"You're right. Next time we scrap, I'll shoot to kill." Len sags with relief when there's no skin left to rub, the bucket, towel, and sleeves of his borrowed robe dyed a muddy pink with blood and body fluid. The same clear stuff that's oozing out of Kabal's arm right now, keeping the live tissue moist.

Temporarily. What comes next won't be pleasant or pretty for either of them. The distraction isn't unwelcome.

He arches a brow at Kabal, making of show of pondering while digging around inside the first aid kit. Looking at small bottles and tubes until he finds an alien burn salve, promisingly green like aloe vera.

"I like Strength. Muscle. Leather." A pause, squeezing a glop into his palm, "Lace. I ain't into anyone who can't hold their own in a fight. Who wants a toy that breaks easy?" Len begins sliding his salve-slicked hands up Kabal's arm, which likely feels as bad as it does good. The contact hurts, but the cooling properties are soothing, and will keep his skin from drying out and cracking.

"I work smart and play hard."