She looks at him like he's speaking a foreign language— blinks through it like a machine processing data— unexpected and entirely an afterthought. It's not as though she can't still feel it, how much damage she's sustained, but after a certain point it stops seeming less like a priority.

More like an afterthought.

"Nothing that won't heal."

But then it'd bother her less than having medical staff in her (usually isolated) vicinity, letting him lend a hand. So it's a careful invitation when she shifts back with a slow inhale, hair drawn away to expose a lengthy cut along her throat (a graze wound, she'd been lucky at the time)— and a deeper, gruesomely battered gash at her side that still seems entirely too keen to bleed. The worst offender is, in spite of it, the damage to her cybernetic implants, but that's well-hidden for the moment; he couldn't fix that if he wanted to.

And with that, her stare shifts from him towards the ceiling - if he feels like grabbing a kit and lending a hand, he will, if he doesn't, he won't: either way, it won't break her heart or change what's happened.

"Did you know they don't keep alcohol on these things? Not even in medical. Se trata de una regla estúpida."