She doesn't cut him off. Mostly, she tells herself, because it's not polite to do so. There's also the fact that she doesn't know what to say either, and she finds herself morbidly curious as to what he's going to say.

It isn't until she's holding her hat in her hands, rubbing the brim absently like she's working at a copper penny, that she cracks a wry smile and finds her voice.

"Y'were only playin' around? S'all right."

The closeness is uncomfortable, but only because she finds she likes it so much. Her gaze falls somewhere closer to his shoulder. She's slightly unhinged. He won't be able to miss it. But she works on that smile, pulling out a dry laugh.

"I'm jus' one big sad song, Tommy. Y'hang around me long 'nough an' you'll start t'feel a whole lot better 'bout your lot."

Self-deprecation, teasing, joking  —  these are the ways we hold the seams together, when the whole world wants to split. She sets her hand down next to his, nudging him ever so slightly.

"I guess if y'wanna find out if I really ever take off my guns, you're jus' gonna have t'stick around."