Hefting the water certainly wasn't difficult, and Marcus picked it up as soon as she gave him clearance to do so. Consent to carry. The smile on his face didn't even falter. If she had informed him that she wasn't a camp bitch (and really, that was a question to be asked of almost all of the women within the walls, to a point, wasn't it?), Marcus would have laughed and said he wasn't one, either. But those were the kinds of things that might better be left unsaid. In truth, he'd only somewhat recently come to realize that the presence of murderers and prostitutes in the camp wasn't a joke.
"Medic," he answers, easily. "Used to be a trauma nurse in Phoenix, before it went to fucking hell. Hablas español, mamí?"
The question was almost too hopeful. If she did, he could speak with her more freely, since most of the camp didn't. He wouldn't be surprised if she said no, however. His luck hadn't been good with that so far. There was an underlying tension to the way he spoke and moved that belied the easygoing smile and small flirtations. Something tense and wary. Whatever else she might be, he was risking a lot assuming that the cow lady wasn't one of the camp faithful. Warning her about the impending dangers could just as easily get him into more trouble as it could save her from it. For all he knew, he was making a mistake approaching her at all.