[ He's not surprised that she defends herself – he knows what he's heard, and he knows what he's saying, and he knows what accusations he's making. He's not so brazen as to call her a murderer, not in so many words, but she knows what he's edging around.

So, of course she would argue it. God knows he would, too.

But that she argues so vehemently, so coldly, is what really startles him.

That paranoid voice at the back of his head, the one that sounds suspiciously like Yondu, tells him not to be an idiot. There was a reason fox spirits had a reputation like this, and that no matter how outlandish a story might be, there would always be a small grain of truth to it.

The quieter voice, the one that sounds like himself, says that the grain of truth is this: what she's telling him. That her kind has the reputation it has because of the ugly pride of men. And that's really not all that surprising, is it?

When she pulls away, he lets her, though, instinct makes him flinch out a hand to help steady her. When she starts to shrug out of his jacket, he quickly averts his gaze up to the treetops out of a sense of decorum. When she offers him his coat, he only sees a flicker of deep red out of the corner of his eye, but he figures out what the gesture is quickly enough.

He's quiet for a long moment, frowning up at the leaves, grappling with what he knows and what he's just heard.

Then, slowly, ]

I'm sorry.

[ He offers up flippant apologies pretty often; this time, at least, he sounds sincere. ]

I just hear a lot of stories. Rumors. In this line of work, having the sort of skepticism that borders on paranoia tends to save your hide.

[ He lets out a slow breath, looking toward her, but keeping his gaze on her face. ]

Silverkeep is about two days' travel from here.

[ Which will take even longer on a broken foot. ]

If you wanna go your own way, I won't stop you. But I can still help you get there.