Noventa - A Star Wars Story

"Glad to hear it." He said, smirking.

Cal sighed pleasantly. Even with the curious moment earlier, and despite the heavy rain outside, it was undoubtedly one of the most pleasant evenings he'd had in a while. With the same flourish he always had, he poured a bit more in each of their glasses. After all, they weren't done yet.

/fadetobourbon

"I wouldn't do that." She smiles and arches an eyebrow, picking up her glass again as a sort of prop to compose herself. "We don't overcharge our neediest patients." And you can have the smile for fr--what? Um. She takes a sip of her drink, a little bigger than intended, and coughs slightly as it goes down.

Cal felt his own breath catching just a little bit, rather unexpectedly, at the sight of that faint flush. His scruff helped to hide the matching blush on his features... well, surely it was just the alcohol that pinked his cheeks, right?

He pulled back his own hand the same time she did, running it across his face. A beat, and the strangely intimate moment had passed. Which didn't mean he couldn't playfully flirt, like he always did.

"Why, Doc." He flashed a grin. "I'm sure that even if you doubled your prices, I'd go to you when I needed patching up, just to see the smile on your face." Actually, she did have a nice smile. He smirked. "I'm hoping you don't, though. Margins aren't that good running a bar, I can tell you."

Yara breaks into a sheepish smile. "It wouldn't be just me, I'm sure. But thank you, all the same." Her fingers twitch a little under his, and she spares a fragment of mental bandwidth to curse the recessive Human genetics that probably mean the heat on her cheekbones and ears is visible as at least a faint pink flush just now. "It would be a terrible blow to lose my best customer."

She shakes her head slightly, withdrawing her hand a beat or two later than she'd meant to. "So, if I have to cut a deal to keep your business... I'd consider that punch card. "

"Of course." Cal said, flashing a grin. "Although I'd wager I'm your best customer. Maybe you should get a punchcard or something, y'know, ten tips in bacta and the eleventh is free or somethin' like that."

His grin softened as she went on, his eyes widening a bit as they met hers. "Yeah, okay." He said, nodding, his expression turning earnestly serious. "I may take risks I maybe shouldn't from time to time. And maybe I don't take things as serious as I should sometimes."

He reached out, his hand finding hers, even as she spun her glass. His hand was warm, and gentle as he gave hers a comforting squeeze. "But I promise," he said, their eyes still locked together, "-I'm not gonna be so stupid as to hurt you like that."

"It's what I'm here for," Yara says with a shrug, though still meeting his eyes with warmth. "Well, not for you exclusively, of course, but..." She chuckles.

Growing a little more reflective, she leans an elbow on the table and spins her glass a turn or two on the tabletop, slowly. "I am afraid of all sorts of things. More than you, likely enough. Friends getting themselves killed has never ceased to be one." She looks up from the glass to meet his eyes again. "Do try not to be that sort of dangerous, at least, please."

Cal leaned forward, just a little. "And I'd say that depends. What are you afraid of?" A moment passed, and he sat back. "But you're right, of course." He matched her grin, as entertained to see at as at the conversation. "I should do my part to make sure the blame is properly directed at me for my mishaps. Take proper responsibility, and all that."

He took a slow sip, keeping his eyes on hers. "And you're right, aren't many scars to see. Although you look hard enough..." He arched an eyebrow. "But I have to say, I do appreciate it. So many times as a marshal, I get shot up, and I have to make do with whatever doctor I could find. Sometimes that meant, I don't know, an alcoholic with a degree from Wobani who could barely tell his own ass from his elbow, let alone mine." Chuckling, he shook his head. "Nice having you around."

"That depends. Should I?" She arches an eyebrow and takes another sip herself. "I could turn that around, you know. Patients suffering frequent relapses don't reflect so well on a physician. How are people who see this calendar to know it's not my fault you insist on undoing my work?" She grins, an unusually mischievous expression.

"As entertaining as that sounds, I hope you haven't got a scar from every single injury. I'd hate to think all your doctors before me were such butchers there wasn't anything they could mend cleanly."

Cal snorted. "Hey, if we keep it at your place, it just looks like you've got a frequent patient. If we keep it here, we get people thinkin' the proprietor is dangerously irresponsible. You don't think I'm dangerous, do you Doc?" His eyes glinted at her as he took another sip of his bourbon.

He sighed, shaking his head. "Wow, that really is good and strong, huh?" He leaned back in his seat, relaxing. "I couldn't really say. Probably not as high a number as it should be for someone who's retired. Was retired."

The playful smirk returned. "Of course, I suppose next time you get my shirt off, you could just take a moment to count the scars."

She smirks at him from behind her glass. "Wouldn't that fit better here? 'It has been blank days since the proprietor was last shot, stabbed, or punctured on the job. The company record is...'" she trails off. "What is the company record, anyway? I suppose I could look it up in your patient history."

