[He's actually taken a cab home, determinedly shutting out the driver's silent questions about this bloody little scrap of a kid with fingers that shake as he hands over all of the cash he has in his wallet, muttering unsteady apologies that he doesn't have enough for a decent tip. (Not that the guy really cares, Ronan can tell by the retreating waves of relief that roll over him as the car rumbles away from the house.)
Then he is just sitting in the dark bathroom off the kitchen, cross-legged on the floor with a wet washcloth in his lap because his arms are too tired to lift it to his head. He's made several half-hearted swipes at the blood that has dried on his face, mostly just managing to inspire a fresh trickle of ketchup red to seep down into the collar of his shirt.
He can feel Ben's approach before the front door opens, and his heartbeat twitches into jackrabbit mode. He's a sloppy mix of anger and humiliation and something else that isn't so familiar, and he pulls his legs up to his chest like maybe he can tuck himself into a corner and not be found. He tells himself that he just doesn't want the confrontation, doesn't want Ben's rage and the knee-jerk instinct to do something stupid, but that isn't the whole truth.]