It took everything in him not to whip out his wand and cast a hex at the bloody bastard. They were adults, for Merlin's sake. (Although the fistfight didn't necessarily coincide with that—though that did depend on who you asked.) Instead, he used his wand to whip up a quick healing charm, just enough to staunch the bleeding. As Fisk continued to berate him, Barnabas retrieved his cane and made to stand. He had far bigger things to worry about now. Like his suit! It had cost far more than six months of his salary as MACUSA—and he was paid fairly well!

"Fuck off, Fisk," he spat back. He took one aghast look at the mess of his suit before he cast one last, hateful glance at the other man (mostly to ensure he wouldn't follow him home nor attack him from behind.) Satisfied that it appeared Fisk was already moving away, Barnabas hobbled in the opposite direction. Already, he was fretting over if the cleaning spells he knew would work well enough on this type of fabric. He'd not once considered having to remove blood from it when he'd ordered it for himself.

In the end, he would manage to return his suit to pristine. Although it meant that he'd had to sacrifice his time. He'd chosen to stay up all night fussing over his suit rather than tending to the very obvious black eye he was now sporting. The only thing he'd had time for come morning was to straighten out his nose. He would rather stab himself with a fork than run around with a crooked nose. And so it was with the black eye and busted lip that he attended his cousin Mason's funeral—but his suit was pure perfection.