A little embarrassed about his outburst, Tristan clenched his teeth and managed the rest of his undressing in silence, except for the occasional groan. He washed and inspected his injuries. The ribs were bruised, but not broken. He had been punched in the stomach, but other than a large bruise, that area seemed intact. His arms and legs were bruised worse, for it was those that had received most of the kicks. His back had been mercifully pressed against the wall. He dreaded to think of what would have become of his kidneys otherwise. The man just wouldn't stop...

He trembled and closed his eyes, frowning. Then he opened them. Closing his eyes made it all worse.

He washed his face carefully. He knew that that part of his body was worst off, and would be hardest to conceal from Pippa. How he had managed to escape a concussion, he did not know, but he certainly looked properly beat up, with a black eye, a bruise on his cheek on the other side and a bust lip. His nose had bled, but it might have been fear. It didn't feel seriously injured. He had only hit it with the back of his forearm as he had tried to block a punch.

Eventually, he reemerged, cleaned up as well as possible and dressed in a fresh set of clothes. Only the jacket was carried over his arm as he was yet to self-administer an anesthetic. "School fights clearly did nothing for me. Never won, anyway..." he half-joked, desperate to make light of the situation. He put the jacket over the back of a chair and walked over to his medicine cabinet. He took out a bottle and a rectangular box. "You seem to have some experience with taking care of injuries. Did you work in the military hospital?" He took a hypodermic syringe and needle from the box, filled it with a small amount of the liquid from the bottle. Then he rolled up his sleeve and balled his fist. There were several small dark marks below where he pushed the needle into a vein.