She laughs, hugging him with her free arm and trying to not squish the chicken too much in the embrace. Happiness is clear and bright, nigh musical in its truth, and she's grinning enough that she feels it in her face.

"As much as it can be fixed, yes. It's...I'm safer, now. You're safe. Everyone else is safe."

And she can breathe, and she can feel closer to her own skin, and she can touch other living beings without the flickering doubts that inhabited her. She thinks he'll understand - that one can take the shrapnel out, the infected organ, reset the bone - but the mind is a place where no surgeon's knife can go. That takes time, and care, and being out of whatever sort of war one is in.