She presses a hand into his hair, the way she would with Dresden or one of her brothers, her nephews, the victims still standing after their first brush with the supernatural. There's no murmured assurances, just the silent message that there's something solid to lean on. Finite and fallible as it might be.

Murphy's the one who moves first, shifting back just a little to look him in the face. She squeezes his hand and lets go. She could probably wait, hold him until he pulls away, but if she does the chances of him letting her touch him again--particularly for comfort's sake--are probably not good. "Feel like some cake?" Her voice is much quieter and more grave than the question warrants. "At least the bandage will keep it from falling out between your ribs."