Sitting down would've been counter-productive, anyway. Standing, Sam could tie the hoodie around her waist and indulge in some serious stretching; one hand around the other's wrist, both arms rebar-rigid and angled up until something in an elbow made a muffled pop. (Since she still faced his seat, Will would see that even the palm of her right hand had been tattooed.) She sighed in relief, picked up her coffee, and judged it cool enough to start sipping... but remained standing where she was, making no move to sit. She'd seen the glance Will gave her things, and knew it for the assessment it was; in his position, she would've been appraising anyone who approached just as carefully.

“They are. So'm I, for that matter. What about you? American, I'm assuming?” Assuming was generally a bad thing, but this assumption had to be harmless enough; it came couched as a gentle question. “I can at least tell you the quarters'll work fine in your vending machines; yours don't give ours any issues.”