His back is set to Benedict by the time those apologies reach his ears, helmet tugged fully off and trusting (however foolishly) that should someone approach despite his every attempt not to make so much as a single grunt of dismay, Benedict would provide sufficient enough warning.

Like a residual scratch he can still feel it when he tries to force his eye open once more, lip curled into an irritated scowl.

"Gather yourself up." He doesn't need to look— or see, for that matter— to know that Benedict is likely curled up in some varying state of dismay. The command is hardly gentle, but—

Well, it isn't a snarl for Benedict to get away from him, either.

"Make for the cliff, and meet Jone there. Now."