Title: Night Shift
Author: Angel
Pairing: none explicit, implied Han/Leia, implied Han/Lando, Implied Lando/Luke, implied Han/Luke
Rating: R
Warnings: masturbation, thoughts of slash
Summary: Post ESB, Lando works the night shift in medbay.
Author's Notes: For the SW FQF. Challenge 64. Someone catches/watches him/her masturbating. Character: Luke.
Disclaimers: Usual disclaimers, blahdeblah Lucas, blahdeblah no profit



Night shift in the medbay was dead. He stared at the monitors as the docbots moved among the four
patient rooms.

It was the least he could do. So much grief and loss, and all his fault. In the small hours, as the monitors gleamed
 blue and white, and the silence pressed in him, he heard Han’s voice over and over, “You fixed us real good...my
friend.” Han would have never sold his friends to the Empire, no matter what the incentive. But Han had never had
anything to lose, besides his ship, partner and life. He never took responsibility for a whole city full of people. He
never had other lives to worry about.

Lando stared at the monitors, knowing he was being unfair. Han had put himself between Leia and Vader, dropped
his pride for Chewie’s life and stood in for Luke, facing his own death for the kid’s safety. It was a matter of scale.

Now, Lando sat and watched the holomonitors. The burned cook in room one had just awakened. He could
see the being screaming, waving the bandaged tentacles and demanding medication. It was routine. Must be
four-hundred, Lando thought.

The two mechanics sharing room two were asleep in their identical tractions. Their project had collapsed day before
yesterday, leaving the brother-sister pair with matching broken legs to match their identical flaming red hair. They were
good patients, sleeping as they should. They’d be out in a couple days. The bonefusers had worked but they needed to
let the new tissue solidify.

The droids adjusted the dials on the machinery that was keeping a pilot alive. He’d botched a landing late last night.
Lando didn’t think high command was going to let the machines stay on much longer. There were about two organs
still salvageable and almost no brain function. They’d have to meet and debate first but his plug was going to be pulled.

Luke was awake and staring at the monitor pickup. The blue gaze pierced right to Lando. Luke was all his fault. As
 his city, his life and dream, had been destroyed, he had caught the damaged man as he plummeted toward the
caustic clouds.

Arms full of beaten, beautiful boy, he’d settled Luke on the medicouch, and helped them escape. Since then, he’d kept
the late watch and helped the rebellion where he could.

Luke had come out of the three-day Force-coma this afternoon. He’d been responsive, aware and in complete control.
The meddroids said he’d be ready for the prosthetic tomorrow, well later this morning now.

But he was awake now, at four-hundred. He wasn’t looking at the monitor now. His truncated right arm lay atop the
 blankets, but the left was underneath. Lando watched it move, and recognized the rhythm with a start.

He wasn’t watching this. He was checking to make sure the cook had gotten the pain meds. He was checking on the
mechanics. He was checking on the pilot. He was watching, unable to tear his eyes away.

Luke’s face was relaxed, and he looked very young. He’d closed his eyes and a small smile played round his mouth.

Lando watched, desire and heartbreak warring in him. The boy’s movements were hesitant and awkward, he was
apparently a right hander. His fault the maiming; his fault, the awkwardness. He wasn’t watching this. He wasn’t. He
was not. He wasn’t able to stop.

His imagination ran riot. Han would never trust him again. Leia was Han’s, he had seen that the minute they arrived.
But this lovely man was alone,. Lando dreamed. He hoped. He imagined winning the youth’s trust, even his love,
enjoying his body and the calm controlled mind.

He watched the end of the small drama on the holoprojection, having the sense not to take his first idea of going in
and helping out to its conclusion.

He watched Luke’s face, the tension draining out of it, and the word–no, a name--on his lips at climax. Unsure what
he had seen, Lando enlarged and ran it again. And again. And again. And knew, as the invisible knife twisted, that Luke
was not his and never would be.

He’d lost again, and third time was the last. It was a closed pattern, and he should accept it. Han had reached out, from
beyond the frozen carbonite, and beaten him again. The Falcon. Leia. Luke. Third time paid for all.

Lando checked the other monitors. When he returned, Luke was sleeping. He waited for the day shift and his relief.