamy white dress, his nose wrinkled. “Eighty credits for four feet of boilercloth? You could buy the factory for that much.”
Leia reaches for a simple grey jacket, and draws her hand back when Luke winces. It’s endearing, the way he still doesn’t always know what his face is doing. “Fine,” she says, and gestures broadly at the shop. “What do you want me to wear, hotshot?”
“It’s not about what I want,” Luke says immediately, and she rolls her eyes.
“Luke,” she says, and picks up the jacket, holds it against herself. “Are you sure you don’t have an opinion?”
“Not grey,” he says, and grins at her, suddenly looking absurdly young. She can just about picture him, sorting through the outdoor markets at Mos Eisley, saving up for the dusty boots he wore his first year in the Rebellion, until they fell apart. “Not white, either. You have a lot of white. How do you feel about color?”
Yellow for Chandrila. Green for the ruling families of Hosnia. Purple for Iego. Red for the emperor. White for Alderaan. Black for the Empire.
Leia blinks. “I like blue,” she says after a moment.
Luke takes the jacket, puts it back in its place. “Blue, okay,” he says, and claps a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll start with blue.”