The joke takes them by surprise. They choke, shoulders shaking silently, and for a second the wailing exhaustion in them quiets. He could run them through right at that moment, and they'd die chortling and tear-streaked. They loved stupid jokes like that.

But they don't like him. They can't stand it; the energy in them for hate is tapped dry, and their back is prickling with memories of impalements, and even if he's done nothing but dump some harmless cloth on the floor, Chara can't stay. How much would their voice wobble if they tried to tell him off? Too much. The relief is ebbing. The shock of everything is settling in.

They burst into a run without a word back to him. Maybe they should've stomped on his jacket, but they can't--can't. They'll do it next time, or maybe anything else that's mean to get back at him for not leaving the instant they fell apart.

Not now, though. They don't know where they're going, but it's going to be safe, it's going to have blankets, and it's going to be private.