"Yeah," Jo said quietly, hanging on to his hand and his voice for dear life. "Yeah. Only today. Just one day."
It was hard for her to tell, but the painkillers were taking effect. No longer was she nearly catatonic or speaking only in curses, the fire stabbing through every nerve had dulled somewhat, until she was still writhing and shedding involuntary tears, but could get a tenuous grip on her civility and humanity. She wasn't just a mass of abused nerve endings, she was slowly getting a grip on Joan again. Slowly.
But the long hours of pain, worrying flutter in her chest, and raw vulnerability in front of someone she had seen as an equal before was galling. Rather than yell at George more, she bit her lip until the coppery tang of blood made her stop. She could only imagine how she looked to him. A woman in need of saving, a victim, too weak-willed to be a saint, the little girl he rescued centuries ago.
Her voice was brittle and tense, thin ice threatening to crack under the slightest weight. "It's never this bad. Even... before, I didn't cry like a fucking child. Not even the first time."