She winces a little as the volume of his exclamation sends a spike of pain through her temples that she can't at all blame on her injuries, but relinquishes the ice pack without protest. It's tempting - so tempting - to lean against him, because she feels like she's been hit by a truck and her head weighs about a thousand pounds, but this is Steven, not Marc, and that would be too intimate. A long step beyond the playful affection that has, so far, formed a safe boundary.

So she props her elbows against the table, and drops her forehead into her hands instead. The one that had been holding the ice is pleasantly cool, and for a moment, she contemplates the merits of sticking her head in the freezer. With or without the rest of her body attached.

"Weather wizard," she says. "Or - I think this one was Heba, actually. Cyclones without much variance. Hit me with a very large branch, or a very small tree."

Because she was off her game, already tired and out of sorts, and the blinding headache that had risen up when she'd tried to use her powers to pin the woman down and still the hand motions she seemed to need to direct her particular brand of atmospheric chaos had nearly been enough to flatten her on its own.