Ben Wade (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
almosthonorable) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
milliways_bar2017-05-14 05:08 pm
almosthonorable) wrote in milliways_bar2017-05-14 05:08 pm
Entry tags:
(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 ]
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 ]
no subject
"As blazes," he says, the grit in his voice balanced by his good-natured tone. He places his nearly empty glass on the counter, the sound accompanied by the tinny clink of ice cubes settling against one another. "Feels like Beelzebub's own sweat lodge."
no subject
"Where you in from?" he asks, head tilted.
no subject
A beat.
"Texas."
Beat.
"If that even means anything to you, out in your neck of the woods."
no subject
no subject
"Probably," he says, with a slight nod of assent. "I've just learned to leave assumptions on the other side of the door when I walk in here."
no subject
Only Matt's door doesn't happen to be there at the moment, a fact that sits less well with him with every passing day.