Han’s boots, spit-shined that morning and gleaming even under the dim, grunge-yellowed lights that lined the walls, stirred up the dust that perpetually clung to the floor of The Tuskless Skaldar. The leather was so new it squeaked and they were tight enough that they pinched every bit of his feet that they touched. He always hated when the requisitions droid came around; it was always right when he’d finally gotten his old boots just the way he liked them. And unless he wanted a demerit from his superior officer, he’d wear whatever the cordwainer droids came up with.
And he’d like it if he knew what was good for him.
This was, he thought, as good a reason to drink as any. If anything deserved to be mourned, it was the comfort he’d no longer be experiencing while he stood around and interrogated criminals and thugs, reminders of what he could have been if things had gone a little differently in his own life, if he’d made this decision instead of that one.
It always sat a little uncomfortable—the same sort of uncomfortable as the starched jacket and trousers that made up the majority of his white uniform—barking questions at these people, day in and day out. Mostly they just went about their business, their crimes petty and pointless and didn’t hurt the Empire any, but enforcer droids and zealous, newly minted cogs who only wanted to advance as quickly as possible kept tossing them into Han’s way, cats dragging back bloody mementos for their masters to ooh and ahh over.
One of these days, he was going to have to bite the blaster bolt and send out a memo explaining the difference between someone stealing a loaf of bread and someone posing a genuine and immediate threat to Imperial and planetary security. Everyone’s time got wasted here. It was just that no one else was smart enough to see it.
This was another good reason to drink. Probably the best. It was, more often than not, the one that drove him here.
He did what he could in retaliation: he understated misdemeanors in his reports and slapped wrists as lightly as the law allowed before sending the individuals in question on their way to offend or not offend again as they saw fit. They were always more grateful for it than they should’ve been and every day that passed had Han hating it more and more. Common decency deserved no gratitude.
He hadn’t scraped and clawed his way to the top of his class for this, sucking it up and keeping quiet while his idiot teachers and advisers droned on and on about their glorious Empire forging order from chaos, bringing peace to every corner of the galaxy. Order and peace were bought with hard-earned and fairly-spread credits and that was the only way it was done as far as Han could see. Anyone who bought the Empire’s line without reservation deserved to be swindled. In all that time, Han had only ever wanted to keep these assholes honest if only because he had to live in the same galaxy as they did and it was either join them or run from them and Han wasn’t a runner, hadn’t been since he was ten.
Now he felt like he was one of these assholes. And he sure as hells wasn’t ten any longer.
That was never, ever what he’d wanted.
And now he was stuck, halfway to an assignment that would allow him just that—loyalty officer did have such a nice ring to it, there were so many rules that his fellows could hang themselves from and Han knew all of them—if only he made it through this one and the next one and whatever else the Empire decided to throw at him until they gave him the assignment he coveted.
That thought was a pipe dream for another day. For now, he had this bar and a glass with his name on it. Literally, sometimes, when the bartender was feeling particularly snappy and affixed some tape to it and scribbled it on there.
“My,” a warm, smooth voice said as he approached the bar, careful to avoid leaning against it. He knew better than to touch it while he still wore his uniform. “What is a fine, upstanding Imperial officer like you doing in a place like this?”
Han bit back a grin and tugged at the hem of his jacket, hating himself for knowing exactly what it would do for the line of the garment. The best officers, the most effective officers, knew exactly how to play the cards given to him. And there was nothing quite as impressive as the stretch of white across shoulder blades, the perfect arc of fabric around the curve of his shoulders. He’d perfected the stance in a mirror.
(He longed all the more desperately for the battered linen shirts he wore in his off-hours, the butter-soft suede of pants he’d had since he last visited Corellia proper some five, seven, ten years ago maybe. He wished he could brush the pomade from his hair and smile like he meant it.)
“Oh,” he replied, slow as he turned, “some of us like to count laundry as a hobby, I suppose.” He held his hand out. “Lieutenant Han Solo, Imperial security.”
“I am,” the man replied, resplendent in maroon and purple, his eyes skimming from the top of Han’s head to his toes before he saw fit to shake Han’s hand, “exceptionally aware of that fact.”
