Lalo slides the finger out from between Rust's gag. Leaves it in place. For now. He'll remove it later. Somehow, though, he seems to understand the other man's murmurs from behind it? In his mind, they translate into real words.

There's a dark patch of something on the denim, almost black. The wound has, indeed, fucking bled through. Lalo shuffles around, limp made worse from what Rust did, but aside from the occasional grimace, he doesn't seem to be in any pain.

Lalo watches Rust's eyes on his him and holds back a snort. Lalo's own walkie is clipped around his belt buckle. Rust's walkie and both guns are nowhere to be seen. At least not on Lalo's person.

He meets Rust's gaze, when it returns. Eyes still it up from inside.

"Not on the hand."

A little flip in Lalo's stomach, a faint blush around his ears of all places. He's not stupid enough to think whatever was going on with the detective will last after this. He's basically torched it to the ground. But that's fine. He can live with that as consequence. As long as he has a tracker, and the detective is alive and with him, then he's happy enough.

Doesn't mean he won't be thinking about that remark later. Recalling the hand grazing his arm.

His almost-desperate arousal and embarrassment in response.

For now though, he laughs. "Ayyyy, you're feisty! I like that," he says. And winks. Deliberately exaggerated.

He watches the detective squirm in his cuffs and feels the flips stop and instead something in his gut tightens. Turns mean. Cat-like, he feels the impulse to play with his meal. Watch it squirm.

He doesn't answer right away, instead dropping down next to the tied-up man with a soft groan. His eyes flit from Rust, to the ceiling of the tent, and back to Rust.

A shrug. A neutral expression. Finally, an answer:

"This? This is our shelter. From the storm."