❝If I was a part of it, why the fuck would I traipse a hundred and seventy miles t’come and break you out?!❞
He knows it’s a defence mechanism, that he needs to cool it with the sappy shit she’d never been much good at knowing what to do with it but he still bristles at the accusation; indignation and hurt leaving him cold and furious as he stalks along beside her. He still keeps her pace, though, still concerned still caring despite the hard set to his jaw and the angry gleam in his eyes.
He doesn’t want to rush her, but he knows they don’t have long until someone gets back and sees the trail of blood and ash he’d left in the wake of his desperate search.
"Shut up." She moves to slide into the car's passenger seat, hands coming up to wipe her face. There's a tremble in her hand as she clicks on her seatbelt, slouching back into the battered seat. Bridgette's skirt is damp, and it'd no doubt leave bloodstains on the seat. But she doesn't care. She's exhausted, and hungry and she feels sick. All she'd eaten for weeks was the decomposing bodies of her defeated enemies. Her bones were healing, a perk to being what she was, and her cuts had already closed. "Just drive."
