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“Stop frowning.”
Boba tenses, crossing his arms tighter against his chest and resolutely does not frown.
“I’m not frowning,” he says, to prove a point, and Han snorts as he flicks a switch on the console.
“You’re definitely frowning.”
“How would you know if I was frowning?”
“Your shoulders do this little hunching thing when you’re angry- look, they’re doing it right now,” Han cranes his neck around to look at Boba like he hadn’t been clear enough, and Boba curls his lip and forces himself to relax until his shoulders slump. Han, the bastard, scrunches up his eyes and smiles. “You’re angry. Which means you’re frowning.”
Boba shoots him a jagged glare he knows he can’t see, but hopes to Manda he can kriffing feel the way it slices through the visor of Boba’s helmet. Han watches him for a moment unaffected, before he turns to face Chewbacca where the wookiee’s sat in the co-pilot's seat and says in the worst whisper voice known to man, “He’s frowning.”
Chewie spares Boba a glance, and Boba doesn’t have to speak shyriiwook to know that the noise that comes out of his mouth when he looks back to Han is an agreement.
Traitor.
Boba huffs and taps a finger thrice against his bicep, fixing his eyes on the back of Chewbacca’s seat and keeps them there with his tongue pinched between his teeth. A silence washes over the cockpit, and Boba can feel more than see when Han turns to steal a glance back at him every now and then, but doesn’t budge- stays stuck to his seat half out of spite and half because he wonders briefly that if he zones out enough he could convince himself he’s in his own ship, cruising through lightspeed and comfortable, existing in his own domain.
It’s a fruitless effort; the beeps and trills and creaks of the Falcon are still foreign enough to throw him out of it, and that’s without the sound of Chewbacca snuffling here and there or the weight of Han’s eyes that won’t seem to leave him the hell alone. Boba sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek against the barking question of ‘what’ that wants to leave his throat, and Han lingers on him for another second like he’s got something to say before turning back around and checking to make sure the coordinates he’s got plugged into the navicomputer are correct.
“Alright, buckle your seatbelts- we’re jumping to hyperspace in three… two…”
He and Chewie both reach and pull the levers to activate the hyperdrive, and Boba stays still just long enough for the ship to hit lightspeed and settle out before he’s finally pushing himself up and slipping out of the cockpit without a word.
Han twists around to watch him go, and it’s a few good seconds of lip gnawing and silent staring before he glances at Chewie and raises a brow. Chewie meets his eyes, looks the way Boba left and back to Han again, and gives a gruff grunt before turning back to the console. Han grins and nudges him on the arm with his knuckles.
“I’ll be back soon, pal. Keep her steady for me,” he says, and hears Chewie chuff- ‘ yeah, yeah ’- as he crawls out of his seat and follows in Boba’s direction.
To say Boba isn’t surprised that Han followed him back would be an understatement, but he still pins him up against the wall the second he steps over the threshold into the main communal area anyway. Han, for what it’s worth, doesn't seem too phased about being shoved back with Boba’s forearm pushing against his chest.
“Hey, hey,” he says, hands raising like a placation. “Moving a little fast there, don’t you think? Least you could do is buy me a drink first, maybe take me out for a nice meal-”
Boba grunts and jerks his arm against Han’s sternum, knocking him harshly back into the wall, and Han breaks the act and swats at Boba’s arm. It’s half hearted- more like a parent scolding their kid than anything, and it only worsens the grit of Boba’s jaw and his pissy attitude.
“Quit it, hey- I know you don’t want to be here, alright? But you don’t have to be an asshole about it.”
Boba scoffs, but he relents, even just slightly.
“I’m an asshole about everything,” he grunts, and Han drops his hands.
“If you’re looking for me to disagree with you, it’s not gonna happen.”
Boba narrows his eyes, and he wastes a few seconds watching Han in silence, leans in close enough each breath Han takes fogs up the bottom of his visor and doesn’t let go until he sees Han scowl and start to squirm under the scrutiny. He takes a step back and Han huffs out a long rush of air through his nose, lifting a hand to fix the skewed collar of his shirt. His eyes follow Boba as Boba makes his way across the room to lean back against the dejarik table, and it’s a long beat of quiet that passes between them, contemplative and stewing before Han breaks it, like he does with all things.
