Work Text:
<><><><><><><>^^^<><><><><><><>
Capt. Ben Tover
by batmouse
<><><><><><><>^^^<><><><><><><>
The Millennium Falcon land beautifully in Docking Bay Teetha, scaring the flight controllers out of their skulls, for the umpteenth time. Power shut down was quick and professional and the airlock opened. After a moment, Han Solo thundered down the gangplank with the beastly chuckle of Chewie’s laughter following him. No one, but no one laughed at Han Solo and lived . . . unless you were his best friend and could get away with such novelties. Mechanics, workers, loaders and other personnel scattered when they saw the steely glint in the pirate’s eye end the don’t-mess-with-me stomp in his stride. He stormed his way across the landing bay, swearing that one day, someday, when he could get away with not having his favorite body parts nipped off of his body, he was going to make that Wookie sorry for laughing at him.
“Skywalker!” Han growled at no one. Everyone in a fifteen yard radius pointed toward a corridor. Han continued stomping.
The members of Rogue Squadron were the baddest most feared pilots in the galaxy and the Empire feared them and when they moved down any corridor on base, people stepped aside. No one wanted to cross with them . . .
“Where’s the Jedi!?!” More demand than question alerted Rogue Squadron who was approaching and with reflexes that made them famous, they plastered themselves to the walls, doing their best to become a mural painting and not to whimper too loudly.
When Solo was in one those moods, Hutts, Sith Lords and Grand Moffs had to go home quickly to change their under garments. When Solo was pissed off or pissed at someone or something, no one was safe.
Solo stalked by not noticing the Squadron as he was on a deadly mission to quite possibly make some one just plain dead.
The corridor was filled with a quick blast of exhaled air as Rogue Squadron again began to swagger down the corridor, heading out to their ships on one of their deadly missions. Hey, Rogue Squadron was one bad-ass group of pilots, but they weren’t stupid. They knew what they could defeat and a Han Solo, in a rage was one of those things you avoided if you wanted all your little girly parts kept manly parts.
Commissary. Not there.
Command Central. Not there.
Gymnasium. Not there, either.
No Jedi Temples about. Where in all the hells was he?
Damn that Jedi, he’d better not be hiding!
He snapped his fingers. Skywalker’s private quarters!
Han found Luke’s quarters and didn’t even bother to knock when he entered. And there was Luke. Naked. Fresh from the shower. He had a towel over his head, drying his mop of water darkened hair. He put the towel over his shoulders, turned and saw the pirate. He smiled.
“Hi, Han!” He said cheerily.
“Don’t you ‘Hi-Han’ me! “ Jabbed a long finger.
“What’s wrong, now?”
“I don’t even know how to spell antidisestablishmentarianism,” Han growled, ”Let alone explain what it means! And, you know what else? Those damn short little Ewoks don’t care what it means anyway!”
“Oh.” Luke had a shy smile, mischievously sparkling eyes and a soft voice, “Then that means you lose, Solo.”
“What?” Stunned.
“You lost our bet.” Smile.
“I . . . I did . . . ?”
“Yup,” smug, “Proof that you can’t explain everything in the universe!”
Watching his eyes, Luke could see the taller man rooting around in his quick and clever mind for a way out of his bet . . . then . . . a defeated sigh and a pair of slumped shoulders . . .
“So, now what?”
“Well, Capt. Ben Tover,” Han’s eyes grew wide as he watched Luke begin to rise to the occasion, “It’s time to drop ‘em and live up to your name!”
“Awww, maaaaaaan!” Solo began to unbuckle his pants . . .
<><><><><><><>THE END<><><><><><><>