milliways_bar | (no subject)

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OOM: Time passes outside the bar. Things, however, don't change. They get worse. (Warnings for violence and mentions of abusive situations in the OOM, so please take that into consideration before reading.)

When the door opens, the teenager who hauls himself into the bar is obviously hurting. Badly. There are bruises almost everywhere, blood soaked into his shirt (which is practically rags, at this point) and he can barely keep himself upright. It takes every ounce of his strength to make it to the door, from where he is outside -- so it's not a surprise when he slumps down against the wall near it once he's inside.

Everything hurts, and he feels like he's going to be sick, so he closes his eyes and burrows his head into his arms, trying to make the pain in his head go away.

(It's not working.)

[ooc: plotlocked, sorry. no worries, he'll be bound for awhile so a less injured/hurting version will be available later in the week. thanks guys.]

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The bruises and blood stains are noticed clear across the bar.

Damn, son. Damn.

Ben's out of his seat before he's aware he's moving.

Standing over Han's hunched form, he reaches out a hand.

"Heard tell chairs're better'n floors for sittin'."

His legs won't work to move, but the voice is familiar enough to give him reason to lift his head, even if his neck is killing him. Everything is killing him.

But he finally focuses -- move the hand to meet the one offering him help, deep breath -- but trying to pull himself up creates pain that shoots from his forearm to his chest in an instant, a sharp gasp and teeth sunk into his lip the only thing that keeps him from shouting.

He shakes his head.

"S'all right."

And then Ben's bending to wrap his arm around the kid's thin shoulders, holding him under the armpit.

Blood soaks into Ben's sleeve.

"Gonna stand up now, son. You ready?"

Gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.

"Yeah."

And then he nods, just a little, he's been through -- no he hasn't been through worse, actually -- and when Ben lifts him up he scrambles with his feet to stand.

He's dizzy on his feet.

Ben might notice he's taller, a little older, but he's still young. Too young to be hurting like this.

Ben's arm is still there, steady and solid as iron, just in case.

His eyes narrow a little, studying the kid getting his bearings. He looks older than last time, maybe taller, though not by much.

"I'm thataway," he says, tipping his head toward his table.

He doesn't ask if Han can make it; he knows the kid'll ~~stagger~~ walk the distance just to spite both of them if he asked.

Han would nod, but that hurts, so instead he ~~staggers~~ walks the distance to the table -- with Ben's help to keep him from falling over a few times.

He's grateful Ben doesn't make a fuss about it, either.

When he gets into a chair, it takes everything to not pass out from the effort.

He should be breathing deeper, but he can't pull in more than a tiny bit of air.

It hurts too bad.

After Han's somewhat settled, Ben makes a quick trip to Bar and returns with a glass of water, two painkillers Bar had helpfully offered up, and a cold compress.

He sets everything on the table and slides into his seat.

No questions yet; he's waiting to see if Han offers any explanation first. Or keels over.

The water gets the first glance, and he manages a couple of swallows before he takes the painkillers and gets those down, and another few sips of water, a deathgrip on the glass to keep from spilling it as he sets it down.

"S'been...awhile ain't it."

At least for him, outside.

"Too bad I ain't..." and his head spins a little and he steadies himself with a flat palm on the table "...better off, could git that watch...no problem."

Way to avoid the situation at hand, oh yes it is.

A nod, short and small.

"Think it's been longer for you."

Then Ben lets out a humorless chortle.

"Just like last time, I bet."

He's still waiting, taking quiet inventory of the injuries he can see.

"Hey," he reminds him. "Let you catch me."

What Ben can see is the evidence.

A few good strikes to the face -- a bruised cheek, a bloody lip. Scratches on his arms -- like there was almost a scuffle, like he fought against this. The way his shoulders arch forward -- from tight pain across his back and spine.

Han picks up the compress and puts it on his arm, gingerly. Even that contact hurts like hell, his head dropping a little as the room gets dark for a second.

"'Bout a year."

"Ain't been near that long here."

His eyes flick to his sleeve, to the blood that doesn't belong to him, and his eyes darken.

"Wanna tell me what kinda mess the other man looks like?"

"I hit him."

A long pause, almost too long.

"Once."

He reaches for the glass of water again, eyes still closed, and takes a few more sips.

Once.

Keeping the question deceptively light, "You start it?"

Get up. Now.

Han swallows down the tight feeling in his throat.

His voice is quiet.

"Never do."

Ben's silent for a long minute.

"Might need to change that."

