Maybe what makes him feel inclined to friendliness is the recognition that this other young man is in a similar position, curious and taking it all in. Cricket and Jack are nowhere near as far from home as their contacts, but it's a brave new world for them nonetheless. Jack has a kind of tension and swagger to him; he's capable of feeding on the adrenaline rush of this kind of business, and the money and attention it has afforded him so far is as rewarding as he always thought it would be. Cricket is more practical. Loyalty is what brought him here and what keeps him here--not that he's not getting paid well, but he'll be glad when they're back in Franklin County and he can relax. And yet, the opportunity to hear a little about the world outside the mountains is one he can't let slide by.
He's been listening attentively, but subtly, to all the side conversations. He's been watching the body language of the other men, keeping an eye out for trouble. The first time they tried this, after all, they were within a breath of getting their brains blown out, and maybe Jack has forgotten that, but Cricket never will.
The coffee is black, and between that and how long it's sat, it's bitter as hell, but it's still better than nothing at this hour. Mountain cold and ocean cold have some similarities; both have the wind in them, whistling past to bite at any skin it can mouth.
Cricket smiles a little when he's thanked, takes a gulp of the coffee, himself, and sets the thermos on the roof of the truck. He makes a little snorting noise at the question and nods. "Ain't my real name, just a nickname, but it's what everyone's called me since I was around four."
His brow quirks, and he studies the other man in return. "How 'bout you? Gotta ask, is Jasper your real name?"
The dialect of this region has some quirks. One of them is that 'jasper' is a generic term for an acquaintance you're on decent terms with. It'd be an ideal pseudonym for trading in this area, like Ulysses calling himself Nemo, except hopefully Jasper won't be running into any Cyclops.
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He's been listening attentively, but subtly, to all the side conversations. He's been watching the body language of the other men, keeping an eye out for trouble. The first time they tried this, after all, they were within a breath of getting their brains blown out, and maybe Jack has forgotten that, but Cricket never will.
The coffee is black, and between that and how long it's sat, it's bitter as hell, but it's still better than nothing at this hour. Mountain cold and ocean cold have some similarities; both have the wind in them, whistling past to bite at any skin it can mouth.
Cricket smiles a little when he's thanked, takes a gulp of the coffee, himself, and sets the thermos on the roof of the truck. He makes a little snorting noise at the question and nods. "Ain't my real name, just a nickname, but it's what everyone's called me since I was around four."
His brow quirks, and he studies the other man in return. "How 'bout you? Gotta ask, is Jasper your real name?"
The dialect of this region has some quirks. One of them is that 'jasper' is a generic term for an acquaintance you're on decent terms with. It'd be an ideal pseudonym for trading in this area, like Ulysses calling himself Nemo, except hopefully Jasper won't be running into any Cyclops.