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For a man that could once disassemble a pistol in less than a minute and a half, being defeated by plastic bags was more than a little humbling.

Honestly, it was his own fault. Lucas knew he shouldn't carry anything on his right arm that could muck it up, and yet there he was, standing uselessly at the bed of his truck with half his groceries loaded into it and a bag pinched in his prosthetic. Thankfully, it wasn't like it was the milk bags swinging heavily from his arm, but it didn't make him any happier to deal with frozen pizza and tortillas making a scene. (Who bagged those things together anyway--?!) The bag handles had slid into the delicate crevices far enough that using his one good hand to try and free it wasn't working out for him, just making the opposite side of the bag sink further. Great. Now he could scare kids as the man with a bag in his arm, because obviously, the arm itself wasn't enough!

Colorful expletives fell from his grit teeth, detailing angry facts about the mother of the bags and where they could go, but it didn't seem to help. After a few more growls and half-hearted tugs, the man sighed, dropping both arms to his side, the bag swinging merrily from its new location. Fan-friggin-tastic. Sullen, he ignored the weight that was throwing off his entire sense of balance on that side of his body and began to shove the other bags into the bed of the vehicle, lips pursed in what could almost be called a pout. He'd just have to cut the bag out when he got home. How dignified.

In his experience, people typically came in two flavors: offering to help Lucas with every little thing, or staring at him because he was different but functional. He was surprised that he was approached for help, but when he actually lifted his eyes to see who was speaking to him, 'surprised' seemed like too tame a word.

He'd never...quite...seen a being like the one that stood before him. If he could see himself, he'd probably be looking at the young man the way people looked at him from a distance - shock, awe, a touch of confusion. Lucas could not hide his emotions on his face, an utter open book: his eyes flickered from the tee (he didn't recognize it, too bad) to the colorful hairclips (the man had excellent hair though) and finally to his face, seeming to absorb his very features before he finally clicked what was being said.

Lucas grinned, suddenly and with a sort of embarrassed manner of being caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Putting the bag down in his good hand slowly, abashed, he then ran it through his ponytail and looked uselessly at his malfunctioning arm. "I could use about two more sets of arms, but if you gotta minute, wouldn't turn down a bit of help." He chuckled in that same 'oh god I'm such an idiot please forgive the inconvenience' way before lifting his prosthetic arm, the bag dangling stubbornly.

"I uh. Got...stuck."

Undeterred by his friendliness or proximity, Lucas held out his prosthetic arm, laughing softly. "Let's hope two is enough. Goodness knows, one isn't." He looked at his predicament in a sort of amused fashion before introductions were being offered, prompting him to look back to the other's face in a similarly guilty way. "Nasir -- nice name, new friend. Lucas."

He paused, looking at his outstretched arm, shifting his weight to the other side and offering the hand that the frozen goods weren't dangling from. "Very nice to meet such a friendly face in such a...ridiculous situation." His smile was crooked, but earnest. "I mean, how many times do you get to say you helped a guy get a bag out of his arm?"

Lucas uttered a sound between a laugh and a snort trying to stop it. "All in a neat little package. Helping and victory are a good combination to go hand in hand. Does your last name mean fortune?" He was only half joking, finding it easier to use humor to stave off the embarrassment. The obvious solution, as Nasir pointed out, was to just not put himself in the position of having to worry about the damn things, but he was a bit slow on the uptake.

"I keep meaning to buy them, and I tell myself, 'next time.' Always next time." He sighed and tilted his head back, palm over his eyes while his arm was worked on, shaking his head. It was easy to play drama in this position. "I moved here six months ago." His hand dropped and so did his eyes once he felt the twinge of the arm being shifted, trying to keep it in place. "Six months and 'next time' isn't here yet. Sad life of the preoccupied bachelor, I guess --

-- ah, there, that'll make it easier." He twisted his arm slightly, relieving some of the tension on the bag, cupping his hand beneath his false elbow. "Do you do this often the, Nasir? Helping hapless fools from their own devices? Or do you have a day job that pays a bit better?" Lucas grinned, attention wavering between the bag and the man's face, delighting in the company, even if brief. A little small talk to know his savior better wouldn't hurt.

