Author's Notes: When The Mandalorian was first announced, I can say without hesitation that I honestly gave zero clucks. Then The Mandalorian happened, and now I am WAY more emotionally invested than I'm willing to admit outside FFNet and my Tumblr-space (LOL). Normally, I wouldn't even TOUCH fanfiction for a series this young (at running the risk of retconning story canon), but the way Season 1 played out, and the very real possibility of Disney ruining EVERYTHING Season 2+, I kinda wanna get my two cents in now before the unfortunate happens and I'm forced to completely abandon the show.
I'd normally give a rundown of what to expect/keep in mind for the story, but I'm not sure how much I can say here without spoiling the fic. And I so DO NOT want to spoil any of this fic, because there are a LOT of Easter eggs hidden throughout the piece and I'm kind of excited to see all what you the reader can discover on your own. Goes without saying you'll need to have watched The Mandalorian to grasp most of what's going on. It would also help knowing at least the basic plot of Episodes VII, VIII, and IX. I know "Disney Star Wars" is a pretty divisive topic, with a lot of folks refusing to acknowledge the latest entries as canon (understandable, given they are epically, EPICALLY not good). But The Mandalorian is a Disney property, so my story follows the "Disney canon" as it pertains to Han Solo and the Skywalkers. (Sorry, folks.)
The "Wookie speak" in this fic is legit Shyriiwook taken straight from the pages of Wookieepedia. So no, it isn't just me putting weird letters together to look "cool." They are phrases taken from the actual series "language." I normally include translations in my A/Ns, but Chewie's dialog is minimal and most is pretty contextually self-explanatory. (Besides, when do we EVER, as Star Wars fans, know what the FUDGE Chewie is talking about? It's pretty much canon at this point that only Han ever knows what he's actually saying.)
The Mandalorian takes place five years after RotJ, which puts Din Djarin and Han Solo at, I think, roughly the same age (give or take a couple years). My story takes place at an unspecified time somewhere prior to the seventh film. (So yay—Han's still breathing.) I wrote this piece as a "potential outcome" to the (still undetermined) conclusion of the show, so bear in mind, I follow as many canon elements as I can (while remembering that I'm very limited with what I have to work with given we're still only at Season 1).
P.S. Please excuse my excessive use of common nouns. I was trying to stay true to the spirit of the show. ^_^
P.P.S. "Starlily" is a nickname, not an ACTUAL name. Just clarifying.
Disclaimer: The Mandalorian is © Disney.
Story 1: The Delivery
Pernicious One.
Hell, even the name of the planet sounded awful.
But Han wasn't one to question the destination of his jobs.
In his younger days, the motivation had been—for better or worse—the money. And fame. He'd liked the payoff, yes. But the rush of the challenge was as much of a thrill as raking in those tax-free Imperial Credits. "Smuggling" might not have been the most "respectable" of occupations in the galaxy. Yet it kept food on the table and clothes on his back. And by and large, Imperial officers just didn't give a damn. You had your "troublemakers," of course. There were always suckers looking to make names for themselves and opportunists scouting for unattended cargo to swipe. Pirates too were the occasional nuisance. Winding up on some skughole prison world was a very real threat as well...but hey. No guts, no glory.
Most smugglers got their start running "spice." Illegal substances, like psychoactive drugs and chemical weaponry, were always in hot demand. Han had delivered hundreds, possibly thousands of kilograms of spice through the years, and with great success. Weaponry and clear water often fetched better prices—depending on the need and the client—but were harder to run. Rare or unusual artifacts were considered something of a "holy grail," though only the best of the best were hired for the task.
It didn't get any more "best of the best" than Han Solo.
But of all the product he'd "moved" through the years, this was by far his most enigmatic. He'd taken his fair share of oddball assignments, sure. You last long enough in the trade and you find people across the galaxy have very creative needs. "Fetish clients," as they were called, were often your most demanding and secretive employer. The pay was good, sometimes better than even antiquities. But no smuggler really liked the hassle of a pushy client, or the possibility of getting caught with lascivious (or outright embarrassing) goods.
