There is, he's often found, an almost cathartic nature to violence. Something that sparring, useful though it might be, never quite manages to touch. Not when they're both entirely too used to violence, to the sting of pain, and the ability to throw one's full self into a fight without having to worry about holding back. To say nothing of the fact that it's just as much a relief for him to be able to lose himself in the thrill of the fight without needing to worry about what his sparring partner might think of the overall shift away from the more typical sorts of sparring.

He has, admittedly, less to be immediately angry about than she does, but there's still enough lingering under the surface to spur him on. Nor do his own blows falter. Instead, they match hers pace for pace, and though he does still wince a little, when one of hers connects, he continues on, heedless of the pain.

(He knows that later, when the fight has come to an end, he'll feel the bruises all the more, given that he's ignoring them now. But right now that's unimportant.)

What he's done to her, and to Helen, are things that he can't change. But here and now, he can at least give her a place to work through some of that anger, even if it might never be entirely enough.