She returns her attention to the road and remains silent as he begins his explanation.
Bad intel. Russians. Escape. The gunfire she had witnessed for herself. It sounds like something straight out of a James Bond film. She supposes it's rather fitting, the resemblance it bears–though judging by his accent, she also feels that she can safely assume he's not MI-6. More likely, at least of American agencies, he's CIA.
Regardless, he seems 'lucky' indeed. Of all the mortals that had been all around him, he had managed to single out the one immortal.
Then again, she wonders exactly how much of that had been luck.
For one who stands at the edge of her own domain of Order and of her uncle's domain of Chaos, representing and mediating the Balance between, she has learned that there is very little ever to do with 'luck,' if such a thing even exists at all. The more simple explanation, at least to her, is that his day seems to have been nothing but Chaos and he had found Order, herself, a balance thereby struck between what had chased him–and perhaps still means to–and what stood (or rather sat) before him.
Yet, even through her somewhat distracted thoughts, his sudden silence does not go unnoticed. She looks to him again, noting that his face seems drawn, perhaps even slightly paled, though likely not easily discerned by most.
Still, she might have chalked it up to his jaunt to escape his captors had it not been for his next words.
Irritation, aimed at herself, is the first reaction. She should have noted the iron-tinged smell sooner. She should certainly know it well enough by now.
But on that she cannot linger. Though her expression shifts very little, her mind almost completely changes gears–leaving to another time the more confounding aspects of life and its many strange instances–to focus on a more simple track.
Only the briefest glance at the road interrupts her focus on him before her eyes return, searching for the admitted injury even as she replies to his request, seemingly unperturbed by any possible disruption that this new development brings to her day and even less bothered by anything that he had yet said.
She's never much been one for humor but she does make some small attempt, if for no other reason than to distract.
"Of course. I certainly can't make you get out and walk to it from here." A beat and then she adds, nonchalant, almost as an afterthought, "After all, who knows what the Russians would do to that nice suit of yours if they were to catch up to you again."
Not the best attempt at humor, even for her, but she's rather more focused at the moment on getting him somewhere–safely–and seeing the extent of this 'graze.' It will simply have to do.