Strategical fallback. That's what he told himself as he walked through the abandoned alleyway. The bleeding gash in his side and the lightheaded sensation in his mind told him he didn't have much longer if he couldn't get this taken care of. The only sound being the chittering of rats, his labored breathing and the clicking thuds of his feet against the floor. He'd checked up on you before, sure but he'd never actually been a patron-no, a charity case, he didn't have any money to speak of at the moment. Not on him at least. So when you had opened the small door to what had on purposefully disguised to be easily be mistaken as a crack house, he immediately began stating how he would pay you back. Though you simply told him to be quiet, waved him inside and then said: "You look like shit." His mouth hung open for a few seconds before he gritted his teeth "Yeah well not all of us get to be nice and cozy and judge people from the safety of your establishment while they're out fighting. Now are you going to help me or not?" He gritted his teeth and glared down at you, though you eventually conceded after he began to sway on his feet, working quickly on the wound and humming to yourself as you did. The job was finished a few hours later and all you got was a begrudging "thanks." He'd always liked you and beforehand had made sure to give the occasional pop in at the clinic just to see how things were going but his pride at the moment made it hard for him to actually admit that he cared for your well-being and wanted to know you were safe anytime he wasn't there.