Note: Ignores sequels (and prequels, actually), but technically canon compliant(ish) anyways. Set a little bit after Return of the Jedi. NOT set in a universe where three movies of character development get rolled back for ANYONE, thank you very much.
Talosian Embassy, Event Side Room #43, Talosi VI, 18:00 hours Galactic Standard Time
Han Solo, former smuggler, arguable scoundrel, and current heroic general of the rebel alliance, found himself put in an uncomfortable position. One he was not well accustomed to taking. Namely, the moral high ground. Oh, sure, he hung out with Luke 'too pure for the dark side' Skywalker, and was dating the paragon of virtue that was Princess Leia, but… Actually, now that he thought about it, those two had dragged him up here FAR more often than he should have been comfortable with. Something to think about later. He'd discuss it with Chewie, but he had an uncomfortable premonition Wookie smugness would ensue. Perhaps unsurprisingly considering how they'd met, Chewbacca had never quite believed his assertions that he was only out for himself.
Would make things a lot easier if I was, Han thought, a familiar and well used line. He'd been telling himself that for years now, even before he got dragged ship-first into this crazy rebellion. Although I guess it's not actually a rebellion anymore. That notion still filled him with an instinctive unease. He was comfortable when he knew who his enemies were (everyone, usually), and being on the side of an established power (even one he'd helped establish) chafed oddly. Ignoring that feeling was easier right after Endor, with everything still relative chaos, but lately it was getting harder and harder.
While Han and Luke had been flying around the Galaxy hunting down grand Moffs and dismantling the last of the Imperial strongholds, Leia and the rest of high command had been scrambling to scrape together a functioning government from two decades of autocratic chaos. The fact that there had actually been plans in place to seize power in strategic locations should the emperor be successfully dethroned had always seemed almost delusionally optimistic. Until they were used. Until they worked. Now that the galaxy was beginning to settle down (as much as it ever could), Han was left oddly off balance, and trying his damnedest to stay, well, useful. On the straight and narrow, as it were.
Which brought him back to his current position. Technically, he was standing on the edges of a side room, tactically placed mostly behind a tasteful potted plant. Morally, he was in a dilemma. He had just watched one of the servers pour a shot of Xaxor into a ceremonial goblet he knew was headed for his Princess, and was going to have to do something about it. Quietly, though. Without causing a scene. Because diplomacy, or whatever. Not that she didn't need to loosen up a little, but now was not the time. The semi-opaque, highly identifiable (due to a characteristic blue-green shimmer) black liquid was probably not the best substance to do it with, either.
It was actually distilled from the same botanical as one of the tamer varieties of spice, although a different part. Han forgot the exact details. The production had never really been his wheelhouse, anyhow. He just moved the stuff, and never very much of it now that he thought about it. Xaxor was a pretty common mixer for bottom shelf cocktails on Corella, though, so he'd tried it once or twice. It looked weird on its own, but put it into any other liquid and it went transparent and mixed in without adding any other flavors. Tended to make whatever you put it into about three times stronger, too. All in all, Han preferred Corellian whiskey. About the same kick, with half the hangover, and it didn't taste like watered-down nothing.
Even if he felt like letting her have a sip before he let on (which he didn't, messing with people's drinks was a good way to get shot on almost any planet, and not something he'd do even if it wasn't) it would be a terrible idea anyways. There were still people (it was him, he was people.) who shivered at the memory of what happened when some new recruits decided to get "The Ice Princess" drunk on Hoth.
To be fair to the perpetrators, it was a classic trick. Everyone was beyond bored huddling in a frozen secret base, so when Han had brought in some Tatooinian hot peppercorns on his latest supply run a tasting contest was quickly organized. Leia wouldn't normally have let herself be drawn into the enlisted men's foolery, but Luke had made some remarks that stung her pride and that was that. She actually got all the way through the 'gauntlet of flaming hotness' as the desert planet's native sons had christened it, only to find that a fresh pilot by the name of Krob had replaced her celebratory glass of blue milk with liquor right before she threw it back.
Leia had frozen, eyes widening, and then quickly pinpointed the person nearest her drink, still holding the bottle of hooch where she hadn't before been able to see it. Krob was almost half again her height, if built like a string bean, but had leaned down obligingly within reach by doubling over laughing. He never even saw it coming. The right hook that laid him on the floor had been like a piece of art to Han, right up until the woman who threw it turned her still-watering gaze on him. The smuggler only managed to keep marginally in her good graces by dint of desperately asserting his non-involvement, and lending her the smaller storage room on the Falcon to lock herself into. She didn't emerge until her med-scanner showed she had no remaining alcohol in her system, and when she did it was to reign holy hell on the soldiers who "clearly had too much free time on their hands if they were poisoning their commanders for fun."
Somehow I doubt knocking out the nearest Talosian diplomat will help get them to stop dragging their feet. It was hard enough just getting them to talk to us, Han thought. Attempting to be discreet about informing Leia would be a little complicated, given he was sure to be mobbed the minute he went back into the main room, but he was Han Solo. He had improvisation down to an art form. Even if it was off putting to be in the middle of a crowd that all thought he was a famous hero.
Having a famous ship was one thing (that thing being good for business), but if you were a famous smuggler then you were doing something wrong, and were probably going to be an ex-smuggler pretty fast one way or the other. Which, to be fair, was pretty much what had happened to him. Ah well. Han Solo: Generally Respectable Person had less inherent panache than some of his former titles, but came with better perks. Chief among them a partner that was five foot nothing in heels, and equipped with dead shot blaster aim along with the most powerful doe eyes in the known galaxy. Kriff, the look she would give him if he screwed this up. Guess I'll have to go earn my keep and sort this out, Han thought to himself, and abandoned his post behind the plant to swagger back towards what passed for a party.
End note: This fic is pretty lighthearted (the main aliens were invented entirely for my own convenience), and while I love the main trilogy I'm no Star Wars scholar. All that to say, apologies if I contradict any particular canons. Also, internet points for anyone who spots the ongoing Star Trek references, as it was my first nerd-love and I like to live dangerously.