It's almost a relief to be back in the shitty little hovel of an apartment. It's not home by any stretch of the imagination, but something about being here, being here with another person in fact, feels like a completely different world from the wordless grunts of two men duking it out in an abandoned warehouse.

Climbing the stairs has made the bruising on his thighs start to ache pretty prominently, and he decides he needs to get predominantly horizontal very soon. After a wash up in the bathroom. Scrub off the rest of the caked on blood, rub the dirt out of his hair. It looks a little bit more like him in the mirror, rather than the Ronin. It won't last long, out of necessity, but he supposes this isn't a bad thing in the short term.

He gets the ice packs from the freezer, shuffles to the bed, makes himself as comfortable as he possibly can under the circumstances, cold lying directly over aching ribs and remembering to breathe nice and deep and even to remind himself there's no lung puncture, just a deeply satisfying ache that'll hound him for a while.