“It’s one job,” he says, taking a few steps in Boba’s direction. “We get in, get what we came for, get out, and we get paid.” A step forward, then another, languid and carefree until Han’s practically a hair's breadth away crawling into Boba’s lap. Boba goes tense with the proximity but otherwise doesn’t react, and Han flashes him a cocky smile and tips his head to the side like a mischievous tooka. ”Simple as that. And then you can go back and hermit on your ship, and we don’t have to see each other again until Jabba calls us both in or you need another booty call; whichever comes first.”
It pries another scoff from between Boba’s lips. Three times. He’s fucked Solo three times and the kriffing bastard refuses to let it go, keeps lording it over his head since the last time they saw each other with that stupid karking smirk of his like it means a damn thing and seven hells, Boba can’t tell if that squeeze in his gut means he wants to knock that smile off of his face with his fist or kiss him stupid.
“One job,” he repeats, and Han hums and nudges Boba’s legs open with a foot kicking at his ankle. Boba obliges him, and Han takes the advantage and steps into the gap it creates. “That’s assuming this piece of junk can last us that long.”
Han shoots him an affronted look.
“Okay, buddy - pushing me around is one thing, but insulting my ship is another. You’re forgetting, this is the ship that-”
“-Made the Kessel Run in twelve parsecs, yes, I think I know .”
Han eases up on him, lips ticking back up into that smug smile. Boba wants to deck him.
“Look at you, you’re learning,” Han praises, all a tease, and Boba rolls his eyes into the next system.
“That doesn’t make it a good ship.”
“It makes it the best ship, actually.”
“ No .”
“Do me a favor,” Han says and pokes him in the chest plate. “ You go make the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs with your rinky dink little patrol ship, and then we’ll get back to this conversation.”
Boba is going to deck him.
Okay, he doesn’t , but he does the next best thing, swiping an arm out and catching Han around the neck to pull him into a headlock. Han falls into him with a yelped, “Oh, shit!” and scrabbles with his hands at Boba’s hold around his throat, flailing and squirming and swearing himself blue in the face. He only backs down when his struggling earns him a tighter grip.
“Okay,” he chokes, sucking in a lungful of air. “Okay- I yield. I yield, blast it, let me go-”
Boba gives him a few extra seconds to make sure he’s learned his lesson before he finally releases him, and Han dramatically slumps out of Boba’s arms and into the booth he’s standing beside with a hand rubbing at the base of his throat.
“Fucking asshole, what’d I say,” he gripes breathily.
“Don’t insult my ship,” Boba retorts.
“Oh, quacta calling the stifling over here-“
Boba kicks out a boot and gets Han in the shin, and Han squawks, but he shuts up pretty quickly after that. For a few minutes, at least, until he’s done licking his wounds and instead fixes Boba with a look- a crease between his brows and a questioning purse to his lips. He opens his mouth, but Boba knows exactly what he’s going to say before he says it and shuts it down before he can get anywhere.
“Don’t,” he growls, commanding enough Han closes his mouth again, and any potential questions about Slave 1 are lost to the rhythmic beeping of the console in the corner of the room and the soft hum of hyperspace.
It’s all Boba hears for long enough that he nearly loses himself in it, finds himself close to tumbling back down that hole of discomfort and a sense of abandonment he’d just managed to- surprisingly- crawl his way out of, when he feels fingers wrapping around his wrist. He stiffens, tightening his grip on the edge of the game table, and Han gives it a tug.
“C’mon,” Han needles. “Come here, sit down. I’m not gonna bite you; not unless you ask me real nice.”
Boba snorts, and Han returns it with a stupid toothy grin.
Kark. Boba wants to kiss him.
He wavers for a beat before figuring it won’t kill him- probably- so he shuffles to the side and slips into the booth next to Han. Han seems to take it as a real accomplishment, practically preening as he pulls on Boba’s wrist a little harder until Boba huffs and scoots to the side, pressing them all up together with no space in between.
“See? That wasn’t so hard,” Han chirps.
“Please,” Boba says, “Shut up.”
“Nah,” is Han’s response as he winds an arm around Boba’s shoulders, and Boba sighs and resigns himself to his fate. It’s not the worst fate he could’ve imagined, truth be told. There’s a lot of terrible places in the galaxy- ghastly situations he could’ve ended up in he knows from experience he never wants to deal with again; here, with Han’s fingers creeping over his shoulder to ghost up his neck, well. He’d take this over going up barehanded against a pack of gundarks any day.
Han’s touch finds the lip of his helmet, and he grazes his fingertips over the ridge of it, traces up the arch of the cheek and stops to knock a knuckle twice gently over his temple.
