The older man snorted and rolled his eyes, setting his glass down on the counter with a dull thud.
“Kid, I may be less than half sober, but I’m not stupid. You’re Han Solo, the smuggler,” he paused, and pulled a face as he slugged back another mouthful of his drink, “And this is watery as all kirff.” He dropped the cup onto the counter again, sighed, then slouched forward to rest his elbows on the counter and regard the smuggler with an almost tired, absolutely exasperated stare.
“My question is, why is that Han Solo in a place he knows he shouldn’t be?” He paused, snorted, smirked.
“Make it a good story, and I’ll buy you a round.”
Han knew the lie was WEAK —— it was worth a shot. A corner of his mouth tugs up into a crooked smirk, hazel orbs PONDERING over the other. No matter what he said, truth OR lie, the smuggler was sure to be running for his life. If not from the person beside him, than any of the other f o o l s in the cantina. Elbows lean against the bar, the man clearly at ease, a nuance he picked up to not cause ALARM.
“I got a pick up that Kanjiklub just so happened to be late for.” Okay, he STOLE it, the mischievous gleam in his eyes said that much. But the credits, they were so, so worth it.
“Turns out they’re LATE to a lotta things.” The smuggler was known for getting ahead ; using any means necessary to do so. “If ya get lucky, they’ll be here after our round ——” He was determined to get that free drink. “— Then maybe they’ll do the dirty work of gettin’ rid of me for ya.”
If they could catch him that is.