Are you alright? seemed to be one of the phrases more frequently exchanged between them—but he did suppose the events of the last two weeks warranted that question. Between her being attacked by a suspect and his jaw suffering from frequent connection with her fist, each other's well-being was an appropriate conversational topic.

"Well you missed the adventure by about ten minutes, I'm afraid," he rebutted with a tired chuckle. He leaned his side against the fence, taking in and releasing a few deep breaths. What he really wanted was to sit down; what he'd believed would be a thirty-minute confrontation with a few punks had led to six arrests. Ugh.

"I think I'm fine," he said, running his hands down his robe-clad torso for any signs of soreness—or worse, blood he hadn't yet detected. As expected, though, there was nothing. "One of the bastards—" Well, fuck, he'd probably said too much just with that. "—well, I was hit with something, but it didn't seem to do any damage. Probably just sparks." It was one of those things he would try to forget about now, and then proceed to completely overreact about the moment he started feeling any pain or discomfort he couldn't identify.

If it ever came to that.

---