“What’d’ya say about taking this off?”
Boba stays quiet, but he turns his head enough to glance at Han out of the corner of his eye and considers it for a moment.
“C’mon,” Han pushes, scratching his thumbnail into the chipping paint. “It’s not like it’s nothing I’ve never seen before. And, y’know, it’s a lot easier holding a conversation with somebody when you can see their eyes.”
Boba wrinkles his nose even though Han can’t see it, but otherwise he doesn’t react, sits there like the paragon of stillness long enough he can see the moment Han heaves a little sigh and accepts that he’s probably not winning this one. He waits- waits until Han’s cheek dimples with a disappointed twist to his lip- before he finally lifts his hands and ducks his head, sliding off the helmet in one swift motion. The second it’s off Han lights up like Tatooine sunrise; Boba can feel him perking up at his side, probably giddy as anything to have gotten his way.
“There’s that pretty face,” Han practically coos, and Boba, once again, rolls his eyes as he reaches out to rest his helmet on top of the table, finally twists his head to look to the side and comes face to face with Han’s cheeky grin- all teeth. “Hi.”
“You’re insufferable,” Boba tells him matter-of-factly.
Han remains unphased; if anything, his smile only grows until it crinkles his eyes at the edges, all too pleased with himself.
“That’s why you keep me around.”
Boba is going to kiss him.
And he does; he leans in, gives no warning before he’s pressing their lips together, and Han grunts a muffled noise of surprise against his mouth before the gears shift in his head and he gets with the program. He brings his free hand up to grip at Boba’s jaw, and Boba tilts his head into it, teases him with a bit of tongue before he’s pulling back and sucking in a huff of air through his nose. He doesn’t move too far; Han tips forward into his space until their noses are bumping and brushing together, and it seems to take him a moment to string the words together as he raises his brows and cracks his eyes back open, but he gets there eventually.
“That’s new.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Boba breathes, and tips forward to catch his mouth again.
Han uses the arm he’s still got curled around his neck to reel him closer, and Boba goes with him, snatching Han’s bottom lip between his teeth as he crawls into his lap and pushes, pushes, until Han tips backwards to splay out on his back in the seat, drawing Boba with him.
A kiss; that’s to Han’s mouth. Another; that’s to his cheek. A third to his jaw, to his chin, his neck, and he slips his tongue out to lave over Han’s pulse before he’s making his way back to Han’s lips. It’s not a kiss that’s really leading anywhere, and Boba thinks that’s why Han was so surprised; nothing they’ve ever done in the past was without a specific purpose, but this now- well, Boba didn’t have a name for it, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to think hard enough to come up with one.
He distracts himself with the bow of Han’s lips instead, the taste of him, and Han pets his thumb over Boba’s cheek and tips up his chin to press an unthinking kiss to Boba’s nose when they break away to breathe. Boba makes a little noise in the back of his throat at it and catches Han’s mouth again, sighs under the weight of Han’s palm sliding down his back after he untangles his arm from around Boba’s shoulders, and Boba’s got all the intents and purposes of sticking his tongue down Han’s throat when the intercom crackles and Chewie’s warble breaks over the speaker, taking them both by surprise.
They pull apart and turn their attention up to the ceiling where it came from, and it’s a few beats of gentle silence before the speaker comes back to life and Chewie does it again, harsher this time.
“Alright, alright; I’m coming! Kriff’s sake,” Han huffs and thumps his head back against the cushion for a contemplative few moments before his eyes find Boba again. He flashes him a smile, halfway sheepish and completely smug, and the look Boba shoots him is nothing short of unimpressed.
“Sorry, sweetheart- duty calls,” Han says and manages to actually sound a little genuine about it.
Boba grunts and pushes himself back up to sit, followed by Han, who watches him for a second and then leans in to grace an obnoxious, smacking kiss to his cheek.
“We should do this again sometime,” he teases- apparently completely ignoring Boba’s earlier comment to the contrary- before clambering over Boba’s legs to get out of the booth and making his way to his feet. He spares Boba one last look before he’s heading out down the hall towards the cockpit, and Boba can hear him shouting something to Chewie about “-A little karking patience!” before the quiet washes back over him again, nearly deafening in its own right as his gaze lingers on the place where Han had just been.
He blinks, then moves to grab his helmet and replace it over his head while the ship rattles and jerks its way out of lightspeed, wondering how the hell he managed to get himself into this .