Two smugglers walk into a bar ...

A serving droid clinks two drinks on a (mostly) clean table.  One is a clear glass, in a standard size, full of a predictably amber colored liquid.  A whiff of it would tell someone familiar with the common spirits of the galaxy that it was Corellian brandy - that spicy, ever so slightly sweet smell was distinctive, yet common.  The other vessel placed upon the table was not glass and was far larger than one containing the brandy.  The alcohol in it was strong enough to make most humanoids light headed from the vapor.

Han doesn't say anything as the repurposed astromech unit twitters to them in binary.  If it was looking for appreciation or even acknowledgement of it's presence, it's doesn't seem like it's going to get it from this human.  It beeps louder, above the racket in the bar, with a decidedly indignant tone and then it rolls away from the table.  Moody, hazel eyes flick up at the back of the droid and a scowl spreads across the man's lips.

"Remember when you could go into a bar and there'd be people around to serve you?"

It's the same complaint every time they end up in a dive where there was a machine either taking his order or bringing his drink, so Chewbacca didn't even need to listen all that closely.  The only thing that changed was the tone.  It was smarmy and sarcastic when their pockets were lined with the credits of a job well done and embittered when they were broke.  This was an example of the latter.

Carbonite awakening ...

The first thing he sensed was how much it hurt to draw in oxygen.

It reminded him of that burning feeling you get when you're trying to run while being out of breath, but adding to it the feeling of a Gamorean sitting on your chest.  It hurt so much that he didn't notice the sensation of falling onto the ground in a heap or even smacking against the floor, though his head did bounce against the ground in a way that would make the average bystander wince.

For a while, all that he can do is breathe.  It seems to take every bit of his limited energy to keep the air going out of his weak lungs.  He's trembling reflexively and in less than a standard minute there is visible sweat collecting on his brow.

Air in.  Air out.  Chest throbbing in pain from the effort.