The smile she offers is mechanical, but present, as she takes the towel from him -- almost like she doesn't hear who is talking to her until her sweat-soaked forehead was already buried in the towel. Lena doesn't look at him or answer right away, which might not surprise him. He'd tried to kill her, after spending years and years convincing the world he was dead. He wouldn't let her help him, out of some belief that he'd be able to handle it himself--

Or at least, that'd been what she had thought at the time. The cool temperature of the damp towel helps. When she pulls it away, she finds it muddled with grey and red.

"Thanks," is what she manages after she has a moment to think about it. Her melancholy seems to roll off her like water when she looks up to him and though her smile is no less tired, it is more genuine. "How you feelin'?"

But that -- she regrets it almost as soon as its out of her mouth. It was born of concern but the answer is easy enough for her to guess on her own. "Actually--you don't have to answer that."