The doesn't miss the limp as he makes his way any more than she misses the glance once, and then again, at the side of her face. The smallest, faintest, probably not noticeable to anyone else tic in just his facial features, and she knows its something. She's either got something on her, or she's starting to shine up a bruise. A long time ago, she might have huffed and told him she didn't need looking after, and then, only much later, in a dark empty room, savored that notice.

But that's so long ago, and it makes the edge of her mouth quirk. A little less guarded than him, and she doesn't really care. Anyone else nearby can decide it's just because she liked the fight. People have said worse of what she does for Gabriel without lifting a finger. Besides, she does like it, and she allowed to. Has been for so long.

Those little seconds where Luther reminds her his world, his focus, orients to her. No matter the other details.
It makes her a touch even more viciously proud of the fact whatever it is is there.

Which is maybe what makes her words light, as she turns booted feet toward the people they'll have to check-in with, falling into step beside him, just near enough to not be touching and only the smallest clip under normal to make Luther slow himself for whatever's clipped him, even if he probably can't feel it. (Especially because of that.)

"I'll probably have to get my nails redone before I can go back on set again, but all in all? Four out of seven. Not the worst roll out, and not the best. Somewhere in the middle." He was right, too. The Rebels were getting bolder, and their numbers were swelling in a way they hadn't in a few years.

Weaving in and out of both with too much lifelong ease. "How bad do you think its looking out here?"