Louis looked over at him when they arrived, somewhat torn. There would be people inside to step around on his way to fetch clean clothes, but in the end, it seemed needless to make Russ trail behind him as he dressed. He would leave it in his hands. It was unsurprising to hear the tone in his voice, though, the one that brooked no argument with him going to his sister's when he had made himself presentable. It was fine by him. Just looking at the manor made his skin crawl. He couldn't stay in this vast, impersonal place with its coterie of servants tonight. There was no way to know if one of them had been involved in what had happened, and he couldn't stand the thought of trying to sleep in a house full of strangers. He wanted to go stay somewhere dark and deep, somewhere no one knew. He hadn't even seen Sam since she'd sprinted away from him after her return to Gotham. No one would think to look for him there.
Russ's loyalty to her wishes made for a good sign and a vaguely ironic tone. Sam ran a better mob of one than either of her brothers did with an entire organization. "You can stay or come in," he said, pushing open the door and stepping down onto the warm, clean asphalt. "I'm sure there is...food inside, or anything you'd like."
It was absurd, this burned and mutilated man with a towel around his waist offering hospitality to his rescuer in the faded truck, but he didn't seem to notice, too distant from himself for that. He drifted into the house and up the stairs, not looking the maid in the eye when she stopped dead and stared at his passing.
He kept it simple. The towel was folded and placed on the edge of the bed, and he dug up a loose t-shirt he never wore to pull over his painful, tender chest. Just the act of getting it on, the cotton brushing the burn, made him bite his lip and pause, unfurling the rest over his chest with hesitant care.
He re-emerged outside in the pale blue t-shirt and a pair of thin black cotton sweatpants, the sort of thing he might normally wear to sleep in and would not in any other circumstance be caught dead outside in. Something comfortable seemed best, something loose.
He had dashed water on his face in the bathroom and studiously avoided meeting his reflection in the mirror. The paint was hidden under the shirt - he had wet a washcloth to clean it off, then thought muzzily of evidence and documentation. It might be important, even if the paint made his skin itch strangely.
When he stepped outside again he was clothed, which went miles toward making him seem more normal, but not different. He kept his head down as he moved past the servants and got back into the car with relish and relief. If he was driving himself, he would have flattened his foot on the gas. Time to get away from this place.
"I haven't seen where Sam lives," he said, his voice still rough. He thought, then, that he might have been screaming the night before. But where? But when?