Disclaimer: Remember that slashy bit I warned you about on the summary? Well, it makes its first appearance here. It's pretty small, but still, if it's the sort of thing that bothers you please accept my humblest apologies. And these characters still belong to George Lucas, and I'm still not making any money off of them--that hasn't changed from the previous chapter.


Four: A Passionate Display

Well how the hell did that happen?

Tension was unusually high in the room, but the stars only knew why--the only thing Han could remember was waking up alone, hung over and fully clothed, in Luke's bed. Luke himself had been in the kitchen all morning, brooding and making a loud, rather angry display of cooking. He wouldn't look up when Han groggily asked him what year it was, and seemed to derive comfort only from making a big deal of ignoring Han.

This plan was fine with Han, who felt as though a particularly angry Rancor was trapped inside his skull and trying to make a break for freedom.

A late night Sabbacc game--he remembered that. Another flask of his good brandy, opened shortly after Piett had retired for the night. A few more hands of Sabbacc with Chewbacca, who was grumbling something about tipsy cubs and booze and having nothing to do other than play the occasional hand of Sabbacc.

When did he leave? Memory struck Han hard and fast, and with a groan he realized that after Chewie left, he had tried in his buzzed stupor to teach Luke how to play Hesteraan Sparts.

Sparts. That two player game involving so many cards and so much physical contact, a game only attempted by the very affectionate or the very drunk. Sparts, the potential explanation for the violent fury that had gripped the young man in the kitchen.

"Why is it," Han muttered aloud, running his hands through his messy hair, "that I have the distinct impression I've done something I'll regret?"

In the next room dishes were clattering and banging, and Han sank heavily to the floor. He leaned back against the wall, and the shattering of something glass amplified tenfold in his agonized head.

"Here." Luke, his face flushed with what was probably a fever, thrust a bowl of the greyish porridge-type concoction into Han's hand. "That ought to take the edge off of the headache you're doubtlessly suffering."

Slowly Han lifted a spoonful to his lips and tasted something like stale air. He pitied the kid more than ever. "Dare I ask what happened last night?"

Luke's eye twitched slightly. "I would tell you if I could remember."

"You only had a sip or two of the brandy, I think," Han said, rubbing his temples. "Did it go to your head that fast?"

The twitch became more pronounced, and Luke sat heavily on the floor in front of Han. "I thought I told you that I don't have much experience with drinking that sort of--"

"--holding your liquor?"

With a movement as fast as lightening Luke was back on his feet, arm stretched to the side and a knife gliding into his open hand.

Deciding it was best not to make any sudden movements, Han set his bowl on the floor and slowly stood. Suspicion confirmed--Luke was pissed at losing control. And it looked like that fury would be taken out on Han. "Ease up there, kid--I didn't mean anything by it. Obviously I didn't hold it too well either or I'd be in better shape."

Luke's eyes narrowed slightly, but he lowered the blade. "You are fortunate I didn't have my lightsaber with me--you would have been dead before you realized I had it."

"Come to think of it," Han began slowly, "I can't remember you ever using one in front of me. Don't all you Force-users have one floating around somewhere?"

"Yes. But I don't use it unless I am training or leaving the station. It feels awkward in my hands, heavy and wrong. I feel..."

"Uncomfortable? Like maybe you weren't cut out for all this Force stuff? Like maybe--"

"Perhaps you would be better off biting your tongue," Luke snapped.

Han grinned. "Hey what do I know? I'm just the guy with the blaster."

Luke kept his glare trained on Han. "Finish your food." He ordered.

Han reached for the bowl with a heavy heart. He managed to choke down most of the miserable stuff as quickly as his protesting stomach would allow. He decided that this was the hangover that all other hangovers bent to worship. People started wars over feelings like this. But Luke had been right--the worst of it was numbed by whatever he had been fed, and he felt his wits coming back to him.

"How're you feeling, kid? Bad as I do?"

"Not quite." Luke smiled thinly.

"Nah, really, you look kinda flushed. Maybe you oughta lie down or something--" Han's brain told his mouth to shut up, but the words just kept coming out. "I think that brandy hit you a little harder than you thought."

An angry violence overtook Luke, and in a blur of black cloth and clenched teeth a gloved hand slammed him into the wall and another brought the knife to the soft flesh of his throat. "Someone ought to have taught you the importance of being silent."

