Politely, not unlike a young boy suddenly caught in a stranger's house, Chase carefully closes the door behind him. The apartment isn't much to look at, but one wouldn't know it from the way that Chase carefully steps around, less worried about possible sources of infection — after all, Mister Spiegel does seem to be in decent shape — than he is just prone to respecting others while under scrutiny. Habits from seminary school that haven't been wiped clean yet, and perhaps may never be.

"Going to be the highlight of my day, taking a look at your wound and assessing whether or not you'll need more antibiotics," Chase announces, the sarcasm in his own voice also faint, almost playful, as he slides his hands into his pockets. "You could've made a great joke about being hot all the time, you know. Wasted potential right there." Swinging the messenger bag that hangs from his shoulder, Chase starts to rifle through the contents, tugging out bandages and gauze as he stares around for a place to sit, then walks forward, only to stand awkwardly in the middle of the room.