“What are you doing?”
Han winced, glad that his back was turned at the very least so Lando couldn’t see his face. He might’ve grown up on Corellia boosting vehicles for petty escape attempts in the Control Zone, but even he knew it wasn’t the friendliest of behavior to start playing under the hood of your host’s ship. Not right under his nose. And not when you’re about to fly the thing to Kessel. Pasting on his best smile—it had gotten him out of at least three beatings in his lifetime, that was three more than any of his other smiles had ever gotten him—he spun on his heels and lifted his elbow to lean against the wall.
And maybe also casually close the panel he’d been poking his nose into. He liked to get to know the wiring of his ships. And the Falcon was his ship. Lando just didn’t know it yet.
One day he would; hopefully, he wouldn’t be too mad about it.
Because Han liked Lando, he really did. Anybody who had beaten as many Imperial blockades as Lando had without getting caught was good people. It was a numbers game after all and, though the Empire was powered by the least ambitious and insightful people in the galaxy, one of them could have gotten lucky at any time. Beating the odds that often took skill. Han… Han could appreciate skill.
And even if he thought the capes were a little fussy, he couldn’t deny they looked good sitting across Lando’s equally appealing shoulders.
They’d have looked even better on the floor, Han bet.
“Who?” Han asked, dialing up the smile even more as he ducked his head, bangs falling into his eyes. His finger tapped at his own sternum as he shrugged his shoulders. “Me? I’m just—inspecting the molding.” Raising his other hand, he tapped his knuckles against the pristine duraplast casing that covered this section of wall. “Custom, right? They don’t install this stuff on the line.” For good measure, Han whistled. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got excellent taste?”
Lando sighed and took a couple of steps forward. Though the galley was reasonably sized, it suddenly felt far too small for the pair of them. His boots, shined to within an inch of their lives, clicked pleasantly against the floor. “Everything in here is custom,” he answered, looking Han up and down, “but you knew that already, didn’t you?”
He chose to ignore Han’s rather blatant attempt at flirting. That was interesting. A little disappointing and, frankly, insulting, too, but interesting.
Han swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. This close, he could smell Lando’s cologne, the kind of expensive shit that managed to downplay itself in all the right ways, warm and spicy, pleasant and interesting, the kind of thing that made people want to get close to you and pay attention. Complete and utter garbage, of course. You can trust me, that cologne said, but there was nothing in Lando that was trustworthy except the hunger he had for the better things in life.
That was what Han liked about him so much. Made things a lot easier when a guy had grand, lofty ambitions and the air of respectability about him. You knew, vaguely, where you stood with a guy like Lando, except when you sat across from him at a sabacc table, and even then if you weren’t born yesterday you could figure it out. And Lando’d already played his hand with Han for a lark and a laugh, so now Han knew him, too. There was power in that. Nothing major, of course. He’d surprise Lando the next time they sat across from one another in whichever gambling den Lando staked out as his own, but that was about it, but it was more than he’d had before.
It was all a step in the right direction.
So, yeah, Han couldn’t trust Lando. But he could enjoy looking into those ever-so-slightly annoyed eyes and say, “I know a lot of things,” just to see that annoyance flare brighter, mutate into something that might have been reluctant amusement.
“Oh, Han,” Lando replied, but only after weighing his options, only after he decided a light, patronizing chuckle was the correct answer. “I’m sure you do.” His tongue darted out to wet his lip and bulged thoughtfully in his cheek as he thought over his next words. “But if you want to know anything else about the Falcon, you’ll ask me.”
“And here I thought I was just complimenting your… ship.” Han’s eyes dipped lower, eyebrow raised with intrigue.
Lando’s reluctant amusement turned into genuine laughter, bright and sparkling as champagne. The skin around his eyes crinkled and he laughed heartily. His hand, warm, slapped against Han’s bicep and lingered with a squeeze. “I’ll pretend I’m flattered by this very, very transparent attempt to distract me.” And oh, he was a horrible liar. Han could’ve seen from across hyperspace that Lando was flattered. Possibly not interested, which would have been a shame in the long run, but definitely flattered.
Well, Han always knew he had to grow on people. There was time yet for that. It was good enough that he’d broken the ice here.
Lando’s cape swung in time with the quick, clean execution of his turn. “Come back to the cockpit,” he said, definitely not asking. “We can chat a bit.”
And Han, quickly patting the now closed panel, followed.
It might have turned out later that Han’s transparency bore fruit, but Lando would never, ever have admitted to it and, for once, Han was willing to heed to the better angels of his nature, discretion being the better part of valor and all that claptrap.
And maybe, in turn, Han got to learn more about the Millennium Falcon than even he’d thought possible.
Who knew a YT-1300 freighter could hold a wine cellar that was big enough to fit two grown men and full racks of wine? Even Han hadn’t known that.
But, well, Lando proved himself to always be full of one surprise or another.
And Han didn’t mind it in the slightest, even if he never again fell for one of Han’s distractions.