albinomilksnake | STAR WARS: possible spoiler warning

[ that's reassuring. he almost comments to that effect except — it is. in his own less-than-reassuring way, ben's trying. which is such a change from where things had been hours before they may as well be in a different universe. ]

I'm not that old yet, you know. [ — but he's also han solo, smug fast-talker and all-around scoundrel. some things never change. ] Still pretty good at pulling myself out of scrapes.

[An argument would be made against that claim if not for the fact that they are, in this exact moment, here aboard the falcon. Han Solo is not dead, he's not even wounded or in custody, holding casual conversation with Kylo Ren over the hum of the falcon's running engine.

If that isn't proof the man is still capable of holding his own, Ben has no idea what would meet the mark.

He falls back, sitting on his heels as he watches, one leg folded beneath the other.] But you are old.

[#tact]

Why make it harder on yourself when you've no reason to?

[Is it him that Han Solo is afraid to trust any farther than what's already been given? Is that the real issue at hand? Ben's eyes flick down with renewed focus, hawkishly zeroing in - his voice sounds slightly too eager, too aggressive when he speaks:] I will kill them before they report to the First Order - reports aren't filed until the task has been completed, no one would know.

[ the retort he had handy to the crack about being old ( turns out the years have developed a repertoire of snappy comebacks to that point precisely ) stops behind his teeth. ]

Ben!

[ he looks up sharply, surprised by what he's hearing and angry at himself for not being more surprised. there's too much vader in him. hadn't he said that? his finger comes up to point at the black-robed chest. ]

We are not going to do that. Killing's not the first solution, you know that. [ they're thieves, yes; swindlers, sure; liars, you betcha. butchers, no. the line has to be drawn somewhere. ]

[He recoils immediately as if struck: brow furrowed, stare wide, expression both bewildered and indignant as his breath is held for nothing more than a half beat. It shouldn't spark up anger, but it does, being chastised for an outdated, toothless rule.

He's an adult, Han. AN ADULT.]

What I know is you and this ship are outdated, and so long as you refuse to do what is necessary--

[ solos only hit adulthood after thirty. and being carbonited. so.

a bang rattles through the metal when han straightens so fast he hits a support. it's a miracle a wrench didn't go flying. ]

Don't talk to me about necessary! I let my son be taken away because it was "necessary." I let my brother vanish because it was "necessary." I left my wife because it was necessary. Let me tell you, I'm through with necessary.

Now I may not have been a good father. And we may not know each other anymore. But dammit, Ben, I am still your father! And if I have to spend my last outdated years in this galaxy chasing after you, then so be it! You're the only thing in my life that I ever did right and I sure as hell am not giving up on you without a fight!

[~~well apparently someone better get some carbonite stat, before Ben's birthday takes hold~~

This time it isn't met with anger-- or if it is, it's toothless, played out in a raw, sharp-edged stare, lips thinned out, jaw too tight. There is nothing that Han Solo says that Ben cannot feel, and that is their common ground. Meager and pale, but true, and after a moment he attunes himself to it, feeling it low like the vibration of the ship around them.

This is his father, a liar that only knows the beating of his own heart and how it cares for what few matter in his eyes. A thief that steals too little.

A man, tired and old and waning, that never wanted all the mistakes he was forced to endure. In that, Kylo Ren-- Ben Solo-- sees himself, more than he ever did in Vader's broken shadow.

His stare drops to some far off, abstract point. Childish almost in the way he lowers his voice and lifts his chin, barely audible over the hum of the systems beneath their feet.] I was not asking you to.

[Yes he was.]

[ han holds his ground a second longer. moment he has his assurance that ben's abandoned that line of thinking — out loud at least — he returns to his previous task.

which is good because it would have been a pain to hunt down a holoprojector to sling around ben's neck: I wanted to kill the people who help fix my dad's ship. ]

Here. [ he holds out the servodriver like a peace offering. activity. his preferred form of dealing with…anything. ] Finish off those three for me, will you? You can reach them better than I can.

[He takes it without commentary, nodding only once to effectively commit himself to the newly assigned task. Action over words: easier to endure, no matter the context.

Unfamiliar in spite of the fact that he'd only just watched Han pry and pick at the Falcon's inner network, the knowledge that nearly twenty years ago his hands had been here once before; he pins the bolts where they're half-hidden away between panels, narrow fingers deft enough, but he's twisting them the wrong way-- hissing through his teeth as he fights against his own grip.]

[ if he were leia, he would have leaned back a moment, see if with a little space and time ben could figure it out for himself. but he isn't. han isn't that patient, and ben may as well be twisting han's finger from the way his struggle with the falcon's bolts feels. ]

Wait —

[ a roughened hand closes over ben's, correcting the direction in a gesture he had done so often he does not think it. ] Try it this way.

[There's only a careful, weighted pause as Han reaches in, physically correcting Ben's course with all the patience of a man who's getting punched repeatedly in his gut. Knuckles resisting the pull for a half-beat-- and then he follows along, expression tense, but tepid compared to how hot it ran only moments prior.

After a few turns he tilts his chin towards his shoulder, clearly addressing the only other person within earshot. ] I have it.

[Tight as it sounds, it's not for the reason Han Solo might expect. He hates weakness-- hates himself for being weak when all the noble notions and self-righteous stories about his birthright are stripped away-- but more than that, he hates seeing the deep, weathered scores that mark Han's knuckles. Age mapped out in spots and stripes and scars; so much older than what seems right or fair.

Having it there resting over his gloves is too potent a reminder. Stupid. Senseless sentimentality. Exhales once through his nose and sets his stare elsewhere, turning his attention to the next bolt instead. ]

[ nice, solo. one step forward, two leaps back. masking his disappointment, han gets to his feet. his mouth is set in a thin line. maybe he should leave this part to leia. maybe he should stop pushing. they could both use some space. ]

I'm gonna check on Chewie. [ clapping ben on the shoulder, ] Finish that up. I'll be back.

[It isn't a debate. No bristling where Han's hand finds his shoulder, no mourning the way he excuses himself except for some persistent, digging knot that's sunk distantly beneath Ben's own ribs.

The old smuggler had endured long enough. There would be time still between them before--

Ben keeps himself focused. Fingers to the driver, mind locked on the process of twisting and untwisting whatever sits in front of him. Alone he'd never been able to clear his mind the way that Luke had insisted was necessary, but with something to do it's as close to calm as he's ever known. Not freedom, not sanctuary, just...close enough.] Understood.

STAR WARS: possible spoiler warning

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