He grits his teeth under the hiss of water, makes it as hot as the knob allows, watching it trail in brown and red rivulets as he scrubs out the clinging dirt, fragments of leaves, the assorted woodland detritus. There's something intensely satisfying in the stinging of the dozens of tiny scrapes and bruises. Wherever that part of him is now, whatever it does when it's not crusading around in the woods with his body as its puppet - he hopes it can feel the aching burn of every cut and inch of split skin. It's a grotesque, vindictive pleasure, and he savors every moment of it.

His hair's still sodden when he emerges, toweling at it vigorously. He really hopes he got all the blood and shit out of it but there's no real way of knowing unless his hair starts drying in clumps.

Tim stops short, frowning for a moment before tossing the towel aside, the fresh shirt scratching the delicate areas of his skin rubbed raw.

"We didn't know," he says shortly. "Couldn't have done anything."