"Only four? I was thinking six at least." No, no her pride is long since put so far away from herself, she does not bring it to the surface over much anymore - she laughs flat but earnest, most tired than unamused, so it rasps on her dry throat.

Some throne it is, and some queen she makes: laid up because of her own arrogance and insistence on taking as many blows as she could. But she smiles - only for him, this way. When there was no one else to see. Her 'Queen' face, Carl had called it, Maggie had laughed along with it. All stern and barely-there reactions until time had allowed them to read her.

Honesty, of herself, she has reasoned long, no one needs. No one needs these smiles, her quiet laughter, perhaps her stories about people undefeatable in their legend. But he seems to stay for them. He seems to let her express it - and for that, she is more grateful than she can say. Lets her fingers thread with his, hooking them together like bits of debris. All mangled and holding. "Hey." She pulls it closer, tucking it to herself. Warm, calloused, the things of living. "It seems my life was in your hands again."

It's one thing for her to go around saving others, that's her position, her duty - but him? He has no business doing that.