I don't know what happened, but this crazy one-shot has taken on a life of its own and is now a real story with chapters and everything.
My appreciation goes out to jeanmarie3, StatsGrandma57, 2Old4This2, and Freshman11 for your comments. My sincere thanks to 2Old4This2 for beta-reading and to both 2Old4This2 and StatsGrandma57 for helping me keep the Falcon aloft. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
The two men walked along the busy city streets in silence. Every time Luke opened his mouth to speak, Han glared at him with a look that could melt durasteel. After several iterations of this, Luke finally spoke up. "Han, I said I'm sorry. What more do you want?" The whine crept into Luke's tone despite his fervent desire to hold it back.
"What I want, junior -" Han thrust his finger just under Luke's nose, "- is for you to leave me alone." The venom in his voice was palpable. He resumed walking at a brisk pace, leaving Luke scrambling to catch up.
"Kind of hard when we're sharing a hotel room," Luke observed.
"Not any more. I'm sleeping on the Falcon."
Luke tugged at Han's arm; the man roughly brushed his hand aside. "Han, be reasonable. The ship's freezing. You're not going to be able to get the heat up until you can get the pressure sensors fixed. And you can't do that one-handed, can you? Come back to the room. I promise to leave you alone. I'll even pay for room service."
Han finally stopped walking. He folded his arms with difficulty and glared at Luke. "Never should have agreed to come here on holiday with you in the first place. First, my ship. Now, my arm. You're bad news, Skywalker." He glared at the young man as they entered the lobby of the hotel. "Bad. News."
Luke digested this as they resumed walking in silence toward the lift. The ship, he knew, was not his fault. Han couldn't pin that on him, even if he had been the one to break the toggle switch. It was old and retrofitted, after all.
But Han's arm was quite another matter. Luke had unintentionally body-slammed him into a wall during their spirited game of wallball. The older man hadn't smiled once since the walk from the sports center to the med-tech's office. The fact that Luke had correctly diagnosed Han's broken arm brought little satisfaction. The break, the medic had informed them, was a nasty fracture of the distal radius, right at the joint. This meant a week-long immobilization in a bacta cast from wrist to elbow at a minimum, and possible surgery down the road if the fracture didn't heal properly. Han was to limit use of the limb as much as possible and return in a week for follow-up, putting a serious dent in his weekend plans with Luke and delaying their return to pick up Chewie and head back to the rebel base. A tight sling pinned Han's heavily bandaged right arm to his chest.
Use of the Force was still new to Luke, but he leaned into it now, trying to discern the best way to help his friend. Clearly, the man was frustrated. Maybe he needs ... something? "Why don't you tell me what you want from your ship and I'll bring it up to the room."
Han didn't answer.
They were just exiting the lift when a group of teens brushed past them. Luke wasn't the only one who heard Han's hiss of pain.
"Sorry, mister," the kid called over his shoulder, genuinely contrite.
Han stormed down the hall. Since he could no longer palm open the door - it was keyed to his right hand - he waited impatiently for Luke to do so. As soon as they were in the room, he turned to the younger man and finally answered his question.
"Brandy," he snarled. "Corellian Reserve." He looked at Luke expectantly, as if anticipating a lecture. When Luke held his tongue, Han added with a touch less hostility, "And a change of clothes. Something I can get in and out of." He twisted his body in frustration; the tunic he wore was knotted at the nape of his neck. Luke loosened the straps for him without thinking.
"Just leave it!" Han snapped. Pulling away, he walked to the nearest bed, flopped down on his left side, and closed his eyes.
Luke had a vision of Han as a small child, pinned down and wounded. Helpless. That's how he's feeling, Luke decided. His blaster holster sits on his right side, practically useless now. He can't fly his ship either, although the gods know, he might try. The idea that the mighty Han Solo was scared startled Luke. Han was the bravest person that he knew.
He knows I look up to him, Luke realized. He doesn't want me to see him like this. I'll bet the only being who's ever seen Han at his worst is Chewbacca and he's on Kashyyyk right now.