"King," Lucas repeated, his smile settling his eyes into crescent moons as he looked Nasir's face over again. Bejeweled with hair clips. "Suits you, I thi--ppfft!" He burst into surprised laughter at that, shaking his head as his mirth trickled into a wrangled grin. "You can't do that! Spending so much time serving royalty that you forget you are just as worthy. I mean, look -- you're helping out a twit with a bag in his arm. Hardly a king..."

He found himself trailing off in a sort of baffled wonder. Furrowing his brow, he tilted his head as though trying to catch Nasir's gaze. "Are you for real? This isn't some sort of show or something?"

And then his brows shot upwards, listening with his expression telling every thought he wasn't vocalizing: being surprised, impressed, humbled. Nasir chose that life, he was doing it because he wanted to and not because it was ingrained in manners or upbringing. Lucas was far too used to seeing the dour and dark parts of existence that being in the presence of someone who shone so bright was almost disorientating. "Well, uh, I mean -- you're something else, a rare sort. And don't try to play it off, either," his brows knit again in mock severity, "because you didn't have to come over here and help me, and I'm grateful. It's very cool of you."

He picked up the wafting slack in the bag, seeing if it would crinkle out of the fine crevices on its own. "And cooking! That's pretty bad a**. It's not a skill everyone comes equipped with, and you can never undervalue the experience of a perfectly done steak." And he was grinning again, crooked. He was an easy man. Finesse was pretty much beyond him.

"Guilty as charged," he replied amicably at the inquiry, his expression brightening considerably once he was bag-free. Lucas stretched out his arm and rolled it at the elbow the way someone might stretch their muscles, making sure nothing was caught, shredded or otherwise going to give him a hard time. Everything clicked and moved appropriately, the man proudly patting his false bicep.

"Can I thank you somehow? Like a steak dinner? I promise someone else would make it, me doing it might kill us both." He grinned, rubbing both hands together before resuming the loading of his groceries - with just his hands, thank you very damn much. He cast a casual glance to the contents of his bags and, in hindsight, realized he was talking to a chef, about food, with bags full of frozen garbage.

Lucas winced with his eyes, his grin taking on a more embarrassed curve. "Yeah it's -- it's not exactly ideal, or gourmet, but it's better than nothing?" He paused, forearms on the back of the truck, looking about fifteen years younger in anticipation of a pending correction. "I think?"

His preparation to be chided was abandoned, a brow sharply raised at the immediate (albeit gentle) refusal, lips pursing despite his attempt not to smile. "Thanks is never necessary, it's something given as freely as the choice to help." But he'd leave it at that. Forcing a 'thanks' on someone was pretty much detrimental to the purpose, after all. That, and the guy was a perfect stranger. For all he knew, Nasir thought he was crazy and inept...not that he was wrong on one count. Maybe both.

A quick grin formed, eyes averting again. "Okay, it might not kill you, but," he lifted his prosthetic hand, index finger extended, "you might wish you were dead."

He knew -- he knew Nasir meant nothing by his comments, but he was still a man, and boy did he preen. Still leaning against the truck, he relaxed his arms against the bed of it and straightened his posture just a little, smile a bit more at ease. Lucas would take what small boosts he could get, even if imagined. "Probably," he agreed in a way that said he'd probably heard this before, "but, you know. Knowing that and putting it into action, two very different things."

Lucas turned his head to look at Nasir, a sort of gentle disbelief in his brows and smile. "Nasir. Seriously. We've barely met and I'm pretty sure you would literally have to try to be rude." A soft chuckle chased his words. "It's well-meaning and is you being helpful -- again. No need to apologize."

He made a soft 'tsk' sound out of the corner of his mouth, absently rubbing his prosthetic hand over his throat in the way one might stroke a beard, grinning a little. "You're a really nice guy, Nasir, I'd hate to be the biggest disappointment of a student you'll ever experience." Lucas laughed, then, mostly teasing, but partially expressing a truth. Ashdown would probably be safer if he wasn't cooking.

His mirth continued in a light trickle of chuckling, nodding his head and pushing himself off the truck. "Sure, I have a decent memory, at least." He hesitated for a heartbeat, but...it was just an offer. It wasn't like he was committing himself to anything. "And, I mean, if you're not totally against it, I could give you my number and you can send me more recipes or send me pointed coupons for things on sale for what you're about to tell me. If you want." A smile flickered, brief, a touch uncertain. He was really, really bad at the whole 'making friends' thing. "No worries if not."