"I don't need to share anything, except this shelter, right now." The slightest emphasis on need. Which might seem a little underscoring of his own self-sufficiency, and it is; he has everything required to make it through this storm. Yet it's also a subtle advertisement, if she can pick it up, of what he doesn't deem necessary: violence, as opposed to temporary coexistence. (His voice, well-suited to tonal nuance, stays low, even striving with the cave's distortion.)
"But you can use the fire." Lifting his chin, he indicates the space on the ground across from his. The light isn't particularly kind to his features, either. More cadmium than phosphor, it still manages to shine eerie on the ridge of his brows, and hellish everywhere else.
Lucy sees it as an invitation, told sideways to preserve... something about the other man, pride or the feeling of being a rugged individual. Maybe he, like her, is tired of being underestimated. The thought makes her like him more, not that she needs a reason. She's predisposed to like everyone. She was raised that way.
She sits next to him, and, still beaming, begins to open the can. "More for me, then!" More chipper small talk, a refuge for when she doesn't know what to do. You need to be polite, and cheerfulness is part of that, even when she feels weary.
He stays where he is, when she takes the place beside him, though it's clearly not what was offered. No evident tensing, no recoil and frown. Though he does move his empty plate, soon as he sees her intent. Places it with the rest of his gear, so she's got that spot of ground—and room in front of the fire too.
"Alex." Reaching to clasp her hand, solid but brief. His is calloused, dirt rimed under the nails, a few minor scars across the knuckles. Both reasonable and noteworthy at once, out here, considering. He angles his head to look straight into her face, even after his arm settles back at his knee.
Her handshake is firm but gentle, her hands dry and warm. Her smile is genuine, even as her eyes rake over his face, trying to see him better.
Lucy cuts two holes in the can with a large Bowie knife, the kind used to skin alligators in some distant time or place. Even in the dim light, her movements are precise. If you can't do something well, you may as well not do it at all.
"I appreciate you offering," she says, very direct. "But I can't. Water is-- I know what it costs, up here."
“The offer’s not free.” When he corrects her it isn’t sharp, just firm and swift. Like his hand. “I am open to a trade.”
He’s still looking at her head-on, in between the motions she makes slicing open the can. The flames’ glow washes the stark planes of his face, which gives back little, save the force of scrutiny itself.
As for what Alex sees in hers—he’d wondered if the composite sketches were half caricature, the size of those eyes. Not by much, it turns out.
Lucy goes a little still, considering his words. Of course she'd assumed a free gift, an attempt to be kind-- it's what she would have done. This is a different place, the surface, a different world. Another culture. Another time. The Wasteland lives in a perpetual future.
She should look at this as an opportunity. She can show him her kindness, and in doing so, prove trustworthy.
“I already told you.” Again, a correction. Delivered almost patiently, yet absent of any feeling—including even mild disappointment—which might result from his being at all impressed to begin with. “I don’t need anything, here.”
He glances away, long enough to reach for the pot still hanging over his fire. Unhooks it, sets it down in the cool dirt to one side.
A lifetime of excelling, of always striving, of always getting it right; her jaw twitches very sightly at this correction. She isn't supposed to get things wrong. But it's worth reiterating, if only to herself-- this man is from another culture. It's not wrong. It's miscommunication.
"Well, I'm a good shot, but I figure everybody's gotta be out here to survive." Her cheer is summoned back immediately, instinctively. "I've benefited from a full and vigorous education. I can name all the pre-war presidents."
She knows he won't care about that, but it's a fun thing to mention.
"Do you need anything repaired? I was a part of the Young Pipefitter's Association, and I once built a fully functional TV set out of spare parts. It stopped working after an hour, but only because one of the vacuum tubes was faulty." One day, she's sure, she'll finally find out who shot Liberty Valance.
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"But you can use the fire." Lifting his chin, he indicates the space on the ground across from his. The light isn't particularly kind to his features, either. More cadmium than phosphor, it still manages to shine eerie on the ridge of his brows, and hellish everywhere else.
no subject
She sits next to him, and, still beaming, begins to open the can. "More for me, then!" More chipper small talk, a refuge for when she doesn't know what to do. You need to be polite, and cheerfulness is part of that, even when she feels weary.
"I'm Lucy, by the way." She holds out her hand.
no subject
"Alex." Reaching to clasp her hand, solid but brief. His is calloused, dirt rimed under the nails, a few minor scars across the knuckles. Both reasonable and noteworthy at once, out here, considering. He angles his head to look straight into her face, even after his arm settles back at his knee.
"You need water?"
no subject
Lucy cuts two holes in the can with a large Bowie knife, the kind used to skin alligators in some distant time or place. Even in the dim light, her movements are precise. If you can't do something well, you may as well not do it at all.
"I appreciate you offering," she says, very direct. "But I can't. Water is-- I know what it costs, up here."
In her youth, it was so plentiful.
no subject
He’s still looking at her head-on, in between the motions she makes slicing open the can. The flames’ glow washes the stark planes of his face, which gives back little, save the force of scrutiny itself.
As for what Alex sees in hers—he’d wondered if the composite sketches were half caricature, the size of those eyes. Not by much, it turns out.
no subject
She should look at this as an opportunity. She can show him her kindness, and in doing so, prove trustworthy.
"What do you need?"
no subject
He glances away, long enough to reach for the pot still hanging over his fire. Unhooks it, sets it down in the cool dirt to one side.
“What do you have that’s useful?”
no subject
"Well, I'm a good shot, but I figure everybody's gotta be out here to survive." Her cheer is summoned back immediately, instinctively. "I've benefited from a full and vigorous education. I can name all the pre-war presidents."
She knows he won't care about that, but it's a fun thing to mention.
"Do you need anything repaired? I was a part of the Young Pipefitter's Association, and I once built a fully functional TV set out of spare parts. It stopped working after an hour, but only because one of the vacuum tubes was faulty." One day, she's sure, she'll finally find out who shot Liberty Valance.