Han didn't think his cargo "lascivious" or "embarrassing;" he questioned if it was even all that illegal. Truth be told, the item in transit was about as unassuming as you could get. He'd normally strap whatever he was smuggling in the ductwork of his ship, but he'd been told to "keep the item close" and ensure it arrived "without damage."
Odd instructions for a metallic, square box.
Intrigued, Han decided there was little risk in toting it with him and Chewie in the cockpit. It was small and lightweight enough that they could stash it under the control panel if need be. And based on the instructions he'd been given—and who'd given it—he (somewhat) doubted there was any real danger of anyone actively pursuing...whatever it was he'd been charged with "keeping safe."
Chewie seemed to have taken an equal interest in the shiny little box. He turned it over and around in his furry hands, fingers sliding over the planes of the smooth metal.
"Arrrgrrr?"
"You got me, pal."
Han had been wondering about that too. On the surface it was a plain, mostly inornate container, save for the embossing of a strange creature carved into the top. What had escaped him, and now Chewie as well it seemed, was how exactly you accessed the contents inside. It stored something they knew—there was rattling when you jostled the box—but no lid, no buttons, no edging or incision that would indicate a way to break it apart. Even pushing, pulling, and smacking at the creature emblem on top produced nothing but more clanging from the mystery object encased within.
It was likely designed as such that the contents remained concealed and intact for the intended recipient's eyes...and his alone. No doubt it served as a nice "insurance policy" against too-curious smugglers, or in the event the container fell into the wrong hands. They'd been given strict instructions to deliver the "package" to a contact on Pernicious One, whereupon they'd be paid in full. Normally, Han would have never accepted a job without at least a percentage upfront, but refusing the request was one his conscience and old loyalties just wouldn't allow.
A lot had happened in the past few decades. Outside of Leia—his heart cracked a little at the thought of her—he'd had only minimal encounters with Jedi, and hadn't seen or heard from his brother-in-law Luke in years. So when a member of the New Jedi Order approached, asking his help in "transporting" a "very special gift," Han felt compelled to offer his services (with the understanding that "Jedi business" posed a substantially greater risk, which would require an up-charge of thirty-percent for any and all injuries, damages, or possible destruction of planets that might potentially occur). The Jedi, in turn, agreed, but assured him the package was of "no consequence" to anyone outside the client, that he should have "no trouble" delivering the goods, and that it was of a "personal nature" to the Order that the item reach its destination in one piece.
That had sounded all well and cute to Han, except his experience with the Jedi was enough to know that few, if any, Jedi-related excursions ended in anything other than enormous disaster. He trusted the Jedi, more or less, but had prepped himself and his ship accordingly, in the event he and Chewie encountered any "hostile resistance" along the way. So far, the trip had gone off without a hitch, not a single bounty hunter, Tie Fighter, or world-annihilating Death Star in sight. Perhaps it was a testament to the normally high-stakes nature of his career, but the ease and simplicity of it all put him on edge.
He wondered what it said of his life that he expected catastrophe at every turn.
...But whatever. He'd been assured the delivery would be a painless one, and sometimes it was better to just not ask. Their destination was still a ways off, and whatever may or may not lay ahead, Han was confident he and Chewie could deal. With coordinates set for Pernicious One and his aging eyes locked on clear space ahead, Han reclined back in his seat, letting the blips and bleeps of the Millennium Falcon's controls lull him into a restless sleep.
The Outer Rim.
They practically lived in this skughole armpit of the galaxy.
With a name as ominous as Pernicious One, the old smuggler had expected a lot more, well...perniciousness. He'd already braced himself for the worst—a half-noxious hellsite full of slavers, thieves, and more illicit activity than you could shake a blaster at; janky, rundown settlements, residents eeking it by on pitiable wages, acres of wasteland and muck lakes, and a legion of crafty-minded Toydarian and Dug filth terrorizing the local bars.
What he saw made him wonder if somehow the navigator on the Millennium Falcon hadn't malfunctioned, rerouting he and Chewie to some quaint little resort planet closer to the Middle Rim.
