She almost wants to say something, anything. Break the silence, break the stalemate for real, even if that means starting another fight— anything to make this end, to stop feeling like she's lost the ground beneath her feet.

Because she knows what happens now. She knows that he'll take her to medical and stay long enough to be sure she's not going to die from some brain bleed or something. She knows that he'll make sure she's okay after, that she remembers how to take care of herself with a concussion.

And she knows that then they'll go back to how things have been since she arrived. That nothing will change.

What she doesn't know, refuses to know, is why she cares. She's free from him, isn't she? As free as she can be, with nowhere else to go. Isn't this what she wanted?

(It's a question she asked herself a thousand times back home, after everything ended. After he died. She never found an answer then, either.)

But she doesn't say a word, not any that mean anything. She answers every time he asks if she's okay, muffled in his back, and she grumbles. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less.