AN: Saw someone doing this list of prompts on Archive, went out and found it, couldn't resist doing it myself. First prompt: 'this stranger on the street corner looks like they're severely unprepared for this cold weather, here, take my scarf, i was planning on donating it to goodwill anyways' au.

Ellie kicked up a few dead leaves littering the sidewalk and smiled. She'd always liked the color that came to Boston during the fall; splashes of red, orange, and yellow livening up the normally gray city, if only for a few months. Then December rolled around and people died of exposure and the like until the April thaw.

She frowned and kicked a few more leaves, burying her hands in her jacket pockets. It was the only one she owned and thin as hell. She used to have a thicker one; dark green and fitting her more like a trench coat, it was the warmest thing she'd ever owned. Naturally, Ross-a blonde jackass with a face like a pitbull-beat the shit out of her and took it.

Ellie's frown turned into a scowl and her fingers closed around her switchblade. He was going to bleed before he took anything else of hers.

She glanced up and stopped at the crosswalk. Jaywalking in Boston wasn't smart. People would sooner slam into you and keep going than lay on the brakes. That she learned the hard way. Her leg still ached whenever it rained.

A tall man in a dark green jacket like she used to have stopped beside her, a red scarf loosely wrapped around his neck. Ellie slouched and stuck out her chin, widening her stance slightly. It was the typical street rat posture and usually worked pretty well in getting people to leave her alone. Or when she was mugging someone, but that didn't happen often. Sparkly eyes and looking hungry usually did the job if quick fingers didn't.

The man glanced over at her and huffed in-what? Amusement? Derision? Maybe both. She hunched her shoulders and glared at him out of the corner of her eye.

Fuck you too, buddy. Not cold enough yet for a winter coat and scarf, fuckin' tourist.

The walk light flicked on and she took one step forward when a hand landed on her shoulder. Ellie jumped and skittered sideways, shooting the man her hardest glare and pulling her hands out of her pockets. "Don't fucking touch me, old man."

His gray eyes flickered with something that could have been sad, but then it was gone, replaced by cool indifference. He wordlessly took off his scarf and held it out to her.

...The fuck?

She cast a wary eye over the red fabric, then turned it on the old man. Old was maybe exaggerating. His black hair and beard were shot with gray, but the cut of his build said he was middle-aged. Must've seen some shit, she mused, remembering Howard, who died last winter at forty-four. Tough old veteran had more gray than this tourist when he went.

His skin was a bit tanned and weathered, crows feet at the corners of his eyes and faint worry lines etched into his forehead. He sighed and let his hand fall, then held the scarf out to her again.

"You takin' it or not?"

Definitely a tourist, with that Texan accent. Ellie scoffed and shoved her hands in her pockets.

"Depends on what sort of strings are attached."

The tourist rolled his eyes. "None. I was plannin' on gettin' rid of this old thing anyway; might as well give it to someone who could use it."

She looked at the scarf again. It was a little threadbare, but the fabric looked rich and the dye was still vibrant, despite its apparent age. It looked like the same red as the leaves…

Ellie hesitantly took it, keeping a wary eye on the tourist. The scarf was warm and soft, and when she wrapped it around her neck, smelled like coffee and gun grease. That was interesting. He must work with guns often, for the scarf to smell like one. The thing was so big it spilled over her shoulders and a little past her waist, but she liked it.

The tourist sighed and unravelled the scarf. She took a step back, tensing up and opened her mouth to protest.

"Hush," he said, pinning her with a stern look. To her own surprise, Ellie obeyed. The tourist wound it three times around her neck, then tied it in front with ease that spoke of many years of practice. It made her wonder if he was a father, the way he went about it. At least, that's what she thought fathers were like. The scarf hung over her torso, the tassels on the end reaching to just below her chest.

"There. Keep it like that, and you'll be warmer."

The tourist stepped back and looked across the street. The crosswalk light was red again. Ellie toyed with the tassels.

"Why's it smell like gun oil?"

The tourist glanced over at her. "What's a kid like you knowin' what gun oil smells like?"

Ellie set her jaw and lifted her chin. "Whaddya mean a 'kid like me?'"

He rolled his eyes. "Kids like you should be in school, not pokin' around where guns are."

She rolled her eyes back at him. "Had friend who was a cop. Winston. He'd pay me to clean his gun."

The tourist looked over at her, something like alarm flashing across his face. Ellie scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Not his dick, his service revolver," she spat. "Jesus. I'm not a whore. And you didn't answer my question."

The tourist sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I own a gun. Obviously."

She sneered at him and they stood in silence for a few seconds. The light stayed red.

"Are you a dad?"

He tensed at the question and gave her a hard look. "Why?"

Ellie shrugged and looked down at her shoes. "Just got the impression."

He turned back to watching the light, still tense. "Was."

Shit... She looked up and took in his stony expression. "Sorry…"

The tourist grunted. "Drop it."

The light finally turned green and Ellie stepped out onto the street, the tourist two paces behind her.

"Do you have a name, tourist?" she asked, sticking her hands in her pockets and falling in step with him. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"That obvious, huh?"

"C'mon. Texan accent, heavy coat, scarf. No way you're not a tourist."

He gave an amused huff. "You don't sound too Boston yourself. More like a corn-fed midwesterner."

"The benefits of being taught how to read by a Nebraskan librarian," Ellie said with a shrug. "I honestly hate the Boston accent. It's really just a bastardization of Italian, but more nasally and shouty. Why do you keep deflecting my questions?"

He stopped for a second, then kept moving. He shrugged. "Habit, I suppose. Name's Joel."

"Ellie. Why's it a habit?"

Joel shrugged again. "Busybodies like stickin' their noses where they ain't welcome. Folk in small towns don't have much else to do but gossip."

"And that's why you're here?" They turned the corner and Joel nodded.

"Partially. Mostly here for work. Have a friend I was gonna meet today. Said she had a job opportunity for me."

Ellie's brow furrowed. "Your friend wouldn't happen to be Tess Wersching, would she?"

Joel's eyebrows shot into his hairline. "You know her?"

She shook her head. "No, not really. But just about everyone on the street's heard of her. Word is she's got something going on with the Robert, a big wig in black market trade. Word also is she's been looking for muscle."

She gave Joel a critical once-over. "Didn't really peg you for a meathead."

A harsh, bitter thing that might have been a laugh fell out of his mouth. "You and me both, kid."

He stopped in front of a coffee shop where-presumably-he'd be meeting this Tess person, and dug through his coat pocket, eventually producing a fifty dollar bill. "Here. Get a coat and some boots. Gonna be a cold winter."

Ellie stared at the bill for a second, then had to force herself not to snatch it and hold on like it would turn to dust if she let go. Instead she took it calmly, like a normal person, and tucked it in her pocket. She gave Joel a crooked grin. "See you around, old man. Tell Tess if she needs ears, I'm willing to sell."

The sort of sad look came back to his face for a moment, but was gone just as fast. "You take care, kid."