Jon storms into the boxing club right when they're calling out for fighters. He folds his hand up, yelling, "Me, right here," and goes straight for the ring. He doesn't wait for the referee to set everything up, he just throws his fist into the other guy's face and sends him flying to the mat. It feels amazing, sending all that coiled frustration and tension into a single punch. Jon sighs heavily, rolling his shoulders as the referee tells him the rules of a fair fight.

Jon fights three men that night, and wins every time. He comes home at dawn, knuckles bloody and with a black eye, and one of the girls, Greta, helps him upstairs, clucking her tongue at Jon's face.

When the two of them stumble through the door, Spencer's eyes go wide as he yells, "Where the hell have you been all night? What the fuck happened?" His voice is high, tight, almost as if he were actually worried about Jon.

"I fought a good fight, Spence," Jon slurs, because he's drunk from celebrating and happy, hugging Greta around the shoulders. "Actually, I fought three. Here." He tossed a couple of bills at Spencer, more than they make in a week's worth of work at the factory. "Go buy yourself something nice."

Spencer crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the bills fluttering to the floor, and then glares some more at Jon and his arm around Greta. "Where. Were. You?" he enunciates slowly, eyes sharp and narrow.

"Fightin', obviously!" Jon beams at him. "I'm a star, Spence. I've found a place that appreciates me for my talents." He kisses Greta sloppily on the cheek. "Right, love?"

Greta laughs and rolls her eyes at Spencer. "Sure, darling. You beat 'em all."

Jon blinks lazily at Spencer as he stumbles over to the bed. Spencer looks really flushed for some reason, and he's yet to stop glaring at Jon. Which isn't anything new, but Jon's not quite drunk enough to not feel slightly hurt that Spencer can't just give him this, this little success.

Greta smiles kindly at Spencer and Jon wants to make a fuss. He thinks they might be talking about him in that way they do, without words. He doesn't like it.

"Can't a man get his eye patched up around here?" he says and Greta sighs.

"Fine, you great idiot. I'll get the iodine and a rag."

"No," Spencer says, stopping her, "I'll do it. You should be downstairs."

She looks back and forth between them suspiciously. "All right, supplies are in the bathroom under the sink."

Spencer looks back at him. "Don't move, I'll be right back."

Jon falls back onto the pillow, careful not to get blood on the sheets. But he can smell Spencer on the pillow, a trace of his cologne, the last expensive he still had left from Ireland. Thinking about Spencer lying here worrying about him sobers him up a bit. Before he can think on it too long, Spencer's coming back through the door, hands full. He sits up slowly, not wanting to jar his head too much.

Spencer doesn't say anything, just kneels on the floor and takes his hand, wiping the blood from his shredding hands. He does each finger one by one, making sure the wounds are completely clean before he starts dabbing them with iodine.

"Jesus, fuck," Jon hisses and Spencer just holds his hand more firmly.

"What did you think was going to happen, they were going to heal on their own?" Spence asks, still not looking at him.