Author's Webpage: http://come.to/prillalar Disclaimer: SW belongs to George Lucas, not me. I do not profit in any way by this story.
Notes: For Holmes, who wanted Qui-Gon and Han to meet up. And make out.
Pairing: Q/Han (Lu/Wedge)
Rating: R
Series: The Thousand Nights and One Knight
Summary: In which Qui-Gon Jinn discovers that hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a freighter pilot who knows what he wants.

"Luke."

Please, yes, please, oh, yes, yes, yes.

"Luke."

Luke opened his eyes. No.

"Are you okay?" Wedge wrapped his arm around Luke's chest. "You were groaning. I thought you were having a nightmare."

Not a nightmare. "I'm fine." The arm felt good. He stroked it. Warm.

Leaning in, Wedge nipped Luke's shoulder. "One of those dreams again?"

"Well..."

"What was it about?"

"I can't remember." He couldn't really. Sort of fuzzy. About...tall...Qui-Gon Jinn...and... Oh. "Sorry."

"Tell me." Wedge nuzzled Luke's neck persuasively.

"No."

"You do remember. You just don't want to." Turning on a lamp, Wedge studied Luke. "Are you blushing?" He pinched Luke's nipple. "What's so kinky about this dream?"

"Nothing."

Wedge rolled onto his back. "Is this a good time to mention that our next-door neighbour keeps asking me to come in and see his etchings?"

Luke sighed and tucked his arms behind his head. "Why do you always manipulate me like this?"

"Because I'm so damn good at it. Now, spill, Jedi."

"All right, but turn the light out. And keep in mind that this is a dream. Not real life. The situation is a little unusual..."

Darkness fell. Wedge settled in with his chin on Luke's arm. "Go on."

"So, Qui-Gon Jinn walks into a bar on Tatooine..."

Stooping under the low door, Qui-Gon scanned the tavern, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light. His ears were not so swift to filter out the jazzy noise of the band, though, and he frowned a little. An unavoidable consequence of growing older, he supposed.

It was early evening and the room was only half full. Qui-Gon approached the bar, stood between two drinkers. "Excuse me, friends, I'm looking for passage--"

They both shook their heads and turned away before he could finish. He tried further down the bar. Same thing. Three people at a table. They waved him away. It was like he had some embarrassing personal problem no one had ever told him about.

Well, as long as he was here. He went back to the counter and caught the bartender's eye. "Whiskey."

"Don't mind if I do." Lounging against the bar beside him was a man -- human, casual dress, not exactly desert garb, blaster in a holster strapped to his thigh. The bartender set down two glasses. "Thanks, friend," the man said and picked up the glass.

"You're welcome, friend." Qui-Gon smiled his this-is-not-a-nice-smile smile and paid for the drinks.

"To friendship." The man smiled back, an infuriating smile that made Qui-Gon nearly forget thirty-two years of Jedi training and paste him one. The man drank, finishing the whiskey before Qui-Gon even had a chance to sip his. "Come on, I've got a table in the back."

Qui-Gon didn't want to, but he sensed that this man was probably his best chance for a lift off this sand-covered rock, so he followed through the maze of tables to a shadowy corner booth. The man sat against the wall, of course, where he had the best view of the room. Well, the Force would protect Qui-Gon's back. He slid onto the bench opposite and took a drink. Awful stuff.

"Han Solo."

Qui-Gon took the outstretched hand and shook it firmly. "Qui-Gon Jinn." The handshake continued. Great. They were trapped in one of those alpha dominance moments. And his fingers were beginning to ache. Briefly, he considered feigning surprise at something in the room so they could both look and drop the clasp at the same time. Instead, he just loosened his grip. But Han should be wary if he thought he'd won.

"So, you're looking for a pilot, am I right?"

"Yes."

Han leaned back in the booth and put one hand behind his head. "You found one. Where to?"

"Garqi." Not far, thank the living Force.

