A cocky presence carries the man across with, no doubt, something clever to say resting on the brink of his lips. “Don’t let this fancy suit go t’your head now, pal,” he finally addresses as he looks his old friend up and down through an emerging grin, memories of windows of childhood spent together flitting through his mind’s eye. Pick pocketing, conning, teaching little Dicky the lay of the land when it came to surviving on the streets. “Who would’a thought you’d turn out t’be the respectable one, huh? … .Suits you.”
He can feel Han stare, judging his ‘ f a n c y ’ suit. Though he’s used to having many people focus on him, it’s a little unnerving when Han does it, and Don feels as if Han was disappointed. Their childhood together was something of an unbreakable bond, and a necessity all at once. Don very well knows he owes it to the slightly older man that he’s even alive.
It doesn’t ease his anxiety however, knowing that Han knew his past, but at the same time, there’s a bit of a burden that disappears. After all, Don could be...well, Don could be Dick. He could be himself, even though he had re-created Donald Draper. As it were, if you wore a face for years and years...it became your persona; for better or for worse.
Don will return the grin, eyebrow raising as he slides the other man a glass. “-- Just because I clean up nice doesn’t mean I don’t remember where I came from, Han.”
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