It's bitingly familiar, those tired motions, and he's ready to weather the raised-eyebrow stares and sidelong looks of the hotel staff that never come. Right, he remembers dully. Rift weirdness probably makes them used to all sorts of bizarre shit. At least that works in their favor. There's nothing notable about either of them. Not even luggage.

As soon as he gets in he starts rinsing his hands in the bathroom sink. The red over his knuckles and palms has scabbed over by now, but they still feel dirty. Unclean.

But he's always felt unclean, so maybe there's not much point.

"Yeah," he says, flipping off the sink. The lack of any aural buffer in the hiss of running water leaves the room drenched in uncertain silence. He inches out of the bathroom to one of the beds, sinking onto it with a low noise of discomfort. His knees feel like a mess, probably worse off than his hands. He hasn't dared look yet. It's an old feeling - what got fucked up while he was 'out'. The thought of reliving that now makes something in his chest constrict.