There's so much about this situation that so isn't Nick. He's used to wastelands, life or death situations, tenuous trust between himself and anyone he happens upon and he's more than used to guns. Guns in his hands, guns pointed at him. That's his life.

But the garb. The white uniform. Like a special officer. And the helmet? Christ. "I'm going to take this off." His voice is steady and his hands move slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on her as he slides the entire helmet off to reveal some tousled, sweat drenched hair. His face is patchy from an increased lack of grooming and self maintenance and his eyes seem distant, as if not entirely focused on her. They're veering upward, discreetly, where he can see a Capitol sniper in the distance.

He's fully aware that her finger is on the trigger, but he doesn't exactly have the time to beg permission from her. He moves fast, like he's defending against a witch, his gun is out and firing before he can verbalise a justification for it. He's just banking on her hesitating to shoot him long enough for her to realise what he's doing.

Deep down, he knows damn well he'd much rather get shot by her if it means he doesn't have to watch her get pegged down in front of him.

Hopefully the thud of a sniper falling from his post behind her will do the talking for him, so he'll just cautiously raise a brow.