He stands torn, her feverish temper raking the cold ashes of his own. There's no violence in it, even with violence done upon him--he's more worried than vengeful, more frustrated than angry. She needs help, he needs to be sure his jaw hasn't been shoved out of place in a setting where no one's ready to wire it shut and feed him soup for weeks.

But his temper exists, a sullen thing that makes him stubborn, contrary. It isn't always a temper that does things, it stands still. Digs his heels in and makes him stare at her, wanting to meet her where she batters at his sense of self with her voice and her scattered, ugly insides.

Except she can't mean it, and she might punch him again if he shouts at her. Exhaling deeply through his nose, he spits out another well of blood, hoping it's the last. "If you're so sure of that, then I have no idea where I am. Are you going to punch me in the face and leave me to fend for myself, or can you show me somewhere safe?"

Maybe if she does, he can slip away and look for help, knowing she might stay there.