Sparrow shrugged. "Beer doesn't last long. Especially out of the cold." He hopped up onto the bar, swinging his legs so he was straddling it. He made sure that where he sat had a view of everything--even his back, by way of a ceiling-mounted dome mirror that had managed to survive with some smoke damage. Wasn't crystal clear, but it'd work well enough.
"You wouldn't think I was cute if there were other options available," he said. This was a matter-of-fact statement with zero self-deprecation. "I'm small of build, relatively short. My limbal rings are practically invisible, which wouldn't on its own determine whether or not you find me attractive, but it adds in. And furthermore, within about another five minutes, I'm going to stop trying, and you're going to start recognising my total lack of interest and visible emotion not as an attempt to just get through my day as a raider but a total inability to actually care. Most people find that... off-putting." For lack of a better word.
In the world before, it had been a lot more essential to hide. Duck your head, fake a smile, pretend. That had changed with the apocalypse. If you were breathing, you were ahead of the game. Hiding what you were was no longer required. Or even advisable.
"Less than a month, more than a week. I haven't been keeping track. It's hard to count days in the underground." He tugged one of his legs up to his chest, hugging it and resting his head on his knee. "A lot of them are junkies, or they were people who didn't flourish in civilised society. Murderers, brutes, thugs, thieves. Every once in a while, it's a capable, intelligent person. There's no order down there. But there probably should be."
After a very, very brief moment, he added, "You're not so bad yourself."