[ He hadn't really pressed, if he's being honest. Something told him not to, some voice in the back of is head, some gut instinct to suppress it all left him walking out of that hospital keenly blocking out the concept of getting it all back. It'll come eventually is a reassuring notion, and the hospital staff had all seemed so confident about it. Like they'd seen it before, like it was common, normal. In hindsight, retrospect, now that John's reacting to it the way a normal guy would, he's starting to second guess himself. Starting to second guess Stacie at the nurse's station, who seemed just a little too easy to sway.
But nevermind that, right? What's he thinking. His brains are scrambled, he doesn't know what he remembers, and they're trained medical professionals. What reason would they have to withhold treatment information from him? Right?
We're friends, this guy says, and Dean huffs out a noise akin to a laugh. That much is obvious, even to a brainless shlub like himself. For the first time, though, a little trepidation is starting to settle in. The doubts cast upon the hospital staff take a back seat to the inexplicable guilt he feels over this situation, like it's somehow his fault that he's putting this guy through the ringer. For all he knows it may have been, maybe he's an alcoholic and he was drunk driving. Maybe he ran a red light, maybe he didn't use his blinker. Maybe he is to blame for whatever accident caused the injury, maybe he isn't, but he feels bad for delivering the news.
Blake, John Blake. Seems like a nice guy. Kind of a nagging nancy, but a good guy. Handshake seems a little out of place, but all things considered he can't say he could think of a more appropriate alternative. The hesitation's short, just a brief second before he drops his crossed arm stance and reaches out, slapping a hand around Blake's wrist instead because it seems like a little bit more. It's a firm grip, not really a shake so much as a grab. Look at him being a sucker for giving a damn. ]
Some friend, couldn't'a thrown in a couple edible arrangements for the bedside table, huh? Notice the guy in the bed over had about four dozen roses, but I didn't even get a single damn Happy 50th Birthday, Grandpa hallmark card.
[ It rolls out of his mouth before he can stop himself, it's rude as hell and it's no real condolence for the sentiment Blake's trying to express. What it's meant to be is a reassurance, that diffusing the tension with a joke means it'll all be okay, that Blake shouldn't worry. They're friends, right? They're close, so what's a couple of weeks? If Blake's a perceptive guy he'll pick up on an apology wrapped up in there too, an earnest layer that suggests he might've had a little tug on his heart strings during this whole exchange.
That hand stays anchored around his wrist, so if the words don't offer much by way of reassurance, the physical gesture might. ]
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But nevermind that, right? What's he thinking. His brains are scrambled, he doesn't know what he remembers, and they're trained medical professionals. What reason would they have to withhold treatment information from him? Right?
We're friends, this guy says, and Dean huffs out a noise akin to a laugh. That much is obvious, even to a brainless shlub like himself. For the first time, though, a little trepidation is starting to settle in. The doubts cast upon the hospital staff take a back seat to the inexplicable guilt he feels over this situation, like it's somehow his fault that he's putting this guy through the ringer. For all he knows it may have been, maybe he's an alcoholic and he was drunk driving. Maybe he ran a red light, maybe he didn't use his blinker. Maybe he is to blame for whatever accident caused the injury, maybe he isn't, but he feels bad for delivering the news.
Blake, John Blake. Seems like a nice guy. Kind of a nagging nancy, but a good guy. Handshake seems a little out of place, but all things considered he can't say he could think of a more appropriate alternative. The hesitation's short, just a brief second before he drops his crossed arm stance and reaches out, slapping a hand around Blake's wrist instead because it seems like a little bit more. It's a firm grip, not really a shake so much as a grab. Look at him being a sucker for giving a damn. ]
Some friend, couldn't'a thrown in a couple edible arrangements for the bedside table, huh? Notice the guy in the bed over had about four dozen roses, but I didn't even get a single damn Happy 50th Birthday, Grandpa hallmark card.
[ It rolls out of his mouth before he can stop himself, it's rude as hell and it's no real condolence for the sentiment Blake's trying to express. What it's meant to be is a reassurance, that diffusing the tension with a joke means it'll all be okay, that Blake shouldn't worry. They're friends, right? They're close, so what's a couple of weeks? If Blake's a perceptive guy he'll pick up on an apology wrapped up in there too, an earnest layer that suggests he might've had a little tug on his heart strings during this whole exchange.
That hand stays anchored around his wrist, so if the words don't offer much by way of reassurance, the physical gesture might. ]