"You're a saint," Ares called to Eva's retreating back, taking the glass in both hands and drawing it close to him. His stomach quietly protested at the thought of having to deal with the drink, insisting in its own little way that nothing short of death could save them now. The smuggler ignored it, lifting the glass and sipping slowly, both to spare Eva the inevitable clean-up that trying to gulp it down would cause, and to savour the drink itself. They didn't have a great line in citrus fruits where he came from - or any fruits, really. Something about the soil didn't lend itself to them, even after terraforming. Most of their vitamin C came from fruit-flavoured amino gels, which tasted like they'd been put together by a team of enthusiastic scientists whose sum total knowledge about fruit came from an article they'd read during their morning commute.
The smuggler blinked owlishly behind his lenses, brain struggling faintly with the question. Ares twisted, looking up at the Planet's ceiling, then back at the door before shrugging.
"Can't argue with that, I guess. Weather's always good in space, right?" Ares eyed his glass, then set it aside with a tiny pang of regret, resolving to be at least a little sociable. "You're not from around here, huh? I spend --" He paused, mentally scoring out the words 'too much'. "-- a healthy amount of time here. Begging your pardon abd all, but you don't look much like you belong on Avalon. What's brought you to our little hive of scum and villainy?"