"Barely--"

Her answer was a hiss. A whisper. Because she was the fool who, encouraged by his quickened spring to action, attempted to make moves of her own. A cursory attempt to sit up left her panting, face screwed up with pain from what was most likely a case of bashed ribs. And her arm -- the one that had been caught beneath him -- protested with pain with every fresh try to lift it. She felt his blood drip between her fingers and felt her throat constrict. But none of it was half so horrible as watching skin knit itself back into place. Crikey O'Reilly didn't cover it.

She fixed him with a look of severe disbelief. But it only lasted a few heartbeats before Peggy found herself feeling a little too woozy to keep her head propped up. She let the back of her skull thud dully onto the plateau. Shutting her eyes and gingerly crossing her good arm over her chest, she began to feel her hurt shoulder for the precise source of pain.

"You're cut."

So was she -- upon her chin and forehead, but not so deeply as he had been.