milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The door isn't back yet, but that isn't a bad thing for the teenager who has taken over a table near the bar. Not a bad thing at all. Neither is the fact that most of his injuries and bruises have faded from their ugly purples and reds to just faint greens and yellows.

There is a piece of paper (with names on it) tucked into his vest pocket. He's kicked back in his chair, feet propped up on the chair across, and he's occasionally drinking from the bottle of ale he managed to swipe off someone's table when he came downstairs. They're not missing it, so there's no harm in it, in his eyes.

He's got a look in his eyes like he's in the middle of coming up with a really great (or really dangerous and exciting) idea, and a smug little smile on his face as he watches the room. He is looking for marks, but, he's always doing that. And tonight, there are more important things to think about.

Like how to swipe another ale.

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"But you just said you never know. So how can you trust some people but not trust them at the same time?"

Bar takes the empty ale bottle when he's finished, and Han lightly drums his fingers against the wooden top.

"It's complicated." Tony's eyes meet his in an intense gaze. "More often than not it's yourself you don't trust."

"If you don't trust yourself, you ain't gonna get nowhere." Han scoffs quietly. "'Sides, what's worth livin' for if you ain't willin' to stand up for it?"

"It depends." Tony snorts. "The world gets complicated when you stop being abstract."

"Well, if you want my advice, trust yourself."

Han smirks.

"S'good advice."

"Relax, Ann Landers. I wouldn't start a column yet."

Tony snorts and checks his notes on his latest insane idea.

Han peers over Tony's shoulder.

"Kriff's that for?"

"I'm working on a project. What is that, failed ebonics?"

"The fuck's ebonics? What kind of project?"

"A very complicated one, and watch your mouth."

"You ain't my mother."

Han studies the notes a bit more. They don't make much sense to him, a few scribbles, plans, words and stuff.

"You can't speak English."

"It's called another language, kriffer."

"Really? Because it sounds like you're just making up words."

Tony gets several words strung off at him in Huttenese, with a sharp tongue.

"And that's another one."

"Prove to me that it's an actually recognized language. Until then, you get to be mocked."

"I hate bantha fodder like you. Always thinkin' like you're the emperor."

A beat, then Han grabs at the notes and bolts off the stool and makes a break across the bar, prize in hand. And? He's fast.

Hope you felt up to running, Tony.

Tony Stark doesn't run. He just crushes.

He calls immediately for Security, and then, wishing he had his armor, just sprints in that direction.

Han's not about to wait for security, and he uses a nearby chair to boost himself up into the rafters, grabbing with both hands and making an effort to haul himself up.

"This is why I hate kids," Tony growls under his breath, making a swipe before the kid can get completely off the ground. "I don't think so."

Two hands lock around one of his ankles, but Han clings to the rafter beam (after setting the notes up there) and tries to squirm free.

Unfortunately for him, he ends up yanked down, hard.

A pissed Tony Stark is a force to be reckoned with.

"You little shit--" he says, clamping a hand around the kid's throat.

Then he remembers the rule about there not being any violence in the bar, and removes his hand, choosing instead to secure him until security can get there, even if it means sitting on his chest.

Carlos is pretty fast. He catches the older man's hand on the young kid's throat, but he just keeps it in mind as he steps up.

He's in his formals: black robes, grey cloak, staff, Desert Eagele, frag grenades. Hopefully, no one says anything stupid about him being in a 'dress' or they'll get the wrong side of an army surplus boot somewhere unpleasant.

Nah, but he'll think about it and leave a less flattering note.

"Okay," he says looking at the two, "you wanna tell me what's going on? And uh, before the kid calls sexual harassment, you wanna get offa him?"

"He's a kriffin' jerk s'what's goin' on!"

Han shoves at Tony to get him off, even if he is smaller and lighter than the other guy.

Tony doesn't move, only relenting slightly enough to release the pressure on his chest. He's not going to give the punk a chance to get away.

"This juvenile delinquent decided to run off with my paperwork. You'll find it up there in the rafters. Which, by the way, someone should card him. I doubt he's legal enough to be drinking."