It's a sentiment that Maine understands. In combat, he works better as part of a unit. (Or so he believes.) He handles the things that require strength and brute force; a teammate takes care of the things that require speed or precision. Outside of combat, however, Maine prefers to be on his own — or at the side of one of the very few people he calls "friend."

But hearing that attitude come out of Wash is strange. It's not as it should be. Wash was always in the middle of shit. Approaching York and North; getting picked on by South; spending time with CT. Speaking up when the rest of them knew to keep their mouths shut. The rookie — earnest and so fucking gullible that Maine could never figure out whether he wanted to shake Wash or shove him in a protective bubble.

He realizes that he's staring. Turns to look at the fire instead, hoping that he didn't appear too troubled. He sits down all the way with a little grunt, then starts pulling off his equally wet shoes so they can dry off beside the flames.

Maybe he should ask about Wash's comment. But he doesn't. Instead, he turns the subject back to something easier for him to deal with than emotions. Turns it back to their living situation and their survival.

"Confusing tech," he admits. It's so old and unintuitive that he's had trouble figuring out how many things work.