"It's fine. I'm fine," she says quickly, as soon as he's turned her to see The Arm better. She lifts the hand (not her hand, her hand is rotting in a pit somewhere under downtown, probably) and waggles the fingers, trying to put on a smile.
It's a weak smile, though, and it doesn't reach her eyes. To say her eyes are haunted is cliche as anything, but the echoes of the trauma are there, all of the freaking out and screaming and sobbing she hasn't let herself do properly are there.
She's alive, she's not badly wounded other than the arm (just bruised and scraped), but she's very much not fine.
"I'm glad you're okay," she says, wrapping her arms (her arm and that imposter arm, intruder arm, the arm she never asked for that replaced the arm that was stolen from her) around herself instead of hugging Tommy like she really wants to. She doesn't want to touch him with that metal... thing. It feels wrong. "I was worried they'd get you, too."
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It's a weak smile, though, and it doesn't reach her eyes. To say her eyes are haunted is cliche as anything, but the echoes of the trauma are there, all of the freaking out and screaming and sobbing she hasn't let herself do properly are there.
She's alive, she's not badly wounded other than the arm (just bruised and scraped), but she's very much not fine.
"I'm glad you're okay," she says, wrapping her arms (her arm and that imposter arm, intruder arm, the arm she never asked for that replaced the arm that was stolen from her) around herself instead of hugging Tommy like she really wants to. She doesn't want to touch him with that metal... thing. It feels wrong. "I was worried they'd get you, too."