"Fuzzy." He dumps out an unwise but not unfamiliar amount of pills in his hand and knocks them back with a drink. "But not in a bad way. Or a concussive way."

Like really good sex way, or rock concert way. "'m coming back down a bit. Trying not to let it happen all at once." It's a work on the senses. He's got touch and feeling down pat. Water and pills are taking care of taste. He can hear Steve just fine, and the pounding of his own heart in his ears has hushed significantly. He lets his eyes get drawn up to the hole in the roof, rolling of clouds, dappled sunlight. He can see the places where the dust got kicked up and occasional dull splotches of dried or drying blood. Smell's gonna have to wait a bit before it's anything but his own blood, but at least the other senses are working well enough.

He wishes he could hold onto that dulled, almost floaty feeling for longer, but he doesn't want Steve to have to carry him back. It's like Steve said. Endorphins are gonna wear off, and then he's going to feel like an absolute wreck and a half. But nothing he can't work through by the time he needs his body to be a well-oiled machine again. He'll use the pain, have it suit his needs, ignore what doesn't.

But that's for later.

"Probably shouldn't've brought the sword." Just for something to say. Something idle, maybe.