No. Sorry. [ It's not even that usual layer of sass, he sounds genuinely sorry he hadn't thought to check anything at all. He'd dug through his pockets, found himself wanting for anything but the phone and scrambled out. He'd been so afraid they would hear-- the people he now knew would hear nothing ever again-- that he hadn't wanted to hang around. Turns out he wasn't escaping anything but roadside corpses.

The thought makes him flinch before he can help it.

The gun doesn't do them any favors and if it wasn't for the wave of something passing through them-- sickness? anxiety?-- he might have said something about it. Instead, he's quiet for maybe a little longer than he should be, visible in the reflection of one of the rearview lights. ] Sorry. [ Again just the same thing, quieter than before, like he's curling inward instead of expanding outward like he had before. Pushing himself down to be less oppressive. ] We should get in the car, turn the heat on for a few seconds Marc. We're not going to do much of anything if hypothermia kicks in. [ The shoes and coat help, but he's worried about the bone-deep chill he had felt earlier. ]

Do you want me to-- I can handle that, do you need a second? [ When he woke up before there hadn't been time to think about what was wrong, or what had happened, everything was a constant stream of pressure pushing him from one place to the next. Smothering him under the need for action. Now everything felt slow, sluggish, and yet twice as overwhelming.

Maybe it's because he knew there was someone else there, someone who could be there right now, capable of these kinds of things.

Damn. ] Road looks empty enough, check the fuel? [ He's trying, desperately, to help. ]