Her own little pieces of glass clatter next to his, and she isn't like him. She doesn't have scars, just metal cut into her brain, she doesn't have experience, just knowledge of the unforgiving actions of the world.

So fragile, locked in her ivory tower, and sickly without the eridium, that there are little knicks spreading red as she holds too tight in the effort to not drop the glass shards and make more of a mess. Absently she looks down at them, and thinks, probably, she is supposed to do something about that. Later.

Perhaps they can both pretend that's why she flinches from his words. It hurts in a way no wound could give. Her breath pulls in, and the reflex to his presence, his judgement and absence of forgiveness or hatred leaves her in that sick floating place. A few minutes ago, she was distracted, and it was nice. Going quiet she fumbles a minute in a way that feels so wrong in talking to him. She was always far away and collected, and if Jack was hurting her, he would never see it. Here it was obvious, the little scrunch of her nose as she climbs back up to the barstool, too big for someone her size. Licking dry lips as she finds one of the many drinks she's tried and busies herself in drinking it.

"So... so is there... work for a vault hunter in hell?"