He's getting used to this walk to the elevator, the artificial spin that keeps them grounded. The weight of his boots as he starts filtering the noise they make out. If it wasn't for the space sickness and the other no-longer-debilitating injuries, this could actually be a positive, almost fun experience, this partial weightlessness. But when does Matt ever enjoy himself doing anything? He tends to suck the fun out of the situation.

He stumbles on his way into the elevator but he rights himself, turning his head partially over his shoulder as he tries to rock on his feet and engage his boots. "Just like trauma recovery," he mutters softly. He's not talking to Frank in particular, it was just an observation. Baby steps. Disorientation. Unfamiliarity. Fear. He's not used to it, but he's been here before. The parallels are there between this and recovering from his injuries in the accident, learning how to use a cane, how to read braille. Hurting himself in the dark walking into things, dropping things, telling dollar bills and clothes apart. Frustrating, and slow, but eventually liberating.

Matt makes his way to his room. He's not sure how it ended up as his room but since he's bled all over it he'd feel bad moving into anywhere else and making someone else stay here. He can get there just by the smell of cleaning liquid smothering the scent of his own blood, but he places his hand on the doorframe just in case.

Frank knows him well. He won't be keeping his watch on until he realises he needs it and he's knee deep in trouble. Even with audio functions, this thing that keeps talking at him would sooner or later grate on his nerves. Matt tends to isolate himself especially when he thinks he can't even get around without assistance anyway. He's not going to be talking aloud at what seems like blank screens to him while everyone in the background can hear him.

"Do you always nag this much?" Matt quips when he slides his shades on, concealing the vulnerability and uncertainty in his eyes.