"What're you starin' at?" Hostile hazel met concerned blue.
"Nothing. I was just wondering how you're feeling is all."
"Like I've dropped into the ninth hell of Corellia, kid. Order us some dinner and get me my brandy." His eyes slid shut.
Luke shook his head and rolled his eyes, but he still did as Han asked. By the time Luke had returned to the room with the decanter of liquor and a fresh change of clothes for himself and Han, the smuggler was asleep.
Room service arrived not long after, bringing the heavenly smell of grilled nerf steaks and glazed tubers. Luke tipped the waiter an extra credit and pulled the heavily laden serving cart into the room. He had expected that the mere scent of dinner would awaken the Corellian, but Han hadn't stirred.
Luke touched the man gently on his uninjured side. "Han."
The man jumped, followed by flailing, wincing, and, finally, cursing. He glared at Luke.
"Sorry." Luke shrugged. "I thought you'd want to eat." Han grunted and nodded, moving stiffly toward the room's small table and chairs. Luke eyed his awkward gait. "I brought the med-pack from the Falcon."
Han regarded him with surprise. "Wha'd'ya do a thing like that for?"
Luke caught his hostile gaze and held it. "Because you're in pain, Han. And you shouldn't have to hide it just because I'm here." The older man studied him for a moment before turning away and sighing, and Luke knew his intuition had served him well. He rifled through the contents of the med-pack and pulled out a vial of suitable painkiller. "Two of these okay?"
"Make it three."
Han washed the pills down with a slug of brandy, but he also politely sipped at the glass of bactade that Luke poured for him. Luke studied the man as he struggled to cut his meat one-handed. It would have been so much easier to reach over and take the knife from him, but Luke figured he might just lose an eye if he tried that. Han Solo was a difficult man to help.
"So ..." Luke ventured, trying and failing to start a conversation.
Han dropped the knife on the table with a clang and picked up the entire steak one-handed. Ripping off a large bite of meat with his teeth, he chewed with enthusiasm. Luke laughed.
"Wha'?" Han spoke around the mouthful of nerf. After he swallowed, he added with a wink, "You should try it sometime." A ghost of a smile dusted his lips. "Or are you too dainty?"
Luke rose to the challenge, and soon both men were tearing into their dinners sans utensils and Luke had his own glass of brandy to nurse. "If only Princess Leia could see us now," he mused.
Han dropped his glass on the table with a clunk. "That girl needs to loosen up worse than you do," he declared.
Luke shrugged. "She is a princess, Han."
He rolled his eyes. "She's just a kid like you, Luke, barely out of her teens." His voice held a hint of wistfulness.
"Not old like you, huh?"
Han scowled at him. "Don't remind me. I was just startin' to like you again."
Luke's eyes popped and he blurted out, "That's what you're mad about? That you're feeling old?"
"Thirty ain't that old."
"You're ten years older than me!"
"That's ten years wiser than you." Han leaned back in his chair, a half-smile gracing his lips. After a long pause, he added, "Thanks, kid."
"Well, I kinda owed you dinner after plowing you into a wall."
Han stood up and stretched the left side of his body. Several joints popped with the effort and he winced. "I meant thanks for bein' here with me. I ain't been in the best of moods today." He gave Luke a small smile, a genuine smile, one without snark or sarcasm, and Luke accepted the unspoken apology.
"You're my best friend. You can't get rid of me that easy." Luke took a long sip of brandy and grimaced.
Han sat back down at the table and studied the young blond. "What about Rogue Squadron?"
Luke shrugged. "You're more important."
"Why?"
"I dunno. You're the one person who directly connects my old life with my new one, I guess." Han's hazel eyes were boring into him now, and Luke felt slightly uncomfortable. "What difference does it make?"
Han shifted his gaze and stared at his hands - one, useful, rough and calloused, the other helplessly wrapped in layers of bacta. "It makes a difference to me," he said, his voice thick. "You ... you believe in me. You make me a better person."
And with that, Han Solo stood and headed to the refresher, leaving Luke gaping in his absence.