Mary returned from the bathroom once the bleeding appeared to have stopped, and picked up her glass from the counter as she came past. A glance over at him on the couch showed him holding his hand carefully, and she felt almost a little bad that she might have broken his knuckles on her face.
You always said I was hard-headed, Mary thought, directing it at a man who would never reply. She sat down on on one of the chairs across from Judas, taking a long drink from her glass. Alright, she added to the prayer-that-wasn't-a-prayer, but I'm doing this for you.
(Or, at least, she was doing it so He didn't have to look down on her with so much shame.)
"I'm sorry I hit you," Mary said without looking at him, and it had the same muttered tone as a child who had been dragged in to apologise to their sibling against their will.