The last thing that Maine wants to do is make Wash uncomfortable. His friend may look a little better than he did earlier — at the very least, Wash isn't sitting with his back to a wall and looking like he might bolt at any second — but he still looks rough. Still looks like something bad has happened to him.

Maine doesn't know what happened. Doesn't know who hurt his friend. Isn't sure how he'd even ask about it, or if Wash would stick around long enough to give him an answer. Best Maine can do right now is make sure nothing else hurts Wash.

So, when he notices the other man tense, Maine winces internally. Ducks his head to make sure that nothing shows on his face. Wash always could read him like an open book.

Thankfully, the other Freelancer picks up the thread of conversation. Maine hums in agreement and raises his left wrist to show off his own device.

"Bright," he notes, referring to the band on Wash's device. Compared to Maine's black one, it certainly is. The big man presses his lips together as he frowns at the color. "Blue? Green?"

The fuck color is that?