[Stephen’s moved on to the antiseptic, which really stings, but there’s no need to do much more than that. He can tend to the rest on his own time, and one can’t do much to fix bruises that’ll show in the morning with a first-aid kit.

He watches idly as a wind chime hitches itself to a newly patched-up portion of the ceiling, towel still pressed to a cheek. He scoffs.]

The doctorate’s not for show. I was a neurosurgeon before I was a sorcerer.

[A statement that carries a story with it, no doubt — too bad he doesn’t seem keen on sharing it just now, especially with someone he doesn’t know, and moves on just as swiftly.]

You know it’s going to take forever at that rate. [The clean-up. Which sounds acerbic, and maybe a little full of himself, but he intends for it to be a preamble to his assistance.] Let me do it.