"I'm actually trying to avoid cameras..." he says with a pained expression. "Also this is the only shirt I brought, and I don't know what to do about that now." Like a normal party guest who plans on behaving themselves all night. Well, that didn't happen.

He's so, so thankful she wasn't recording him with her Omni. Kaworu already has blackmail material of him choking on his first tequila shot. He allows the towels to land on him, mostly on his head, with soft fwumps. It's his lot in life.

He unbuttons and throws off his shirt with practiced efficiency, and he rolls it up in one of the towels to blot out most of the water. Another towel is draped over his hair, which will undoubtedly stand on end when he rubs it dry (like a heathen, his poor curls). A third is spread on the floor next to the tub to soak up errant puddles.

Ruby hasn't seen him since the Leviathan battle. Commander Flynn healed the worst of the lacerations, but they scarred in long, still-fading lines. Underneath, older lighter scars crisscross his skin like a roadmap, mostly on his back from where he was attacked by Blood-Crazed Zealots in November. Ruby was there to see some of them made. Then there are the familiar ones from his time at UA, ragged on his hand and arm, and the large, ugly dark red splotch further up.