Joan can count on one hand the amount of times she's been defended, verbally or otherwise. The warm feeling it evokes in her reminds her of being in a pool when someone's just pissed in it. She doesn't need this, doesn't want it, could do without it, but there it is, anyway. Having been divested of her chosen response-- she does know, yes, get some new material-- she finds clothes instead.

She ignores the blanket. It feels desperate, even as her body aches with cold.

Vindication will warm her. She refuses to acknowledge any fault she may have had-- she knows she hit the first blow, but who would him, when he was found on top of a naked woman, trying to kill her? Being a woman is, in this rare instance, an advantage; she will use it as such. "Do you attack everybody you come across, or d'you wait for them to be fucking nude? Pervert."