The Meta moves towards him, and Wash instinctively moves backwards. it hasn't been that long since they were fighting in the snow, just like this, and even when they'd been working together, Wash had watched his back. The difference in movement doesn't register, the expression either, and he's fallen into a combat stance before he even realises it.

He isn't armed. Why the fuck isn't he armed? He'd let this place lull him into a false sense of security, even briefly and that was unacceptable.

He's ready to snap, to bolt at a moment's notice, but then the Meta... speaks. He recognised the growling of course. He always has. But there's something different about the way he talks now. Like... the Meta hadn't sworn, hadn't cared about cold or heat or hunger.

"...There's three feet of snow. What did you expect?"