There was no accounting for the rest of the planet, but the cozy little sector the Jedi had provided coordinates for was no noxious hellpit. If anything, it reminded him of the kinds of smaller-scale settlements you might find along the outskirts of Cantonica or even Naboo. The city was of a modest size, and had clearly been renovated in recent years. The streets were lined not with pawn dives but respectable tradesmen and merchants, a medical center, and what appeared to be a game hall for playing Pazaak. To the north was a residential area constructed around a curious, enormously tall, multi-level structure towering high above all the other buildings of the district.
It stood out, not just for its height, but for its concentrated location. Han wondered absently if it belonged to the city's "powers that be."
He glanced down at his chronometer and cursed. Too early. As per their instructions, they would have to wait till nightfall to rendezvous with the client. Once upon a time, Han would have whittled away the hours at the automixer of a local pub, but that sort of nonsense had fizzled with age. Now the Corellian preferred it when exchanges were quick, and he could get in and get out.
Drama was for young folks.
With nothing else for it, the smuggler duo meandered through town, browsing storefronts—they sure liked their jewelry and charms here—whilst dodging the bustle of the crowd and the dashing in and out of wayward kids. It struck him, the brightness of the city and the happiness in the face of its people. If this place had seen turmoil or famine or war, it didn't show. How was it that such a wholesome little speck in the universe remained so refreshingly untouched by the harsh realities of outside space?
They carried on that way for a while, relaxing in the peacefulness of the afternoon, until the pink in the sky faded into a vast, shadowy cobalt blue.
Time to work.
As was typical of a "delivery exchange," they were meeting the client at a local bar. Given there was only one cantina in town, Han didn't figure it'd be all that hard to find. He asked directions of a few passerbys, who to his surprise simply smirked—was that knowingly?—and pointed to what was possibly the largest establishment in town outside the medical care center.
Upon entering the pub, Han was once again taken aback at the complete and total non-conformity of his surroundings. He supposed it redundant to be surprised, given the look of the rest of the city. But if this was what passed for a cantina in these parts, then Pernicious One was either extremely isolated, or just unrepentantly bizarre.
For starters, the structure was almost blindingly bright. The floor, walls, lighting, all done up in varying shades of white, lending to the feeling of something clinical and clean. The bar stood off to the side, stretching out along the right-hand wall with thirsty customers calling out orders to a pair of pretty blonde barmaids mixing drinks. At the back, a band of musicians had set up stage, playing an eclectic, electronic musical number and dressed, uniformly so, in pristine white. Near the center was a staircase leading up to a second level, set apart for what looked to be gambling and games, with additional seating and privacy curtains for VIPs. Waitresses sauntered between tables, flicking the fingers of tipsy patrons, a particularly buxom brunette tossing a wink Han's way as she expertly balanced a cocktail tray overhead.
Angling himself to let her pass, his eyes drinking in the full scope of the bar, it occurred to Han that the serving staff was made up entirely of women. The bartenders, the servers—even the skrogging bouncers were women. But for all the emphasis on an attractive, all-female staff, none of the girls were overly provocative in their dress. And there wasn't a dancer, lewd hologram, or half-naked Twi'lek slave girl onsite.
"This is somethin' else, eh Chewie?"
Chewie howled in the affirmative.
Locking eyes with the buxom brunette, Han signaled for her attention as she circled back. She smiled, closing the distance between them, rolling the now-empty serving tray like a wheel between the palms of her hands.
"Can I help you, mister?"
Mister?
"Yeah, I… I'm supposed to be meeting someone…"
"The Gentleman?" she responded with a knowing chirp.
"Er, yeah. I...wait, what?" Han shook his head, confused. "How did you…?"
Shrugging, she dismissed his puzzlement with a snort. "If an 'anybody' comes through here lookin' for 'somebody,' that 'somebody' is always 'The Gentleman.'"
Han and Chewie exchanged looks.
"Just hang tight," she motioned for them both to sit. "I'll let him know you're here."