As fast as humanly possibly, Han clamped his hands on Luke's wrists and twisted, knocking the knife harmlessly to the floor. He wrenched Luke forward and shoved him against the wall and wrapping a hand around his throat. "Maybe someone should have taught you that a hangover does not dampen a Corrillian's fighting instinct."

"I can have you killed for this," Luke growled.

"Yeah, I'll bet you can." There was something dangerously hypnotizing about Luke's closeness, and the barely contained embarrassment at being bested so easily.

Luke struggled weakly, a sweat breaking out on his forehead. "If you kill me, your death will be slow and painful."

"Who says I want to kill you?"

"You're a bastard."

"But you like that in a person. It's like a prerequisite--a bastard with a few good stories."

"I resent that."

"No you don't." Han smiled, feeling his face drift involuntarily closer to the kid's.

"I hate you."

"Oh really? Then why haven't you killed me?" The better part of Han was seriously protesting the slow movement of his face toward Luke's. But the better part of him was not the majority, and the worse part was delighted that their lips were less than an inch apart.

"What are you--"

But Han cut him off, moving his hand from Luke's throat to press a silencing finger against Luke's lips.

"You're mad," Luke whispered, but without much conviction, as his eyes seemed to be closing without his consent.

"You need more madness in your life." Han moved his hand away and touched his mouth gently to Luke's.

It could have lasted mere minutes, or an hour, or perhaps even a day--time lost all its meaning to Han. For all his lack of experience, the kid wasn't so bad at this. Han ran his arms down Luke's sides, and in a fit of energy picked him up around the waist and pushed him against the wall. He felt dimly in the back of his mind that Luke's legs wrapped themselves around his waist, but he was too lost to tell for sure.

They ignored the tromping of boots outside, but when a tap came demandingly at the door Luke finally tore himself from Han's arms and yanked open the door.

"What?" he snapped.

"I'm sorry, my Lord, but Lord Vadar requests your presence on the observation deck. It relates to Kenobi and the princess in his care."

Luke narrowed his eyes. "Thank you. Thank you very much," he spat through clenched teeth. "Han?"

Han's name had the effect of a direct command, and with trepidation he followed Luke out of the room.

He had never been in attendance at one of these meetings between Luke, Darth Vadar, and the officers of the station. Piett looked as nervous as Han felt, as though he was supposed to be there bearer of bad news but didn't have the heart and the courage to lay them on Luke.

Luke, meanwhile, appeared to be busy undergoing a familiar and alarming transformation. He was no longer Luke, who played Sabbacc and wanted his freedom, but was in his professional capacity as Starkiller Skywalker.

The observation deck of the Death Star was large and sleekly built, and before the viewscreen of countless stars stood Darth Vadar and a tall, thin man with a narrow face. Grand Moff Tarkin, Han guessed, judging by the closeness of discourse he held with Vadar. There was also a small knot of officers, talked quietly and wringing their hands. I pity whoever screwed up this time.

"What's happened?" Luke asked, walking briskly to his father's side. "Where are they?"

"They have managed to escape the wits of Admiral Ginx," Tarkin began, "and were lost."

"You lost them!" Luke turned on his heels to face Ginx and his fellows. "You let them escape!"

The officers who had been surrounding Ginx took a collective step backwards, leaving him exposed to the full wrath of Skywalker. He spoke quickly, in a shrill, cowardly whine. "An X-wing came into our radar and we were about to fire when Lord Vadar said he sensed Kenobi--he wanted us to pick them up and bring him aboard alive." He swallowed.

"And you didn't?"

"We couldn't!"

"What about the tractor beams!"

"We tried, Lord Starkiller, but they just disappeared from our radar!"

"No ship the size of an X-wing has a cloaking device!" Luke shrieked.

Han took an unconscious step backward, suddenly very afraid. What had this Kenobi fellow done to Luke to inflame him like that?

With a quick, furious extension of his hand, Luke caught his father's lightsaber from his belt and impaled Ginx effortlessly.

"Find them," he hissed to the stunned officers still standing around Ginx's corpse.

It was almost imperceptible, but the atmosphere of the room seemed to change a bit. Han's eyes were drawn toward Vadar and Tarkin. The bony face was twisted into a cruel smile, and from beneath the black helmet seemed to radiate a sense of pleasure and pride.