And kill the bastard, he doesn't say.

He's not going to cry.

He's not.

Instead, he swallows hard to force it down.

"Wish I could."

Force, does he ever.

"Somethin' keepin' you from it?"

Han may have size working against him right now, but he's got smarts and he's not weak.

"Don't have the credits...t'go anywhere if I did."

He's a thief. Slave.

Dependent.

"Ain't somebody else you could work for, earn passage or keep?"

"Shrike'd hunt me down."

A shrug.

"This point, don't care no more if he tried."

He's tired. Of everything.

Seriously, "Shoot him first."

Because it's good advice for almost every situation.

And so unexpected that Han laughs.

One hand (not the arm he's favoring) goes to his ribs after a few seconds, because kriff that hurt, but he's still grinning, that wild, cocky little grin of his, despite the fact that this all hurts like hell.

"Knew I..." and he cringes a little. "Liked you for a...reason."

Ben's own laugh reaches his eyes this time.

"People do seem to like me."

A beat as he takes a swallow of whiskey from the glass at his elbow.

"Think it's my easy-goin' nature."

To evidence this fact, he lifts the bottle of Woodford on the table and pours out a little more, then slides it over.

Han reaches for the glass of whiskey that is slid in his direction, and with a smooth motion -- those painkillers finally kicking in, he bets -- he downs a swallow.

Good sized too.

Without coughing.

He bites back a chuckle.

"Looks like you've learned a thing or two'n a year."

That's approval in his voice.

"Justa couple."

The whiskey burns but it's a welcome pain, distracts from everything else.

"Y'always shoot first?"

"Live longer that way."

He eyes Han's bruises, the drying blood on his skin and shirt.

"You might wanna think about tryin' it sometime."

He's quiet, a long few moments.

Shrike's...he's hard to explain.

"Been with 'im since m'parents left me atta docking facility, think I was three, maybe four years old? Ain't got nobody else 'cept the others an' he treats half them worse than he treats me. We work for 'im, askin' for credits or liftin' stuff off travelers, playin' cards. I race swoops, 'cause I ain't afraid of 'em."

Another sip of whiskey.

"Ain't really 'fraid of him, 'cept when he gets mad an' picks one of us t'wail on, worst times are when nobody ain't done nothin' wrong an' he just...for the hell of it."

Han shifts the icepack on his arm a bit and wiggles his fingers as he talks, avoiding Ben's eyes.

"So I ain't gonna stay long but s'all I've ever known, y'know? Don't change the fact I wanna kill 'im."

And just like that, Ben's back in that train station, alone, Bible in his hands. Reading Scripture like his life depended on it (and he thought it had, at the time).

"Rock and a hard place," he says finally, refocusing on Han's bowed head. "Can understand that."

His jaw tightens.

"But there ain't no cause for this. 'Specially if you're doin' good work for the son of a bitch."

"Doin' kriffin' good work for 'im," he spits out, the anger getting to the surface. "Only been the champion on the junior level swoops last three years, beat 'em all this season, better than anyone else in the kriffin' whole system, 'course I ain't seen anythin' more than a backhand 'cross the face in..."

And then his throat closes up, tight. It's hard to breathe and his chest feels funny, so he does the one thing he thinks to do.

Grabs the whiskey, downs the rest of the glass, and then stares in the other direction.

He's not gonna cry.

Ben gives him a minute.

Two.

When the quiver's gone from Han's chin, he quirks an eyebrow.

"The hell's swoops?"

Han glances back at Ben

"S'like...kriff I dunno how t'explain 'em. Y'got a swoop bike, y'sit on it like...hell."

A rat is nearby, and Han asks for a datapad to be brought over. It is, and shortly after, Han gets up from his chair and drops into the one next to Ben (so he can explain this).

A few taps of the screen, and a video (http://youtube.com/watch?v=WqGb8RwwioY) comes up.

"These are swoops."

Sort of. ~~Minus the fact that they're an advanced model and ignore the start of the clip with Han in it, since, that's breaking a fourth wall somewhere!~~

Ben watches.

And stares.

"Well, those," he says with a slow-spreading grin, "look like a helluva lotta fun."

That slow spreading grin is enough to make Han forget about the injuries, for a minute.

"Dangerous as hell too," he adds. "Makes 'em even better, if y'ask me."

A grin of his own is on his face, and he reaches over for the whiskey glass and takes another sip, finishing it off.

Best swoop racer in the planet, probably the galaxy, thank you.

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