The pair of smugglers took their seats at an empty table, as the bouncy brunette disappeared off into the crowd. Once they were certain she was out of earshot, they leaned in, voices low.
"Arrrrggggg."
"I know. I hate the weird ones."
"Grrrrrrrraaaaaarrrrph."
"Just follow my lead. I know what I'm doing."
"Awwwrrrrrrrr."
"'Winging it' is knowing what I'm doing!"
The faithful Wookie shook his head, hands tugging at the bandoleer wrapped around his chest. Shoulders scrunched, Han's attention fell back to the crowd, searching for any sign of their pretty server's return. Annoyed with the congestion of the base floor, his eyes shifted upwards to the second level. It was easier to see through the bodies topside, the bulk of the patrons clustered around the beverage dispenser at the first floor bar. Best Han could tell, none of the VIP lounges were in use...save for one near the upper rear wall.
There, a lone figure—human, and indisputably male—sat, his arms splayed out over the back of his seat, and a quadruplet of tall, shapely girls flanking him in pairs on both sides. The space between them and Han's aging eyes made it impossible to discern any specifics of the man, or the semicircle of ladies huddled around him. But if the interest of the noticeably female neighboring tables was any indication, then the girls in question were looking for a good deal more than "stimulating conversation."
It made Han wonder if this place was as "squeaky clean" as it seemed on the surface.
Before he could dwell any more on the matter, their server reappeared, as bouncy and chipper as when she'd left.
"He'll see you now," she bobbled.
"Great."
As the trio made their way to the upper suite, Han motioned once again to their "guide," jerking a thumb in the direction of the lone man in VIP. "So who's 'Mr. Gorgeous?'"
"The Gentleman," she replied simply.
Something told him he should have known that.
"Word of advice," the girl offered with uncharacteristic seriousness as they approached. "Be polite. They don't call him 'The Gentleman' for nothing."
Brow scrunching at the odd remark, Han brushed his fingers over the butt of his blaster—the action helping to sooth his suddenly rattled nerves—the girl busying herself with straightening out the creases of her waitress uniform.
Seemed he wasn't the only one who was nervous.
The server's hands were still fussing with the fabric of her dress when they arrived. She cleared her throat a little before speaking.
"These are the men, sir."
The Gentleman nodded.
"Is there anything I can get for anyone?"
To that, The Gentleman shook his head, waving her away with a winsome smile.
A pretty blink, a curtsy, and the girl was gone.
"Please." The Gentleman, expression unchanged, motioned for his two "guests" to sit.
"Thank you."
Han took his seat, using the momentary lull as an opportunity to size up his "host." To his surprise, "The Gentleman" was a fair bit older than he'd expected—closer to his own age, in fact. They were within five to ten years of one another easily, though Han could admit, with some petulance, that the man seated across from him had aged more...elegantly than himself. His hair was peppered with competing locks of gray and brown, traces of the darker coloring of his youth laced throughout the strands and continuing down into the neatly trimmed facial hair lining his jaw. His features, toned and masculine for his years, were etched with minimal thin lines along his brow and creases at the sides of his mouth. A pair of soulful brown eyes stared back at him, a kind of "mysteriousness" hidden behind them, speaking to a lifetime of experiences that stirred hard memories and dull aches in the pit of the gut. And while the table separating them obstructed his lower half from view, his torso and upper arms were strong, firm muscles stretched against the fabric of his sleeves and a defined musculature peeking out from between the plunging neckline of his lavish robe.
It was clear the man had taken measures to keep his body in shape; even so, he looked scarcely bigger than the smuggler himself. He was toned, yes, but lean. The muscle added some "bulk," but his frame was lithe. And regardless of the advancement of his years, there was no denying the sculpted pleasantness of his appearance.
Their "gentleman" client was quite the comely fellow.
"Welcome to our quaint little corner of the universe." The Gentleman leaned back in his chair, jeweled fingers wrapped lazily around a strange, blue-tinted drink. "I presume the city and its pleasures are to your liking?"
Han nodded, struck by the sheer sensuality of The Gentleman's speech. He rolled his Rs, the sound like a soothing vibration across the surface of the tongue.