Cal's brow lightly creased at the first part; not since before the war ended? But things rapidly became clear. His expression softened. "Sorry." It wasn't entirely clear whether he was apologizing or expressing sympathy. "Here I go and suggest a toast to the present, and then end up talking about the past. Well, I've never been great at following rules, even my own."

He took another slow sip of bourbon before giving her a smile. "Seems to me you've got yourself a pretty good home here, now. The clinic's real nice. You ever think about decorating more? Maybe get a custom calendar." He raised his hands, framing the imagined item. "'It has been so-and-so many days since Cal Arcton last visited.' See how many we can get up to." He smirked. "In your professional capacity, I mean. Not just stoppin' by to say hi, or something like that."

"Hm." As opposed to... mixing bourbon? Gulping bourbon? Somehow discussing the technicalities of the local spirits doesn't take priority at the moment. Instead Yara contemplates the drink and the sound of lashing rain from outside until Cal asks about family.

"Family? I do, more or less, back on Grange. Haven't been in touch since before the war ended." Her voice is quite neutral--deceptively so? Hard to say. She pauses for another sip of Cal's best bourbon. "They had to denounce me to keep the land, you see, after I defected. I don't blame them. But it's difficult to say quite where that leaves us."

The soft clink of glass brought a smile to Cal's lips right before the drink. He drank it the same way she did, a slow sip, savoring the taste on his tongue before swallowing.

He chuckled, watching her. "Yeah, it definitely doesn't lie about it, like some drinks do. Sippin' bourbon, my daddy would have called it. If he could've ever afforded a bottle of something like that."

He was silent a moment, frowning thoughtfully into his glass. "You still got any family, doc?" He asked suddenly.

"Sure. To all of that." She reaches across and clinks the rim of her glass against his. "Just the present. Never mind the future for the moment, or the past." Leaning back in her seat again, she brings the glass to her lips and takes a comfortable sip, rolling the liquor around her mouth for a moment. "Whew! Oh, that is good. Though higher proof than I expected." She swirls her glass again, regarding it with a cautious new respect.

Cal snorted. "Well-aged. Yeah, I was avoiding that one, too."

The question was not an unexpected one for Cal. And yet, he found that he didn't have an answer. "Huh. A couple things come to mind. To the Rebellion, or the Republic. To friendship, or retirement. I don't know. None of those sound quite right."

He lifted his glass, eyes narrowed as he peered into it. "But I guess I'm just thinking how this is a nice way to spend the evening, especially when it's like that out." He waved a hand at one of the covered windows. "In a comfortable booth, sharing a nice glass of bourbon, a pleasant moment." He looked up. "With you."

After a moment, he chuckled. "Don't know if I can think of a way to say that in three words or less." He lifted his glass higher, holding it out towards her. "To that?"

"Hmm. Underground bourbon?" Yara swirls the liquid in her glass gently. "Made in wartime? It is rather apt, isn't it." She lifts the glass in his direction with a wry grin. "I won't mention well-aged. What shall we drink to?"

It was a strong scent, sweet and smooth, with just a hint of smoky.

"Well," Cal said, raising one eyebrow. "Back when this planet was under CIS rule, one of the families here made some great top-shelf bourbon. But when the Empire came in, they put a stop to them making more. Officially, at least. They worked undercover the whole time. Did a good trade, but there just aren't that many bottles to be found."

He nodded to it. "That there bottle's been aged for about twelve years. Came out just about the time Noventa became free of the Empire. Thought it seemed appropriate for the two of us."

Yara peers at the bottle, raising an eyebrow. "What is it? Besides the good stuff." She accepts one of the glasses and sniffs thoughtfully at the contents.

Cal's brown eyes glinted back, tiny laugh lines becoming visible around his eyes. "Well..." He shrugged. "Everyone's got their weakness that'll get them spilling their secrets; I learned that as a marshal. Mine's old friends, and beautiful ladies." He let that hang there a moment, giving her the chance to wonder which category she fell into.

He rose smoothly to his feet, his long stride carrying him easily behind the bar. He glanced back at her with a smirk. "No peeking, now." He said, one finger raised up in mock-warding. He ducked down, only to come back up a moment with a slightly dusty bottle, a deep amber color only by virtue of the liquid within.

He came back, snatching two fresh glasses along the way, sliding as easily into the seat as he left. "Now this," He said archly, even as he poured with his usual flourish, "-is the good stuff."

"Well. Maybe I might." The rim of the mug partially veils her expression, but her green eyes seem to brighten compared to when she'd dragged herself in from the rain. "I'll take you up on that second drink, certainly. That secret cache of yours has been calling me ever since you so innocently admitted its existence."