He wasn’t the first person who would’ve drawn Han’s eye—Han would’ve written him off as a tourist and a rake, both above and below his notice being neither a troublemaker nor a prospect—but now that the man had demanded his attention and in such fashion, well. Han didn’t mind the distraction in the slightest. Probably he thought Han was more important than he was, the mystique of the uniform, but Han wasn’t such a stranger to that. If it got him a free drink and an interesting conversation for the evening, and it usually did, it would be worthwhile. If it got him something else… that was all right with him, too; sometimes it happened that way and it could get lonely sometimes. Han was only human.
The trick would be to feel anything other than scraped up and hollowed out in the morning, wishing for something else, anything other than what he had.
The man’s mouth stretched into a beautiful, brilliant smile, gorgeous enough that Han’s heart stuttered a bit. This man wasn’t a tourist, no tourist was that confident on this planet, but he was most definitely a rake. And Han was definitely a mark of some sort, a conquest to be had, a problem, possibly, to be solved. Whatever was going on here, Han had made a mess of it for this guy; it was the only explanation that made sense.
Han should have cared more. Whether this guy was a thief, a smuggler, a dealer, or whatever, Han should’ve cared. This was the kind of guy that needed to be hauled in and interrogated.
Han did care, he supposed. He just didn’t care enough.
He wished he’d changed before coming here tonight, shed this image that was and wasn’t him.
But if he had, would this man have approached him? Probably not.
“Let’s get a drink in that hand of yours, shall we?” the man said, leaning into his space, using Han’s thigh to balance himself as he stretched toward the bar. He also, Han noted, did not touch it. “Bartender, a whiskey, neat, for the upstanding officer of the law here.” His face, inches from Han’s, turned. “It is whiskey, neat, isn’t it?”
Han gripped the wrist digging into his thigh, the skin soft and warm and fragile. His other hand grabbed hold of the silk fabric of the man’s shirt. The man, perhaps in an attempt to preserve the shirt’s integrity, came closer, close enough almost to kiss. “Tell me it’s not weapons or drugs.”
Han could give the guy this, he didn’t flinch; he gave nothing at all away. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, cordial, as comfortable this close as he’d been from half a meter away. It was Han’s suspicion that this man could feign comfort anywhere. He would have liked to test that theory a little bit. “I just liked the look of you.”
“That’s bantha shit and we both know it.” A shiver worked through Han as the man’s breath ghosted across his face, a phantom-light caress. His nails dug into the tendons and ligaments of the man’s wrist. He ignored everything except the dark brown of the man’s eyes, entirely expressive all while saying nothing at all. “Drugs or weapons.”
They could have played tug-of-war in the silence that ensued. Even the din of other customers faded as they stared at one another, waiting for the other to stand down. And then the man blinked and looked away. “Nothing that’ll hurt anyone,” he admitted, a rueful curl tugging at his mouth, like he’d known all along what Han was really asking—or hoped he did anyway. This man was a gambler, too, whatever else he was. “I can promise you that.”
Why he’d taken such a chance admitting to engaging in any sort of illegal activity, Han would never know beyond that, but it would end up being one of the best things either of them ever did. Not that they knew it yet, though perhaps Han had an inkling somewhere in the back of his mind. He released a shuddering breath and nodded. “You got me pegged,” Han said, rough. “Whiskey, neat.”
That grin of his was no less appealing from up close. It almost made Han lean in that last little bit of distance and…
“The name’s Calrissian,” the man said in a whisper, his eyes dropping to Han’s lips. “Lando. Real name. For what that’s worth.”
Han would have no way of knowing for sure until he searched Imperial records, but his intuition told him Lando was telling the truth in trade or as a gratuity, a gift. Maybe a lure if Han wasn’t as lucky as he thought he was. “Nice name.” Huffing a laugh, he added, “Not worth much to me, I’m afraid.”
He trusted, somehow, that Lando would know what he meant.
Much later, Imperial death marks on both their heads and a first kiss finally under their belts, Han wouldn’t be able to say he regretted anything about it at all. Some things, it turned out, were worth trusting.