She shot back at him, and that was that. He was tired. He was so tired of fighting with her and all the explanations, all the chances she kept giving him and forcing him to believe. Her words, when angered, sounded so much like his own that it was sickening. Geneva knew harsh words. She knew how to cut with the use of language just as he did, although despite all the useless skill he had in it he'd only been able to break her this one time. It wasn't worth it. Jefferson acknowledged to himself that he didn't like her angry. More specifically, he didn't like to see her angry, and he didn't like to be the reason for it, either.
The brute lowered his head in some sort of defeat, inevitably giving up and allowing her the win. On any other day, he would have jumped right back at her as always and fought with her until the end, but too much had happened. His body ached, his leg still stung, and too many emotions and thoughts had flourished in his mind that he was losing his numbness to it all. Things were breaking through. Things were making him feel something other than anger and retaliate with pain or sadness instead of sarcasm. He was tired. Suddenly, he was so tired...
"Believe what you want," the Patriarch murmured. The brute unconsciously lowered himself to the sand once more, plagued with a type of weariness that had evaded him for days on end since the eyes and voices of his children had replaced insomnia with sleep. "I won't tell you you're wrong. I'm a liar... I know." Green eye already shut and lost to her, the Patriarch regained the typical numbness he knew so well, doubled only by the sudden need for sleep. As he always did when sleeping, Jefferson became... peaceful. "Be on your way, Geneva..." his voice slurred wearily.