Title: Quid Pro Calrissian
Fandom: Star Wars (Original Trilogy/Solo)
Relationship: Lando Calrissian/Han Solo
Rating: Mature
Length: 1600 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: for muccamukk if she wants it <3
Summary: The Falcon is grounded with a hardware issue. Chewie arranges for Lando to lend a hand, but Lando wants something in return.


The rain falls with the steady, patient intensity of someone eating their first meal out of prison. The small canals that run alongside the walkways of Sateinen City brim with the rain, frothing as it runs for the drains. It's clear now why the port is enclosed by a battered plex bubble. Although it leaks, the prospect of surviving a week of this rain without it is dire.

Han is in no way prepared for this weather; his jersey is, he swears, half-mildew at this point. Chewbacca argues for a much larger proportion than half, based on smell alone, but he's always on Han's ass to do laundry. For a guy who has literally gone around naked for nearly two centuries, he's weirdly fastidious about other people's wardrobes.

They were supposed to have seen the last of Sateinen almost eight days ago. They should be sitting pretty in the Falcon somewhere, warm and dry and decidedly not-mildewed.

Things never go according to plan, however. Which is why Han is now sitting in the port cafe, rain drumming down against the bubble, staring at Lando Calrissian.

They haven't seen each other since crossing paths on Var Dalfine -- or as Han refers to it, "that time you stole my job out from under me".

Lando disagrees. "You jumped the customs queue when I had a perfectly good contact set up at the gaming bank. If you hadn't barged through--"

Growling, Chewie grips the edge of the table and leans back, chest rising.

"--and speaking of stealing," Lando continues, only to stop when Han scowls and makes a quick, brutal gesture to quiet. "What?"

Chewie lets his growl trail off mournfully before looking at them in turn and shaking his head.

"Let's start over," Han suggests.

"No, I think it's about time we discussed--"

Chewie glares at Lando, who shuts up.

Chewbacca went to a lot of trouble to set up this meeting. Han would have preferred neutral territory, possibly with catering, given how sick he has become of Sateinen's tuber stew, but since being stuck here is the whole reason for the meeting, he did not get his way.

Lando would have preferred not to have the meeting at all. He has made that perfectly clear.

"Let's hurry this up, then," he says when the silence has passed from 'awkward' right into 'stony'. "What can you do for me?"

Han's frown deepens. "Excuse me?"

Lando lifts his hands and shrugs. Every move he makes is elegant and fluid, it's ridiculous. "Listen, friend, your large, hirsute pal over there insisted --"

"I'm not your friend."

"It's a figure of speech. Some of us manage to communicate with both clarity and a certain panache."

Han's upper lip twitches and he shifts in his seat. "Panache? More like pretentious-ness-son." He waves his hand. "Anyway! Here's the thing. Me and Chewie here --"

Chewie grunts cheerfully when Lando smiles at him. No one is immune to Lando's charms.

"-- we could use a favor."

"Interesting," Lando says. His tone is dead flat, undercutting the word's meaning.

"I'd like to emphasize it's for Chewie and me," Han says. "And, if you think about it, for you, too. And the Falcon, too! In a way, we'll all be better off, if you can just see your way toward doing one little thing..."

Lando has been shaking his head. He slows to a stop, head tilted, shoulders sloping a little sadly. "Han, Han, Han."

"It's Han. Rhymes with 'on'. As in turn me on." Having just thought of that, Han grins and resolves to remember it for the next time he's flirting.

Lando strokes his mustache and gazes at Han through his lashes. "Be that as it may, I'm not in the business of doing favors for people I loathe. In fact, I'm not in the business of doing favors, period."

"Well, now, we both know that's just not true --"

Chewie lets a soft grumble work its way up his throat. Han nods rapidly, acknowledging the warning, and changes tack.

"So what we have here is something of a hardware problem," Han says.

"Go on."

Lando is dressed for the rainy season, his clinging jersey open halfway down his chest and his short cape rustling with water repellent. The cool lavenders and warm oranges in the print on the cape's lining and in his jersey make his face just about glow.

He snaps his fingers in front of Han's face. "I said, go on."

Han shudders back to attention and tries to remember where he was in his pitch. "Hardware problem. Help?"

Lando's smile curves mysteriously. "What sort of hardware problem?"

Chewie starts to explain, but rather than try to translate, Han raises his voice and puts in, "You locked up the nav-sec cabinet somehow. I -- we need to know what you used to screw it down."

