When the fae saw the stairs he mentally cursed them but did not audibly complain or gripe, taking them at a steady pace, albeit slower than normal. He made use of the railing, the sleeve of his jacket pulled down to cover his palm in an effort to not leave traces of blood behind. Enough fae blood had been spilled this night, too much, and he did not want to further add to it. And perhaps it was a touch of paranoia as well. All manner of creatures could track by blood. For the moment Atreus was on his own, having to rely on a stranger who's intentions could turn on him, and he was in no condition for further fighting. Something tracking him down was the last thing he needed.
Once inside the apartment Atreus glanced around, deeming it simple but far from the worst conditions. His judgments on living quarters had lessened somewhat since his imprisonment. Sitting down and getting cleaned up sounded like a good plan to the fae, and Atreus moved to the kitchen where he laid the sword down on the counter and leaned against it a moment, trying to gather himself. He didn't like to show pain, or weakness, and here he was having to do so in front of a stranger. It wasn't something the fae was good at. He had known and been around too many that were happy to use a show of pain to their advantage, that would inflict pain until they gained what they wanted and then inflict more simply because they could.
Atreus didn't realize he was caught up in his thoughts until Michael spoke again, and he turned, nodding slightly. The man could have suggested he strip down to check for injuries and the fae wouldn't have blinked. He got his jacket off with minimal wincing but the shirt Atreus knew would be more trouble judging by the way the blood-soaked fabric clung in places. It was ruined, no doubt, but clothing was easily replaced.
"It likely looks worse than it is." he said again, more a polite caution at whatever wounds had been reopened than the amount of blood. Atreus felt it the least he could do when he didn't know what sort of injuries the man had seen in his life. There were a few moderate cuts open on his left arm, as if his arm had been grabbed by something with claws. His chest was relatively unscathed though blood had dripped over his shoulders. But the worst was his back; aside from the sharp cuts across his shoulders that went from one side to the other, crossing a little below the nape of his neck, there were a series of deep cuts in the middle of his back, two sets of five that angled downward almost as if something had tried to grab his spine and rip him apart. A souvenir from his time with the Slaugh, one of many but thankfully for Atreus the only one that had been reopened.