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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"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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