Han couldn't for the life of him place the accent.
"Nice place you got here. Unusual."
The Gentleman raised his glass in wordless thanks.
"Used to places like this being...darker. Different."
"Seedier, you mean," their host lamented with a disapproving shake of his head. "Who was it that first decided entertainment necessitated shadowy corners and vulgar temptations of the flesh? I'm all for having a bit of fun," his smile widening at the insinuation, "so long as we keep ourselves...respectable."
"Well," Han chuckled a little. "I'm not in the market for entertainment of any kind, save for the occasional drink. Can't imagine my being much of a temptation anyways," his interest following a gaggle of pretty females passing by. "Though I am a bit surprised by the lack of...male employment."
To that, The Gentleman wobbled his drink.
"A preference of mine, I admit."
It wasn't his only "preference." The Corellian's eyes shot to the huddle of young women at The Gentleman's back, noting the shared physical similarities between them—dark hair, chocolate-brown eyes, caramel complexion, supple build...young. Stars above, two of the girls were kriffing twins.
"You certainly have a type."
The statement came across more judgmental than he'd intended. And it was only as he watched the smile slipping from The Gentleman's face that he remembered their server's earlier warning to "be polite."
Han had a bad feeling about this.
"Indeed." The Gentleman's voice was heavy with indignation. "Their mother."
If he'd had a drink, he would have probably spit up all over the place. And if he'd taken ten extra seconds to simply look, he might have linked the features of The Gentleman—fairer in tone but with a resemblance Han couldn't deny—to those of the young girls huddled around him.
A flustered Chewie growl-sighed beside him.
"My mistake," the human smuggler ducked his head in respect, in the hopes of making quick amends. "I meant no offense."
The Gentleman didn't respond right away, but instead regarded his "guests" with a quirked, elegantly arched brow. Once again he wobbled his drink, his forefinger tapping lightly against the brim of the clear glass, his lips pursed under the weight of what to Han was a suffocating, contemplative silence.
"Bah!" The Gentleman exclaimed after some moments. "Think nothing of it, my friend. No harm done."
At the words, Han raised his head, his eyes finding rest on that same winsome, borderline unsettling smile.
"I don't like to make unnecessary fuss."
"Heh," the smuggler huffed in relieved agreement. "Neither do we. The understanding is appreciated."
Another careless wave. "We're an unusual setup here, I realize."
Understatement of the kriffing century, as far as Han was concerned.
"So," Han began, hoping to steer the conversation into a more companionable light. "Four daughters?"
At your age? was at the tip of his tongue, but he didn't dare. Not that it mattered. The cheeky smirk that materialized on The Gentleman's face suggested he knew precisely what direction the smuggler's thoughts had taken.
And he did him one better.
"Five, actually. I have another at home."
"Running the family empire?" Han joked, refusing to miss a beat.
"She's too little to hold a blaster."
And with a flick of his hand, each of the four girls at his back pulled guns from their persons, brandishing them to attention. Two of the girls, "The Twins," had strapped theirs to the insides of their legs. The younger looking of the four pulled her gun—the largest and most impressive of the lot—from behind her back. The eldest, older by several years by Han's estimation, retrieved hers from the holster at her side. Funny how he hadn't noticed it there before.
Pulling back a bit in his seat, the Corellian side-eyed his Wookie faithful, who stared back at him with a look of Why in the hell did we take this gig? plastered across his face.
Han had been asking that question from the very second they walked through the cantina doors.
"In addition to being the most beautiful Starflowers in the galaxy,"—The Gentleman's face was full of paternal pride as he swiveled his attention from girl to girl—"they also serve as their father's personal bodyguards." He leaned into the table then, chin resting on the arch of his loosely clasped hands. "They're also all a crack shot."
A "duly noted" was all the smuggler had the presence of mind to respond with.
With a satisfied smirk, The Gentleman pulled back, perching himself in his seat with one leg dangling over the edge and his drink arm dangling over the bend of his right knee. There was something familiar about the posture, but like the accent, was something Han couldn't quite put his finger on.
