Wash isn't the only one having trouble without his armor. While Maine isn't being buffeted by the wind — his weight offsets how very much of him there is to hit — he's no less prone to slipping. So he's walking with his head bowed, dark eyes squinting down at his boots as he carefully places one foot in front of the other.

It's unlike him. Usually, Maine barrels headlong into the fray and damn the consequences. But this isn't a battle. His adrenaline isn't high; his heart isn't pounding; he's not snarling and eager to snap bones beneath his fists. No; this is something else entirely. This is a fight to stay warm.

See, there's another downside to showing up here sans armor. In addition to all its strength and power (and the comfort of wearing it, like the black bodysuit is his very skin), the armor regulates temperature. It keeps Maine from getting too hot or too cold. And, while he can deal with warm climates, Maine can't fucking stand the cold.

So the massive man picks his way through the snow, growing more and more frustrated by the second. Progress is slow, and every second spent outdoors is another second spent cold. His baseball hat does little to warm his shaved head, either. Scowling, he raises his eyes to check his progress—

— just in time to see a familiar figure slip, stumble, and barely regain its balance.

Maine stops in his tracks. Stares for a moment, wondering if he's wrong. Studies the figure as it pulls up a scarf and begins to move.

"Wash?"

Too familiar not to try.