[A couple months? That's... not exactly what he wanted to hear, but his wheels are turning away regardless. He'll need food if he's to run. A good deal of it- nonperishable and to be used when hunting's a lost cause. The military base, given it's in the middle of nowhere, with no visible resources, likely has plenty.]

You might. Doesn't mean I will.

[He'd made it from Nibelheim to Midgar, right? He can't exactly remember any of it, but... he must have. He's silent for a while, eyeing the other man out of the corner of his eye.

Geralt... hardly looks like someone unaccustomed to travel. And he's certainly not giving off the impression of someone unused to roughing it. In fact it's quite the opposite. He can take a guess as to his type. If Cloud had have seen anyone like him in a bar in familiar settings, he'd have likely took him as an (old) mercenary. And he'd have left the hell alone. Age in that kind of profession indicated strength... and the profession, especially amongst two people shaking down the same town, was a violent one.

But. This isn't anything close to familiar. He's silent for a good 20 minutes before he exhales.]

...I've traveled. By myself. On foot, for almost a year. But I knew the way. Knew places to stay too. So I get it.

[But I'm not staying there. That's what he's not saying.]