Beauregard would understand the need for revenge, but only for someone who's lost everything. When you still have people to care for, it's better to live for them than the dead... like he is. And contrary to those rich people wasting money, he's wasting himself away instead. If you seek revenge against something or someone, do it yourself, instead of adding more people into a business that doesn't concern them.
"Of course. If it ever happens, you'll have somehow ran out of Irish luck." He teases. Rafferty is too smart to get caught by anything else than bad luck. Just like him.
Beau hasn't crossed path with anyone from his childhood town since his first and only escape. Then again, he doubts anyone would recognize him anyway, but luck can run out for him too.
"Thank... you...?" He's not sure how to take it really, so he doesnāt linger onnthe subject of his goodness. He doesn't say it, but he thinks Rafferty isn't as rotten as the redhead probably thinks he is.
At the request, he smilesāto think all they needed was to be in close proximity again for the other man to finally ask about it. Beau leans a bit closer and extends his mechanical hand to the other.
He could've removed it, but didn't feel like it. Once it's close enough though, he rest the for mechanical limb rest on the ground between them. "It's quite a beauty... cost me an arm." He says before laughing at his own terribly gauvhe humor.
He's glad that Beau only thanks him for the half-compliment and the slight sliver of raw honestly that Rafferty only displays now-and-again. The redhead won't say it again, won't let himself be seen by Beau in that way again. Still, Rafferty is allowing a small, private part of himself to be known as his pale eyes looking over the offered hand, head cocked ever so slightly to the left.
Rain patters down against the tarp of the tent, causing it to move slightly above the two, dipping where it gathers before running off. Its dull dripping fills the space between them, as Beau jokes about the contraption only costing him an arm. A smirk, just a little at the gallows humour displayed yet, Rafferty doesn't say anything in response.
Instead, he reaches, carefully, taking the hand in his own and pressing his thumb in the middle of the metal palm, watching as the fingers open up somewhat thanks to the slight pressure applied. There is a level of care taken, thumb swiping up each digit carefully, feeling each mechanical joint move, each artfully crafted finger. They look almost skeletal, there is no real movement...it is just an illusion of a hand. Under a glove, it probably does a fine trick but now, like this? He traces the path back down after the thumb, down the wrist and eventually settling where it joins to the slightly scarred flesh of his arm. Rafferty does something then, gently rubs at the soreness for a brief moment or two.
"How'd ya lose it? Ya ain't never teld me,"