"Five daughters, an all female staff—" It was Han's turn to smirk as he took inventory of his estrogen-saturated surroundings. "—a son would go nuts in all of this."
To his surprise, the remark was met with an abrupt and undignified noise of protest. The Gentleman's previously delighted expression turned cold, his eyes brimming with a sort of jaded disgust.
"A son," he scoffed with a flick of his head. "Stars forbid my daughters should have any. They exist only to cause mischief...and break hearts."
The pain radiating from the man's words was thick and raw. It was an all too familiar feeling for the smuggler. He felt it in his chest, heavy with the concerns of his own child lost to the unforgiving darkness of space. It was the very reason he was here—not the only reason, but without question the biggest—a desperate attempt to flee the hurt of his failures and his inadequacies as both a husband and father. As if ignoring what was somehow lessened the regret he suffered at letting down the people he loved most.
...It didn't.
The Gentleman faced forward, but his gaze stared off into yesteryear—past Han, the crowd, the bar—into a memory from long, long ago. And as much as Han could sympathize, he was all of two seconds from clearing his throat until his eye caught the mournful expression on the eldest child's face. The girl, a fair bit darker in complexion and older than her sisters by some years—a good decade, at least—stared her father down with a regret all her own. The others seemed mostly unaffected by their father's venom. But this one seemed just...a little sad, and he wondered if perhaps there was more "history" to The Gentleman's words than the younger of his offspring could remember.
"Papi?"
The Gentleman startled out of his reverie, the bitterness of his thoughts evaporating at the soft lilt of his daughter's voice. Forcing a smile, their "host" shook his head, visually reorienting himself before bringing his full focus back to the business at hand.
"Do forgive me. I was having a...moment."
The smuggler waved it away with a shrug of his mouth. "I have a lot of those myself these days."
A light laughter then, followed by a careful sip of that bizarre, blue-tinted drink.
"What exactly is your name, stranger?"
"Han Solo," he replied, not bothering to hide the sly grin. "This is Chewie."
"And what may I do for you today, Mr. Solo?"
Immediately, the grin fell. This day had not turned out at all like expected. That The Gentleman was clearly unacquainted with the legend of his name—a brutal blow to his ego, Han could admit—stung. But even more pressing was that The Gentleman appeared clueless as to why he and Chewie were even there. The Jedi had provided the coordinates for the drop-off, as well as instructions to deliver the item at night, at the local cantina, to a very specific contact known only as "The Gentleman." It was night. It was the only cantina in town. And Han wagered "The Gentleman" was a fairly specific moniker in these parts. This had to be the right place.
"I-I'm sorry," he stuttered, exchanging a confused look with his furred friend. "You don't know?"
The man panned his head to each of his girls before whirling his attention around back to Han. "Should I?"
"That was my understanding, yeah." A pause. "I brought the package you wanted."
"Package?" The Gentleman's brow quirked.
"Yeah, I—" Han sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Perhaps there's been a mistake. I was sent to deliver a package to a 'The Gentleman.' That is you, right?"
"The only 'The Gentleman' on this planet." A curious silence passed between them as their host set his drink gingerly against the tabletop, intrigue apparent. "What is this...'package?' Do you have it with you? Or is it on your ship?"
"Right here." Han pulled the small, metallic box from the inside of his vest.
The Gentleman accepted the proffered item with squinted eyes. He studied the box, flipping it to one side, then the next. Quickly, his attention fell to the creature embossing on top.
Recognition flooded his face.
"Ah...I see."
"You know what this is?" the smuggler asked, leaning in.
"Yes and no," was The Gentleman's cryptic reply. "I don't know what it is, but I know who it was delivered for."
Han and Chewie exchanged another puzzled look.
"And I understand now why you were instructed to bring it to me."
"Don't suppose you could enlighten us?"
Another light chuckle as The Gentleman retrieved his discarded drink. "Mr. Solo, I'm a businessman. And you, you're a," he paused, searching for a respectful term, "professional tradesman. The nature of our dealings requires a certain degree of anonymity—and dare I say, secrecy. Some more so than others. You'd be surprised at the lengths some will go to keep their private affairs, well...private."