"Cargo?"

"I just need passage for myself."

Han picked up a glass from the table -- some sort of cheap ale, judging by the smell -- and took a long drink. "Can do. Seven thousand."

"I'll pay two." Haggling -- this was the fun part.

"I couldn't even take you to the next settlement for two. Make it six, then. Because I like your face."

"That's still too high just for passage. Three then?"

Han sat upright. "That's just it. With no cargo, I have to charge more to make money. I can go as low as five and a half."

Qui-Gon just looked at the pilot for a moment. "I'm sure a bright young man like yourself won't have any trouble finding a cargo of some sort on such short notice." He sipped his whiskey. "Three and a half."

"Maybe I can. But I don't know that yet. Five."

"Four then. If you can't meet that, I'll find another pilot."

"You're welcome to try." Han grinned.

Qui-Gon pondered. The behaviour of the other patrons had been very odd. It was possible no one else would be willing to even discuss it. "Four and half."

"You buy the next round and you've got yourself a ship." Han held out his hand again and this time Qui-Gon slapped it, not wanting to engage in another wrist-wrestle. Waving at a server, Han signalled for another jug of ale.

"Shouldn't we be going?" Qui-Gon was half-way out of the booth.

"Sit down and relax. We can't leave until tomorrow anyway. That's when my co-pilot gets back." Han laughed. "He's on some sort of ritual journey into the desert. Thinks he can see visions. I told him if the ale here didn't give him visions, the sun wasn't going to make it through his thick head either."

"I'll have to arrange accommodations, then." Qui-Gon had the time to spare, true, but it was very annoying.

"You can stay on the Falcon."

Qui-Gon nodded his thanks. "Is there something going on here? No one else would talk to me, let alone discuss passage."

"Oh, that." Han poured out the rest of the ale and drained his glass. "Well, there have been reports of several hijackings in this area recently. They won't deal with anyone they don't know because they're afraid."

"And you're not?"

"I think I'm a pretty good judge of character." Han looked Qui-Gon up and down, then leaned in close. "And the reports of the hijacking may have been...exaggerated. A little."

"Exaggerated." Qui-Gon raised his eyebrows.

"You know how people talk." The ale arrived and Han poured out for both of them. "Just yesterday, I was here playing sabac..."

Han really was a good story teller. And after the first glass, the ale seemed to improve. Qui-Gon countered with a tale of his own about the last time he had been to Malastare and someone had mistaken him for a local wrestler.

They killed the pitcher between them, spinning yarns, telling jokes. They argued over the best way to get rid of mynocks. "Just dab a little mercury on them." Han waved his hands. "Poof. They shrivel up."

"Nonsense. They love mercury. If your power couplings are properly shielded in the first place, you won't have mynocks." Qui-Gon banged his glass down to make the point.

"This from someone who doesn't even have a ship?" Han pointed his finger at Qui-Gon's nose. "Let me tell you--"

"You're both wrong." It was a Chagrian at the next table over. "Just spray them with salt water."

They stared at the Chagrian, then leaned in towards each other and laughed, their knees bumping under the table.

"C'mon, Qui-Gon." Han stood. Qui-Gon followed suit, then turned to the Chagrian.

"We bow to your superior wisdom," Qui-Gon said and suited his actions to his words. Han was a beat behind, but he made up for it with a flourish. Then they made their way out of the tavern, ducking in unison when they came to the door.

The air was cool. Han put his arm around Qui-Gon's waist and Qui-Gon draped his own arm over Han's shoulders. They laughed through the night to where Han's ship was berthed. Han fiddled with the door mechanism.

"Wait, Han. Shouldn't we check for mynocks first?"

Han looked up and grinned. "I don't have any salt water. Do you think ale would work?"

"They might get drunk and fall off."

The ramp clanged down and they went aboard. Han spread his arms wide. "This is the Millennium Falcon. Beautiful, isn't she?"

