Trade Negotiations: A Londo/Lando Riff

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"This is entirely your fault, sir."

Lando glared at the offending voice stabbing through his earholes from the speaker. All right, yes, he guessed it was his fault. And the fault of those dancing girls he'd hired last night. And the fault of the round of Bantha Blasters. That Coruscant rotgut.. And whatever was in that little blue drink, with the funny cookie tubes that you stirred it with and then it turned purple.

Not that he hadn't known what he was doing when he'd taken up the alien dignitary on his invitation. He'd been perfectly sober. Okay, not sober, but well within his tolerances, he knew when his judgment was compromised. You didn't get to be ruler, commander, head guy in charge several times over without knowing your tolerances for all kinds of drugs that had never been intended for human systems. So he'd made a rational and considered decision to get plastered, and a rational and considered decision to go to bed with what's his name.

Malevoy? Mallari? Mollari.

"Sir? Lando!" And then another voice over the speakers. "Lando, what are you doing in there? You got a girl in there?"

Solo wouldn't let him hear the end of this, judging by past experience, for at least a couple rotations. And depending on how long the duty rotations lasted, that could take a while. So he did what any reasoning, sober commander would do.

He shot the speaker.

"What!" His bedmate sat up, rolled over, fell off the bed. "Ow. What? Assassins? It's that damned Narn again..."

What's a Narn?

Never mind. "Shut up and get back on the bed." Last night's decision had turned out to be one of his best drunk and debauched sexcapades he'd had, actually. It turned out that at least the male of his species were possessed of several very dexterous pleasure organs. Equally good at giving pleasure as receiving it, if he interpreted the other being's sounds correctly. "It's too early to be this awake. And sober."

Mollari used the bed to pull himself up to his knees and stared at him over the mess of blankets. "Aren't you supposed to be some sort of military commander?" He levered himself onto the bed and flopped. The bed shook. Lando didn't know if that was the other being's weight or the rickety bed.

"I'm on leave." That was the important part, at least. "As long as I'm not out in the streets making a complete idiot of myself, they don't care."

"... Oh," Mollari said, and shrugged, reaching for another bottle. "It seems your people and mine have very different ideas of what constitutes making an idiot of oneself."

He eyed the other being for a second, taking internal readings before deciding he could stand another drink, sticking his hand out for the bottle. "I bet."

They shared it for a while longer, till Lando was good and warm, and his bedmate was too, if that tentacle reaching over his thigh was any indication. He prided himself on being able to read the indicating signs, whether they were unlikely to proceed or, as in this case, favorable. To put it mildly. "Aren't you a dignitary with places to go and people to negotiate with?" Unless he'd said people to go and places to negotiate with. That tentacle was really distracting.

"My dear Mister Calrissian," Did he always pronounce everyone's names as though each syllable, each sound was a circus performer diving off an absurdly high platform? The letters did rings in the air before they reached his ears. "What did you think I was doing at this very moment?"

Ah-hah. "Negotiating for concessions on fuel prices?" Good negotiator, too. He had to take a moment, now. Catch his breath. Make the spots stop floating in front of his eyes. Uncurl his fingers from the sheets.

"I would take it as a personal favor..." Two. Three tentacles? Was he up to three or was that a fortunate fold in the blankets?

"Unfortunately for you," he managed. Words, if not a steady voice. "I'm not in the business of granting personal favors." He was going to have to not say anything for a few minutes here. Or that was the plan anyway. "Stop and I really will jack up your fuel prices."

"I thought in the language of your people it was considered jacking off."

"The fuel prices, Mollari." Hey, he remembered his name in the middle, that wasn't doing so bad. Had he done this when he was younger, negotiated business deals in bed with vigorous alien lovers? He couldn't remember how he'd done it. For a few seconds he could barely remember anything at all.

Mollari's expression was still hard to read despite his humanoid features, but Lando was guessing he'd both impressed the man and frustrated him. At which point politeness dictated he take care of at least some of that frustration. Okay, politeness and a need to give as good as he'd got. "Am I to understand that you will not be changing your position on this matter?"

"On the fuel prices? No," he sat up, flipped a leg over. "I have a business to run, not to mention a reputation to maintain. But as you can see, my position is always, to some degree, flexible."

He didn't feel the need to talk while he was working, and his mouth was otherwise occupied anyway. Half the time. Mollari did, on the other hand, feel the need to talk, to evidently praise his position, his negotiation ability, and several other things in language and idiom he didn't understand the details of. The gist came across loud and clear. Very loud, and less clear.

By the time the bottle was through they had come to an agreement not only on fuel and labor prices, but also on a merchandise deal on the transport and trade of three different kinds of alcohol and some other recreational items of a more personal nature. "And when I come back this way," Mollari assured him. "I will bring several of my personal collection for a private demonstration."

"I look forward to it," Lando grinned, toasting him with a long-empty glass. "I'll even clear my schedule."