"You're a middleman," the smuggler reasoned.
"When necessary," he hummed with casual admittance. "It's not the most glamorous profession in the galaxy, but this planet doesn't run on good feelings." He smirked knowingly. "Surely someone of your vintage can appreciate that."
As a matter of fact, Han did.
"Rest assured, I'll see to it the package gets to its intended destination." With nary a backward glance, he traded the container off to the oldest girl, who in turn, handed him a large, bulging sack. "For your troubles."
The sack "plopped" its way onto the space in front of Han, the smuggler's eyes widening at the stack of Imperial Credits peeking out through the opening of the bag.
"This is...a lot."
"A generous man will prosper; he who refreshes others will himself be refreshed."
A collective—and dumbfounded—silence ensued.
"I like it when we keep things civil. Consider it a bonus for your gentlemanly conduct."
"Much appreciated," was the overwhelmed reply.
"Also—and I hope you don't mind—but we've taken the liberty of refueling your ship. Not that we're in any rush to see you off, but I realize our little paradise here is quite...out of the way."
Nervously, Han huffed a laugh. "It's not gonna blow up when we try to leave planet, is it?"
"What a thing to say!" The Gentleman barked a laugh. "My generosity repaid with suspicion!"
"Well, uh…"
"Don't be so paranoid," he interrupted, his chide laced with amusement. "If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't resort to something so rudely indirect. I believe in facing an opponent head-on. It's more...personal that way."
It was at the man's eerily pleasant smirk and the rolling "purr" in "personal" that Han decided—the guy was totally unbalanced.
"We, uh, should be off." Han motioned to Chewie with what he hoped was an even gesture to start moving. "Thanks again, for the hospitality. You've been more than generous."
"Of course, of course. And please, take in the sights while you're here. Pernicious One is gorgeous this time of year."
"We'll, uh, do that," Han nodded, prodding Chewie urgently from behind.
The Gentleman leaned back in his chair, giving the glass one final wobble before taking a sip.
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Solo."
The room was dark. The lone man sat, his back facing the entryway as his eyes stared out into the cobalt skies from the top level of their high-rise dwelling. He leaned back on his left elbow, hand scrunched into a tight fist. His right hand rubbed at his temple, the white sleeves of his robe aglow from the soft light pouring through the starlit window pane overlooking the city. It was well into the wee hours of the morning and yet The Gentleman found that sleep eluded him.
"Papi?"
The sound was soft, a gentle lilt he recognized as belonging to his oldest daughter. He swiveled his chair to meet her, noting the tousled curls sweeping along her spine and the ever-loving look of concern etched into the contours of her face.
Stars above, she favored her mother.
"It's late, my little Starlily," his brow scrunching in disapproval at her roving about so late at night. "You should be in bed."
She didn't answer right away, but instead, pulled the metallic package from their earlier "exchange" out from behind her back.
"You never opened the box."
The Gentleman's head jerked, his tone hardening unintentionally at the sight of the unseemly little container.
"It's late. There's nothing for it now."
"But it's addressed to you."
The Gentleman sighed, sensing the conversation heading in a direction he didn't have energy at present to entertain.
"I couldn't make a thing out of it in this light. My eyes, you know." It was a paltry excuse, but the best he could do after a long day and no sleep. "But you go ahead and open it," hoping the permission would be enough to satisfy her proddings for the night. "You know how. And it's as much addressed to you as it is me."
The daughter shook her head, ready to rebut, but the words of her father stopped her short.
"It's late, Starlily," he repeated gently. With pointed tenderness he added, "Perhaps in the morning."
Her body visibly sunk at the response, but she nodded her acceptance nonetheless, latching onto the fingers of her father's outstretched right hand as he kissed the brim of her knuckles goodnight.
"Sleep, Starlily."
"Goodnight, father."
And as she disappeared off and down the hall, The Gentleman swiveled his chair back to the emptiness of the night sky, a worn, silvery lever knob rolling inside the palm of his left fist.