She was dingy, dark, and probably jury-rigged. "Beautiful."

Han headed off down a corridor. "I'll show you the room."

Already? Qui-Gon followed. "It's too early to sleep."

"We don't have to sleep."

A door swished open and they stepped inside. It was a mess. This wasn't the passenger's quarters.

Han unstrapped his blaster and set it down, then turned and faced Qui-Gon. "I do like your face." He pulled off his shirt. What? "And your neck. And your chest."

Qui-Gon found himself with his back to the wall, Han's mouth on his neck, Han's hands on his chest. Oh. It was quite nice, actually. He reached up and rubbed Han's back, touched his hip.

Then Han moved away. "Take your shirt off."

Untucking his tunic, Qui-Gon yanked it over his head. "I'm not drunk, you know."

Han smiled, that same first infuriating smile. "I'm not drunk either." One boot off, then the next.

Qui-Gon seemed to be losing his dignity. How to get it back? "And I'm a Jedi Knight, you know." He unhooked the lightsaber from his belt and put it aside.

Pants halfway down to his knees, Han looked up at him. "You don't say."

"Is it that obvious?" Maybe that's why no one would talk to him, Qui-Gon thought as he struggled with his boots and leggings.

"Let's just say the Force is strong with you." Han stepped near and slid his hand down Qui-Gon's breastbone. "Among other things. Did I say I liked your chest?"

Qui-Gon didn't answer, just tasted the salty skin at the base of Han's neck. They stood close together, bodies touching here and there, but lightly, not pressing. Han smelled of alcohol and smoke and sweat. Qui-Gon's hands moved and so did Han's and all the friction drove Qui-Gon far past "quite nice" and into something best expressed with fire imagery if he could only think but he couldn't so he bit Han's shoulder instead.

Han groaned a little at the pressure. "Bed."

"Yes." Qui-Gon grabbed Han and tossed him bodily onto the mattress so swiftly Han only yelled when he was bouncing up for the second time. Pulling the thong from his head, Qui-Gon shook his hair free. Then he pounced.

Han was laughing as they rolled together, wrestling until Qui-Gon came out on top and took the laugh into his kiss. Limbs against limbs, muscle and sinew, blood and bone, they moved together. Qui-Gon thought of friction, of fire, of heat, of energy. Then he remembered the power couplings and had to throw his own head back and laugh.

"You're a lot of fun," Han said. "Here's what we're going to do." He reached out and opened a drawer.

"And?" Wedge's fingers were tight around Luke's arm.

"There is no and. You woke me up, remember? Just at the good part."

"Then tell me what you think would happen. I think Han was going to fuck Qui-Gon and fuck him good." Wedge trailed his hand down Luke's chest. "I know what those Jedi-types like."

"Yeah, that's sort of what I think would happen." Reaching out, Luke tangled his fingers in Wedge's hair.

"So, Sir Sublimation, have these dreams about your sister's boyfriend often?"

Good thing it was still dark. "Uh...no. Are you jealous?"

Wedge chuckled. "I ought to be but actually I'm just very turned on." He moved his hand again. "And so are you, it seems."

Luke traced Wedge's cheekbone with his thumb. "Maybe."

"Come on, then, Skywalker. I'll fuck you silly. But if you yell out Han's name..."

"You're going to tell him I had a sex dream about him?"

"No."

"Good." Luke turned and slid until they were face to face, mouths almost touching when they spoke.

"I'll tell Leia." Wedge started to kiss the corner of Luke's mouth, teasing at it with his tongue.

"Do that and you'll suffer the Jedi Tickle Torture."

"I don't fear that as much as I fear the Jedi Excessive Talking During Sex Torture."

Luke nuzzled at Wedge's nose. "I don't talk too much. I hardly talk at all."

Wedge put his arm around Luke's waist and pulled him close. "Shut up, Luke."

Luke shut up. Wedge fucked him silly. It was quite nice, actually.

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