milliways_bar | (no subject)

The Ben Wade who enters the bar cuts a slightly leaner figure than he used to. Blame old-fashioned manual labor, and frugal living.

He's sweating and sunburnt beneath the brim of his beat-up brown hat, and he's counting himself damn lucky to've walked in. Here, he can pour iced water down his sawdust-dry throat.

At the counter, he's greeted with a napkin from Bar; his mouth quirks in a half-smile.

"Awful good to see you, too."

Another napkin appears.

"Thank you for holdin' on to 'em for me. I appreciate your safe-keepin'. Might be a while, yet, before I'll need 'em."

A third napkin.

"That so? Well, happy Mother's Day, Miss Bar. If you celebrate it."

Ben can't rightly say where his own mother might be. Or if she's above ground, now.

Still.

Even bad men love their mamas.

Which is why, as Ben pours himself a glass of ice water from the pitcher Bar graciously provides, he wonders, briefly, if that Bible she left his eight-year-old self with at the train station is still intact, somewhere — its spine and cover creased and cracked, maybe laying open on somebody's dinner table, or sitting shut and silent on a dusty shelf.

[ ooc: well, hel-lo — it's been a hot one and a half, y'all. open indefinitely! ]

[ tiny tag: cassian andor ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Seems true of everything, period, in Ben's opinion. Human beings, at their most base, are only animals.

Philosophical notions aside, he's bemused as he swallows another mouthful of cold water.

"Reminds me of some upstandin' women I know."

"What makes an upstanding woman?" That's a particular choice of word.

"In my experience?"

A beat.

"Opinionated."

"I've met many women with opinions, not all of them share them. Upstanding, I think about those with power,"

Its dangerous to speak too openly with the Empire listening but the ones who do speak, they create change. Someone who wants to be an upstanding member of the Empire will always use those around them.

Edited 2017-05-16 02:28 (UTC)

Ben tips his head in acknowledgment.

(He thinks about Fira, fierce and furious.

He thinks about Sassafras, deceptively sugar-sweet.

He thinks about Alice Evans, her iron eyes like a stormy sea.

He thinks about his mother, and those pink-and-white cards on the counter, and Proverbs 31:26.)

He thinks something stronger than water's in order.

His quiet request is met with the appearance of a lowball glass, and three fingers of bourbon.

Cassian looks down at his drink and those cards, upstanding women. In the Rebellion, in their quiet ways so many women fight and provide the hope worth following.

He finishes his caf and traces one of the cards, he never knew his mother, "What's your drink?"

There's something almost reverent in the way the man's fingertips move over the embossed cardstock.

Ben chalks it up to novelty, given how precious paper can be on some sides of the door.

His eyes flick up at the question, and he lifts his glass half an inch off the counter.

"Bourbon," he says. "Type of whiskey."

Its fine paper but its more what it represents, something he's never truly known. The Rebellion is his family and a good one but not always a kind one, "Bourbon, I might try it sometime."

He's working and can't afford to dull his edge.

Edited 2017-05-17 22:15 (UTC)

That earns a slight nod.

"Do keep it in mind."

Ben takes a sip, savoring the neat burn.

"If you've had Whyren's," he adds, "you're likely to find it to your taste."

"I don't think I've ever seen a bottle of Whyren's except in a shop,"

He laughs, that's not the kind of drink he's ever had except with maybe some cover stories but even those aren't that high class.

"Now that is a sad damn state of affairs."

Ben returns his glass to the counter, and gives the bartop a gentle, affectionate tap with two fingertips.

"You ever get a hankerin', Bar keeps it in her stock."

Last time Ben looked, anyway.

"I might sometime if I've had a profitable job,"

Which means he probably won't, he can't afford that sort of luxury.

"Those're the only ones worth takin'," he says, cheerful.

"As a pilot, what sort of flyin' do you do? Transport, or ... "

He lets the question hang, just to see where it may lead.

"Transport runs, enough to keep my ship running and my droid happy,"

That leading question makes Cassian curious who he knows and what assumptions he has about pilots from his world. All true in a way though most of those runs are a way to get him to find the intel he needs and sometimes make a little profit for the Rebellion.

Edited 2017-05-22 01:53 (UTC)

He nods, once. If this fellow's an Imperial pilot, Ben'll barbecue his hat in Bar's kitchen.

"Talkin' all this shop, I've just now realized the extent of my ill-manneredness," he says, and extends a hand. "Ben Wade."

"Cassian Andor and what do you do, Ben?"

He shakes Ben's hand, his own has callouses from blasters and nicks that come from mechanical work and never having enough bacta.

Edited 2017-05-22 02:55 (UTC)