The other Freelancer's quick movements and choice of seating doesn't escape Maine's notice. His jaw tightens, anger beginning to mix with his concern. It's not directed at Wash: it's directed at whoever — or whatever — spooked him so badly. Maine follows without hesitation, deliberately choosing a seat that places his bulk between Wash and the most likely point of attack. If someone wants to fuck with Wash, they're going to have to go through Maine first.

Once he's seated, the big man takes off his snow-covered hat, pulls off the pant leg he's been using as a scarf, and removes the spare socks he's had on his hands. Then, for the first time without snow interfering with his vision, Maine looks at his friend's face.

The tension in Maine's jaw vanishes as his lips part. It's not slack-jawed shock — save for anger, Maine rarely shows any emotion so blatantly — but his surprise is unmistakable. Dark eyes search Wash's face, taking in how rough he looks without understanding its cause.

"Look like shit."

Maine's never been a delicate man. Not in actions or in words. But his concern is as plain as his surprise.

And, without his hat in the way, it's equally plain that Maine lacks the scars he gained during the fight on the highway. There are none on his face from where his visor shattered. More significantly, there's not a single mark on his neck. He hasn't experienced that fight, or lived through its consequences.