Lando makes a soft, noncommittal sound and plants his chin in his hand. "You don't say."

"I do say, Lando! I'm pretty sure you did it on purpose, but --" Han shakes off Chewie's big paw, hissing to him I got this! before turning back to Lando. "-- but I don't really care why, I just want to access the datasets."

"Interesting," Lando says.

"It's not!" Han is sitting forward now, hot in the face and behind his eyes, fists tight in his lap. "It's a really stupid move that's grounded us in this rainy ass-end of nowhere for way longer than --"

He stops and draws several deep breaths. When he speaks again, he'd like to think it's more calmly, far more rationally.

"Could you tell us what hardware you used? Please. It'd be ever so helpful, Mr. Calrissian."

Lando gives him a tight, fairly unsettling smirk, then turns to address Chewie. "Could I talk to your junior partner privately?"

"Hey!"

"Hush, young'un," Lando says without turning. "Chewbacca?"

Chewie thinks it over, then murmurs agreeably and gets up, making for the vending kiosks.

"There we are," Lando says as he turns back to Han. "Now. What are you going to give me in return?"

"Lando --" Han shrugs, then sags in his seat. "I've got about seventy credits to my name. They're yours. You want a free cargo run? Maybe some live freight?"

Lando has his elbow back up on the table, head resting on his hand. He takes his time replying. His eyes tick over Han, inventorying and assessing him. He licks the corner of his mouth, then does it again. Han recalls, with the speed of something autonomic, the taste of that mouth, its slick texture against his teeth, the grinding pressure of Lando's body shoving him against the bulkhead.

He hates this guy. He hates how Lando's eyes are narrowing now, reexamining Han, then narrowing further as Lando grins at him.

"Blow job," he says at last.

"Excuse me?" Han asks.

"Blow job." Lando speaks, as always, calmly and precisely. "That's what I want."

"I'm not gonna blow you, Lando!" Han realizes too late just how loudly he spoke. He lifts his chin and narrows his own eyes. "Nice try."

"Oh, no. No, my dear," Lando murmurs as he pinches out a section of his cape and examines it, "the other way 'round."

Han sits back, somehow exhausted and exhilarated simultaneously. He feels as if he's done a ten-hop series of hyperlane jumps on no sleep while sucking on a synth-caf nebulizer, crackling with energy but stuck in one position.

"You'll unscrew the nav-sec," Han says slowly, thinking that he'll see the scam as he speaks, "in return for...blowing me?" It still doesn't make any sense.

Lando nods. "Took your time, but you got there in the end."

"What's the catch?"

Lando's on his feet, cape tossed over one shoulder, and he offers Han his hand. "No catch, Han."

He even pronounces it right. This is highly suspect, all of it. There must be a catch.

Han carefully does not stumble after Lando. "Where are we going?"

"Falcon."

"Oh, right. Makes sense."

Lando doesn't respond until they're out of the public port area and making their way down the docking tube to the Falcon. He squeezes Han's hand very tightly and draws close up along Han's right side. His voice and breath are warm in Han's ear.

"Soon enough, you won't be."

Han needs the rest of the walk to work out that particular bit of enigmatic innuendo. It isn't until, actually, they're in the lounge and his breeches are open and Lando's tongue is in his mouth, then on his throat, that he understands.

"-- because my brain --"

"-- is coming out your dick, yes, well done," Lando says hurriedly.

"Why are you such an --" Asshole? he was going to say, but Lando's on the floor now, pushing apart Han's knees and breathing hot and damp over his groin and maybe he was right. Han's already thinking very unclearly and it only gets worse (better) from here on out.

Afterward, Han twists around to lie down on the banquette, arm over his eyes, as he tries to get his breath back. His body, like his mind, has lost all coherency under Lando's attentions. He's a jumble of bright, flashing things that don't fit together and won't stop tingling.

Lando takes care of the nav-sec issue and on his way back through the lounge, drops the three custom-made screws onto the game table.

"Don't forget," he says, pausing to drop a kiss on Han's temple, "who makes you feel exactly like this."

"Fuck you," Han mutters, but can't work up any real anger.

Lando kisses him again. There's a whisper of silk from his cape as he rises, and he says, "Next time."

"Never gonna happen!" Han yells after him.

He is not graced with a reply. The docking tube shudders open, the rain comes down. Eventually he can feel his own toes again.