Work Text:
It took mere minutes for the high from the medal ceremony to fade, and for reality to come crashing down on Han.
He and Chewie had been intercepted on their way to the after party by a pair of spooks. The first, a lithe Togruta woman, absconded with Chewie. She had the grace of a dancer and what looked ominously like not one, but two lightsabers, but Chewie’d looked happy to see her and had gone without a fuss. The second, a great big bruiser of a human with a serious case of resting bitch face and the most spectacular muttonchops he’d ever seen, had steered Han into an uncomfortable chair in a nondescript conference room with a firm grip on his upper arm. Han went without a fuss, too, because the man looked like he might just be able to wrestle a Wookie.
They’d been trapped together in the conference room for hours while the bruiser, who introduced himself only as Captain Kallus, rifled his way through the smuggler’s life with a fine-toothed comb. His questions had ranged from details of Han’s childhood, his time as an Imperial pilot, and his life as a criminal after running from the Empire. He had asked about associates Han barely remembered. And all throughout, he had made eye contact, not once even glancing down at the flimsi folder on the table. He had the eyes of a predator, and he had his prey’s life memorized down to the smallest detail. Han, long in the habit of cataloging those he encountered for his own survival, had him pegged as an Imperial turncoat at the start, but as the questions ticked by, something about that sharp gaze and precise questioning pinged his memories of interviews for security clearance back in the day. This man wasn’t just an Imperial turncoat, he was ex-ISB. He told himself the medal meant something, at least enough that Her Worshipfulness wouldn’t allow Spooky McMuttonchops to turn him into stew meat if he didn’t like one of Han’s answers.
The atmosphere became even more uncomfortable as his interrogator got into the details of Han’s current liabilities: who wanted him dead or alive, for what, and for how much. Ex-Agent Bruiser finally blinked, just once, at the mention of Han meeting Jabba the Hutt in person to discuss a job. The man glanced down at the table between them, then reached into his jacket. Instead of ending Han’s miserable life then and there, he retrieved a holorecorder, pointing it at the smuggler sitting across from him.
“Captain Solo,” he intoned, his incredibly snooty accent intensifying, “I want you to know that these next questions are for the sake of an agent who died retrieving the plans to the Death Star, after years of dedicated service to the Rebellion.” Had Jabba been involved in this mess somehow?
Then, the rebel agent paused, his dour face coloring bright red, throwing the smattering of freckles across his nose into sharp relief. “When you met Jabba the Hutt, did you at any point make physical contact? Did you… did you touch him?”
What the hell was this?! “What do you mean did I touch him?! Have you seen Jabba? Sure, I made love to the worm while I whispered sweet nothings in his ear!” Sarcasm released to the wind, now he really was going to die, wasn’t he?
Captain Kallus had readopted his resting ISB face, but he wasn’t backing down. “Captain Solo, if indeed you made contact with Jabba the Hutt, I am going to need you to explain how it felt. What was the texture of Jabba’s belly?”