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Summary
“I don’t need luck,” says Illya gruffly, before he shoulders his pack and hangs up the receiver.
“Yeah, yeah,” quips Solo, grinning. There’s a tinge of madness in his sapphire eyes. Of the thrill of danger. He might not be stable either... at least Illya’s found some decent company. “We all get it- you Beekeepers are scary and fear nothing. I, however, would prefer some of Lady Luck’s favour.”
“Is not lack of fear.” Illya checks his gun, holsters it. “Is necessary-“
“For the safety of the Hive, yeah I know.”