Casey finished his rinse, and turned off the water as Evelyn returned with clothing in hand.  He cast about for a towel, and found one to hand, slightly damp.  The one Evie had used, doubtless.  It would do.  He shucked the water from his body briskly, and gave his honey-gold hair a brief tussle before stepping out of the tub and onto the mat.  With one hand holding the towel to his navel for decency, he approached the door.  The scars crisscrossing his body weren't anything new.  At least, none but the one he'd earned earlier that day, still pink and angry looking, as if it was one foolish move away from breaking open all over again.  It would be fine, of course, and with the healing, he likely wouldn't even lose any strength out of it, but it served as a grim reminder of complacency for him.<br/><br/>He took the clothing offered through the door in hand, and turned his back on the door still ajar.  He dropped the towel, and wasted precious little time in squirming into his pants.  They were comfortable enough.  He dearly hoped she hadn't been squeamish about fetching underthings from the house, or he'd be having an uncomfortable night or two.  "I usually just sleep in my underwear,"  He admitted, pulling the door open with shirt still in hand.<br/><br/>If she wanted to check the wound, the shirt certainly wasn't going to help things.  So there Casey stood, topless and damp as he regarded his wife.  "And they're things we need to learn.  About each other.  About ourselves."  He stepped out of the bathroom, and into the bedroom again.  "Root beer."  He added, belatedly.  "And socks are...  Socks.  I tend to wear all blacks, because I don't have to fuss with matching them when I fold them that way."  He flexed his arm experimentally.  It twinged at him.  "How's your wound?"