Jay manages a faint, bemused smile when Daine opens the door for him, like she's a service dog or something, and he follows her in, looking around in mild discomfort. He hasn't had occasion to be here yet, and that suits him fine - he doesn't have Tim's myriad reasons to fear hospitals (or maybe it's not fear, maybe just resigned familiarity, but how would he know, he never asked), but he still doesn't feel entirely comfortable in them. Especially not after the last couple times he visited one. So to speak.
"Um," he says, not sure what to do. Trying to look nonchalant as he talks to a dog. "I guess you need to change, right?" He glances around for a bathroom - there's a couple single stall ones in the corner. "Here." He steps over and pushes open the door to the men's room, setting her bag gingerly inside and holding it open for her. "I'll, um - I'll find someone to talk to about my arm."
He can do this. It'll be fine.
He steps away and regards the reception desk with vague displeasure. He doesn't want to try to explain this to anyone. And all the receptionists are occupied with other people. He doesn't have time for this, he needs to get in and out as quickly as possible. They need to find Tim. Why did he even agree to come here? He should have pushed the issue. They should have gone to the Base.
He sees a man stepping out from the door beside the desk, where the patients actually go in, and he makes an executive decision.
"Hey, um, excuse me," he says, approaching the man with a staunch lack of regard for whether he's going on a break or if he's even a doctor or what. "I, um, my arm is - I need some help." He rolls up his sleeve with a wince to reveal his arm, which is streaked in blood - the cuts aren't that bad but it's been sort of bleeding for a while now - and that should communicate mild urgency, at least.
no subject
"Um," he says, not sure what to do. Trying to look nonchalant as he talks to a dog. "I guess you need to change, right?" He glances around for a bathroom - there's a couple single stall ones in the corner. "Here." He steps over and pushes open the door to the men's room, setting her bag gingerly inside and holding it open for her. "I'll, um - I'll find someone to talk to about my arm."
He can do this. It'll be fine.
He steps away and regards the reception desk with vague displeasure. He doesn't want to try to explain this to anyone. And all the receptionists are occupied with other people. He doesn't have time for this, he needs to get in and out as quickly as possible. They need to find Tim. Why did he even agree to come here? He should have pushed the issue. They should have gone to the Base.
He sees a man stepping out from the door beside the desk, where the patients actually go in, and he makes an executive decision.
"Hey, um, excuse me," he says, approaching the man with a staunch lack of regard for whether he's going on a break or if he's even a doctor or what. "I, um, my arm is - I need some help." He rolls up his sleeve with a wince to reveal his arm, which is streaked in blood - the cuts aren't that bad but it's been sort of bleeding for a while now - and that should communicate mild urgency, at least.