She waits for him because she’s been told to - because it’s safer, because there’s logic there. She cuts the engine to save on gas, of course, but the keys stay in the ignition and she’s keen on the road. And the protective leather (the gauntlets, the corset, the pants) and the pump action shot gun (the fire axe doesn’t balance well when she’s riding, after all; when they’re running for their lives, when he’s cackling jagged and giddy at their narrow escape and the landscape passes in eye-watering blurs) and the waiting make her feel safe. The act of it. The silence. The breath before the return of her king.